I bowed. “I am now upon parole, colonel—I feel flattered with this mark of confidence; and lest I might be run away with by these wild partidas, I shall wail myself of the protection of your voltigeurs, and confine myself within the enclosure of the posada.”
Colonel La Coste appeared pleased at the frankness with which I addressed him, and nothing could surpass the civility of his officers. Perfectly acquainted with the accidental circumstances which introduced me to the Empecinado and involved me in the melee of the morning, I was complimented on my first essay; and more than one of the gallant Frenchmen, expressed a sincere regret that my effort at escape had not proved more successful. The colonel washed down his breakfast with a hearty stoup, while, with the loquacity of an old soldier, he favoured us with military reminiscences.
“Would you believe it, Mr. O’Halloran, that your name is perfectly familiar to me? 1 am a soldier of the old school, and commenced my career at thirty. My first campaign was in the Low Countries, opposed to your present commander-in-chief, the Duke of York; and, at his retreat, I was in the advanced guard of the Republican army. On both sides, supplies were scanty, and as our discipline was not then particularly strict, men wandered here and there to make out a supper, if they could. Though in years a man, I was a raw soldier in experience; and one foggy evening I straggled from the outposts, and, at last, totally missed my way. The accursed dykes of that most beastly country confused me, and the further I went, the more I got confounded. I tumbled into two or three of their dirty canals, and escaped, half smothered, between mud and water, until, after an hour’s wandering, I at last found myself within the British outposts and regularly at my wit’s end.
“A light was burning from a casement; I crept on, evaded the sentry in front, and peeped through the window. Within, one man was seated, and the epaulets on his shoulder told me that he was a field officer. My case was hopeless. In a Dutch fog, within the lines of the enemy, the bridges guarded, the boors unfriendly—how, in the devil’s name, had I a chance of escape!—and, adopting a desperate resolution, I determined to trust to the generosity of an enemy. I tapped lightly on the casement, and the English officer rose, and opened it. ‘Who’s there?’ he asked. ‘A poor hungry devil that has lost his way!’ said I. He told me to proceed; and I honestly informed him that I had been four-and-twenty hours without food, and that, in seeking some. I had got out of my own lines, and into sundry canals—was half drowned, half frozen, and half starved—and, to sum the story up, regularly perplexed, and bedeviled. He laughed—told me to come in—gave me a draught of genuine Schiedam—pointed to a table, where the remnant of a capital supper was unremoved—and told me to eat heartily; (‘gad, he had no occasion to repeat the invitation;) I did so—again drank heartily from the long-necked bottle, and then modestly inquired whether I was a prisoner, or not?
“‘Heaven forbid, pauvre diable!’ he answered with a laugh—‘No, no—Wert thou a spy—three dips in a Dutch canal, with the mercury below the freezing point, would be punishment enough. I have tonight the outpost duty—I’ll pass you—and should you encounter some wandering Englishman, repay the debt!’ He then left the room; I followed—he saw me across a bridge where the outlying picket lay—and in an hour, I found myself once more with my regiment. Is it not singular that his name was similar to yours?—and that, three days afterwards, I met him in the streets of Tyle, bayonet to bayonet? The headlong charge of the British grenadiers overpowered us; but I heard, with unfeigned regret, that my gallant friend and host had been severely wounded, and lost an arm.
“Well, my son, when fortune turned against your countrymen, often and fervently I prayed, that should more misfortunes overtake Colonel O’Halloran, some good chance might place him in the hands of his grateful enemy, Corporal La Coste.—have you ever heard of such a person—a man of my own time of life, ay—old enough to be your father?”
“In the latter observation, my dear Colonel, you are perfectly correct, as the gentleman in question stands precisely in that relation to me. Well—it is strange enough, that you were indebted for a supper to the parent, and repaid it with a breakfast to the son!”
In a moment the old republican folded me in his arms.
“Welcome,” he said, “son of a brave and generous enemy! May your career, my child, be as gallant but more fortunate than your father’s; and may you return to your native land with a well-won reputation, to cheer the winter of the old man’s age—I once hoped the same from thee, Henri!”
He looked for a moment to the corner of the chamber where the dead chasseur was laid—a tear trickled down his cheek—he brushed it hastily away—then rose and crossed over to the casement, to conceal emotions of a softer nature, which, in his stern estimate of a soldier’s character, he considered unworthy of its dignity. In a few minutes he recovered his composure, and was ready to receive the report of Captain St. Pierre—who had just returned to the village, after an unsuccessful effort to discover the retreat of the dreaded guerilla.