On the 14th of March, 1850, the most sacred event of a man’s life occurred in mine—that event, my marriage[104] to Annie, daughter of John Mackintosh, Esq., of Torrich. Time was pressing, for rumours were in the air that the regiment was well up the roster for foreign service. Leave of absence had accordingly to be curtailed; but, on rejoining the 57th with my young bride, she was received with the same kindness that had been shown to myself. Not many days thereafter, she proceeded to Dublin, where, pending the arrival of the regiment, including myself, she was most hospitably received by the family of a brother officer.[105]
Our progress to the Irish capital included several days’ march; for, although railway communication could have been made use of for part of the distance, the authorities had decided that it should not be so. In our march, we passed through or were billeted for a night at places in relation to which history records a good deal of what is interesting. For example, Clones has an ecclesiastical history dating back to the sixth century; Kells, otherwise Kenlis, boasts of ruins of a monastery, said to have owed its foundation to St. Columba; in near proximity to Trim stands the rectory of Larour, the former residence of Dean Swift, and near it a fragment of what had been the house of Stella. The ruins of Dangan Castle in the near neighbourhood were interesting, in that in them was shown to us an apartment said to have been the actual birthplace of the Duke of Wellington—with what degree of truth it was not deemed necessary to inquire.[106]
The village of Maynooth, at the time of our march through it, was in appearance wretched and decayed, even as compared to others along our line of route. At its eastern end is the avenue that leads to Carton, seat of Ireland’s only duke.[107] But the name of the village has become associated with its Roman Catholic College, which dates from 1795, and was endowed by Sir Robert Peel[108] with an income yearly of £30,000—a measure much discussed at the time of our visit, as indeed it has continued since to be.
Arrived in Dublin, the barracks assigned to the 57th were the Linen Hall—old, and long before then condemned as unfit for occupation; accommodation for all ranks insufficient. Thus my experience in searching for lodgings began. Some months elapsed; then the regiment was “broken up,” small parties distributed among various barracks, to be, after another interval, collected in the Royal Barracks—large, spacious, and, at the time, looked upon as well adapted for their purpose.
Duty, relaxation, pleasure, as represented in Ireland’s capital, succeeded each other among our officers. In accordance with rules then in force, much of my own time was taken up in connection with the more military functions of parades, drills, field days, and ceremonial “trooping the colours.” Regimental entertainments, levées, and “receptions” at the Castle were so many interludes in our general routine.
In accordance also with the custom of the time, civility and attention in various ways by learned societies and institutions were extended to medical officers of the garrison, myself included. Access to lectures in the Colleges was placed at our disposal; so was admission to the Botanical and Zoological Gardens. Invitations to picnics and to boating excursions in the beautiful bay further helped to render pleasant our stay in Dublin.
The once famous Donnybrook Fair[109] had not then become a thing of the past, although its extinction was approaching. The assemblage of people on the occasion comprised the wild in aspect, dirty in person, squalid, imperfectly clothed, all more or less strongly smelling of whisky, some dancing to music of their pipes; but so far as we saw, without the mirth, laughter, and other signs of Irish life of which we had heard so much.
Through the advocacy of Sir De Lacy Evans, and almost by it alone, officers of the Medical and Commissariat Departments were admitted to the second and third grades of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath.[110] In battles connected with recent campaigns, surgeons of British regiments were exposed to fire of the enemy in a degree only second to that of combatants, the casualties in killed and wounded among them testifying to the risks ran by them in the performance of their duties on those occasions. Other circumstances of military life tell more against medical officers of regiments than those whose duties are merely “combatant.” The combat over, the latter, if unscathed, takes his rest, such as it may be under the circumstances, but the most arduous duties of the former then begin. On marches incidental to campaigns, the halting ground reached, requirements of the sick and wounded must be attended to, often under great difficulties. In times of epidemics, the combatant runs risks common to all; the surgeon, in addition to them, is exposed to those incidental to close association with subjects of those epidemics, together with mental and physical wear and tear in the performance of professional duties. Hence arises the proportionately high rates of mortality that prevail among junior departmental ranks.
Some time thereafter, war was undertaken against the Kaffirs under Sandilli, their chief. Eight infantry regiments were hastily dispatched to take part in the coming campaign, and so the 57th was placed among the first to proceed to the same destination in the event of reinforcements becoming necessary. Married officers, therefore, lost no time in forecasting arrangements to be made by them respectively in the event of the anticipated contingency becoming a reality.
My personal arrangements in that respect became hastened by the birth to me of a son.[111] Anticipating such an event, I had already opened negotiations for exchange to a regiment serving in India, conscious that colonial rates of pay and allowances were inadequate to meet the needs of double establishments during war time. By-and-by the time arrived when connection had to be severed with a regiment to which I had become much attached, and of its traditions proud as any other of its members. A farewell dinner, by invitation of Colonel Goldie[112] and officers, and then adieu.