‘Weel, as I was sayin’, we had every thing planned out, and waitin’ anxiously for anither letter. We had heard by the papers that the allied troops were marching for Paris; every day brought fresh news, until at length we saw the mail-coach rattle past our door wi’ flags fleein’. Peace, peace, was in ilka body’s mouth—every body that had friends in the army were rinnin’ frae door to door congratulating ane anither, and every body was overjoyed.
‘Orders were gi’en fer an illumination. “That I’ll do wi’ a’ my heart,” says I, “for I hope my laddie’s on his passage hame.” “O mother?” cried Mary, “here’s the postman wi’ a letter for you.” My heart lap to my mouth—I ran into the room and tore’t open—“This will be gude news frae Willie. O Mary, read it, for I’m sae flurried that I canna read.” “Preserve us,” says she, “that’s no Willie’s writing.” “Never mind,” says I; “read, read.” She read on hurriedly to hersel’, but while she read, her face turn’d ghastly pale—the letter drapped frae her hands—“O! mother, he’s kill’d,”—and she sank down before me, without me havin’ power to help her.
‘Oh!’ said the old woman, passing her hand across her forehead. ‘I canna think about that day, but my head turns, and I’m no mysel’.’
CHAPTER VIII.
DENNIS.
My leave of absence flew swiftly by, and I had again to bid my friends farewell, and return to my regiment. When I arrived, I found my comrade Dennis, along with some others, standing in full marching order, with his arms carried, and his face within a few inches of the barrack wall, in which position he was sentenced to remain during three successive days, from sunrise to sunset, for being absent when the roll was called at tattoo. This was a new invented punishment, intended as a mild substitute for flogging, but in my opinion more severe and injurious to the health. Our moral physicians seem to consider bodily pain as the grand panacea for all errors of the mind. It is strange how precedent or prejudice should guide men of information on these points; it proceeds either from indolence, which prevents them thinking at all, or their passions are so much stronger than their reason, that they act contrary to their better judgment. The latter is the most common of the two.
The fault of poor Dennis, had it been inquired into, did not deserve the severe punishment with which it was visited. His sweetheart, Peggy Doyle, had been seized with typhus fever, which was at that time prevalent. The common people in Ireland have a dread of fever almost incredible. The nearest relations of the sick will often refuse to visit them, and many times the suffering individual is almost totally deserted, unless there be some devoted wife, child, or mother, whose affection is stronger than the fear of death. Poor Peggy had caught the infection from a family, one of the girls of whom was her particular friend; the whole of the family, consisting of five individuals, were unfortunately ill at the same time, and Peggy, finding that no one would attend them, heedless of all selfish considerations, had given up her place to become their nurse. The father and a little boy died, but the two girls and the mother became convalescent. During this time she had been often assisted by Dennis, who shared cheerfully with her in the labour and danger to which her disinterested benevolence had exposed her. While they were ill, she had remained perfectly healthy, but the disease was working in her blood, and her friends were scarcely able to crawl about, when their kind nurse was stretched on the bed from which they had just risen, with every symptom of the disorder more aggravated than that from which they had recovered.
This was a heart-breaking business to poor Dennis; every moment he could spare he was at her bedside, and the night on which he had been absent from roll-calling, she was so ill, that, in his anxiety for her, he had forgot the hour of tattoo, and the reports were given in before he reached the barrack. I exerted the little influence I possessed to get Dennis forgiven, and was successful, and to prevent any misunderstanding, I got leave for myself and him for the night. When this point was gained, I accompanied him to see poor Peggy, but being insensible, she did not know me; she did not rave, but there was a deadly stupor in her eye. Poor Dennis was affected to the heart, but he endeavoured to bear it with fortitude. The girls were still too weak to endure the fatigue, and were in bed, but the mother sat beside us. It was evident that life was now fast ebbing—her eye became more glazed, the livid circle round her mouth became deeper, and her respiration more laborious. We had been sitting in silence for some time, watching the progress of dissolution, when we were startled by the melancholy and lengthened howl of a dog, outside the door. I cannot, need not, attempt to describe the effect it had upon us.
‘Ah! that’s a sure sign,’ said the old woman, when she recovered herself, ‘the poor child will soon be gone.’
I am not very superstitious, and I strove to dispel the emotion I felt by going to discover the dog. I found him seated on the street opposite the door, with his face turned towards it. He was well known to the regiment, for he frequented the barrack-square, and whenever the bugles sounded, he emitted the same kind of howl he had done that night. The knowledge of this in a measure quieted my mind, but I could not altogether rid myself of the strange impression created by the incident. Having returned to Peggy’s bedside, I found her much worse; the death-rattle was in her throat, and a long and distressing moan every two or three minutes, told how dreadful was the struggle.