Recollections of the eventful life of a soldier

by Joseph Donaldson

‘I don’t know,’ said she, ‘I am so filled with apprehension, that I cannot think or speak.’

‘Say the word,’ said I, ‘all is ready.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said she. ‘Either let me return into the house, or let us leave this, or I shall die with fear: I am sure I have been observed. O Jesu, Maria! there they come—I am lost.’

So saying, she fled down the opposite path, where she was immediately seized by some of the domestics, who had been mustered for the purpose of surprising us. There was no time to lose, for resistance would have been useless; and we too well knew the nature of the Portuguese, to depend much on their mercy. Hurrying, therefore, towards the wall, and having assisted Henry, who was rendered nearly powerless by the effect of his feelings, I made a spring and seized the top of the wall; Henry was ready to lend me assistance, but before I could get myself raised to the summit, a sword aimed for my body, struck the wall so close to my side, that it cut out a piece of my jacket and shirt. Ere the blow could be repeated, I had fallen over on the opposite side, carrying Henry with me in my fall. I was severely hurt—but there was no time to lose, and we knew the alarm would soon be raised; therefore, having conveyed the ladder to where we had found it, we hurried to our quarters.

Next day the Portuguese boy brought information to Henry that early that morning two mules had been brought into the court yard; that Maria was brought out weeping, and mounted on one, her aunt on the other, and that two servants, armed, had accompanied them; he was not allowed to follow them, and therefore could not tell what direction they had taken, but Maria had whispered to him, to give Henry her last farewell, for she never expected to see him again, as she was ignorant of where they were taking her. When Henry received this information, distracted with a thousand contending emotions, among which despair was predominant, he seized a bayonet, and rushed bare-headed from his quarters, traversed one road after another in search of her, making inquiry of every person whom he met, if they had seen her,—but she had been some hours gone. After travelling about from one place to another in this distracted state, and being taken for a madman by all who met him, worn out by the violence of his feelings, he became calm, and returned home in the dusk of the evening; but it was a calm produced by one master feeling having swallowed up the rest; despair had now taken possession of his mind—‘The stricken bosom that can sigh, no mortal arrow bears.’ He walked into his apartment, and having taken up a musket, and loaded it, he placed the muzzle against his head, and was in the act of putting his foot on the trigger, when a soldier happened to enter, and seizing him, arrested the rash deed.

I had been placed on guard that morning, nor did I know anything of what had occurred, until Henry was brought to the guard-house, where he was ordered to be particularly watched. I went over to speak to him, but he looked at me with a vacant stare, nor did he seem conscious of what I said. Sitting down in a corner, he remained with his eyes fixed on the floor for some time, then rising, he walked about with a hurried pace, while his countenance showed the burning fever of his mind; a fit of tenderness succeeded, and he raved of all that had happened, which I only could understand. To me it was a most affecting scene, for I had no hope that his reason would return, and I contemplated the wreck of his mind, as one would do the destruction of all that was dear to him. I watched him attentively during the night, and towards morning nature became so far exhausted, that he fell into a confused slumber. When he awoke, the naked reality of his situation struck him intensely. He perceived me, and stretching out his hand, he burst into tears. In broken accents he informed me of the death of all his hopes; but his mind was unstrung—he could not think connectedly.

At this time he was sent for to attend at the colonel’s lodgings. The noble character of our commanding officer was particularly shown in the sympathy and concern which he evinced for the unfortunate Henry; he entered into all his feelings, and alternately soothed and reasoned with him, until he had brought him to a calmer state of mind; then after expressing the kindest solicitude for his welfare, he dismissed him to his quarters, telling him at the same time, that he would use his interest to gain the consent of her relations to the match, and that nothing should be wanting on his part to bring the affair to a happy conclusion. This, in some measure, restored the balm of hope to Henry’s mind; but, alas! it was only a temporary relief, for although Colonel L. faithfully kept his promise, and several of the officers who were on good terms with the family used their utmost endeavours in his behalf, it was all to no purpose,—the more they pressed, the more obstinate they became.

Things were in this state when he unexpectedly received a message from Maria, informing him that she was closely confined in the house of a gentleman (who was a relative of her aunt,) about nine miles from the town; from the manner in which she was guarded, she had no hope of being able to make her escape, for there were people employed to watch the avenues to the house, with orders if he approached it to show him no mercy; that she saw little use in giving him this information, but she could not resist the opportunity which had presented itself, of letting him know where she was. Henry gave way to the most entrancing anticipations on receiving this information; but when he communicated it to me, I considered the subject in a different light. I saw that it was more likely to keep alive the commotion of a passion which there was little hope of ever arriving at its object; I knew the attempt to go to the house would be pregnant with danger, still I felt inclined to assist him in another determinate effort to carry off the prize.

Henry called on Colonel L. for the purpose of procuring a pass. When he communicated his intention, he not only gave him the pass, but also a letter to the gentleman of the house where Maria was, (with whom he was well acquainted,) to serve as an introduction. Thus prepared, Henry and I, in company with the boy already mentioned, set forward after it was dark towards the place, taking a by-road. When we reached the house, we left the boy outside, as he was known to the family, and entering, presented the letter from Colonel L. We were kindly received; and as it was late, the gentleman insisted on us stopping all night—so far all was well. We had been about an hour in the house when Maria happened to come down stairs: she knew us immediately, but concealed her emotions, and coming near the fire, she watched an opportunity until the servants were engaged about the house, and then whispering to us, asked our motive in coming there. ‘If they know you,’ said she, ‘your lives are not safe.’

I told her that our motive was by some means to endeavour to effect her escape; she replied, it was utterly impossible, she was too well guarded. ‘Farewell, Henry,’ said she, ‘farewell for ever, for I believe I will never see you again; it would have been happy for us both if we had never seen each other.’