‘Well, sir,’ said the general, ‘have you got those things?’
‘Yes, sir, but they are no marrows.’
‘Marrows! marrows! what’s that? what’s that?’ and calling his aid-de-camp, he asked him what ‘the Scottish savage’ said.
‘He means, sir, that they are not fellows.’
‘Poh! poh! you surely do not pretend to understand what is no language.’
‘That is his meaning in his own language, sir.’
‘Nonsense, sir, you are as bad as he; go and read your dictionary.’
He was very strict in duty affairs, particularly in details, which perhaps another general would not have troubled his head about. He was very fond of surprising the sentinels at the outposts, by taking circuitous routes, and keeping under cover of the bushes. On one occasion, however, he met his match, if the story reported was true: but as I only had it from report, I will not pledge myself for its truth.
One of the men on picquet was planted as outpost sentry on the road leading to Rio Mayor.
‘Now, George,’ said the corporal to him, as he was leaving him, ‘mind that the general is out in front, keep a good look out, or he may surprise you, and you know the consequence. Be sure you challenge in time.’