The first man had bestowed his quantum of punishment, twenty-five lashes, when he was succeeded by another. This man, as if determined that his reputation as a flogger should not suffer, however his victim might, laid on like a hardened hand. Plunket’s sufferings were becoming intense: he bit his lip to stifle the utterance of his pangs; but nature, too strong for suppression, gave place more than once to a half agonized cry, that seemed to thrill through the very blood in my veins. Happily this wretched scene was destined to a brief termination: at the thirty-fifth lash, the Colonel ordered the punishment to cease, and the prisoner to be taken down. When this was done, he addressed Plunket: “You see, Sir, now, how very easy it is to commit a blackguard’s crime, but how difficult it is to take his punishment.”
So ended the most memorable punishment-scene I have ever witnessed. It has usually been contended, by those averse to the system of flogging, common in our army, that it destroys the pride and spirit of the man. That it has had that effect, in many instances, I have myself witnessed, where the character of the soldier was not previously depraved. But with reference to Plunket, he appeared soon to get over the recollection of his former disgrace. He got into favour with his officers again, and, notwithstanding little fits of inebriety, was made corporal, and went through the sanguinary scenes of the Peninsula, unscathed from shot or steel. His usual luck, however, forsook him at Waterloo, where a ball struck the peak of his cap and tore his forehead across, leaving a very ugly scar. I recollect having gone wounded at the time to the rear, where I saw him under the hands of the surgeon.
After Waterloo, he was invalided to England, where he passed the board at Chelsea; but only being awarded the pittance of sixpence a-day for his wound and long services, he felt disgusted, and expressed himself to the Lords Commissioners in a way that induced them to strike him off the list altogether. The following day he started off for Ireland, where he duly arrived in rags and wretchedness. To relieve himself, he again enlisted in either the thirty-first or thirty-second regiment of the line, then quartered somewhere in the north.
While wearing a red coat, he had a singular meeting with his former Colonel, then General Sir Sydney Beckwith, which I have often heard him relate. It is customary, as the reader may probably be aware, to have half-yearly inspections of our regiments at home. Shortly after Tom’s having enlisted, it so happened, on one of the above occasions, when his regiment was formed for inspection, that the duty devolved upon his old commander, Sir Sydney, who was in command of the district.
In walking down the front rank, scrutinising the appearance of the men, the General suddenly came to Tom, distinguished as he was by two medals on his breast.
“Do my eyes deceive me?” said Sir Sydney. “Surely you are Tom Plunket, formerly of my own regiment.”
“What’s left of me, Sir,” replied Tom, who was seldom deficient in a prompt reply.
“And what has again brought you into the service?” inquired Sir Sydney. “I thought you had passed the board at Chelsea?”
“So I did,” said Tom; “but they only allowed me sixpence a-day, Sir; so I told them to keep it for the young soldiers, as it wasn’t enough for the old, who had seen all the tough work out.”
“Ha! the old thing, Tom, I perceive,” observed Sir Sydney, shaking his head; then immediately remarked to the Colonel of the regiment, as he proceeded down the ranks—“One of my bravest soldiers.”