CHAPTER XXXVII. MY INTERVIEW WITH LOUD WELLINGTON AND FURTHER PARTICULARS TOUCHING PETER CROTTY.
Falstaff. “Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me. The brain of this foolish-compounded clay, man, is not able to vent any thing that tends to laughter, more than I invent, or is invented on me: I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men.”—King Henry IV.
Although the evening was well advanced, all within and without the quarters of the Commander-in-chief indicated a business-like activity, and gave a silent earnest that an important crisis was at hand. Three dragoons, the bearers of as many despatches, were riding on to their stables—while a couple of orderlies lounged backwards and forwards in front of the building; but excepting the sentries at the door, there was nothing about the residence of Lord Wellington that would distinguish it from the quarters of a general of brigade. On my name being announced, I was conducted into a large room on the ground floor, where at one table several noncommissioned officers were employed in transcribing official documents—and at another, two engineers were measuring distances on a large map, from which they were making, what appeared to me, a skeleton draft of the great features of the country. In a few minutes an aid-tie-camp came in, and informed me that his lordship was now engaged, but that he would be happy to receive me presently—politely invited me to take a seat—and then left me to myself.
I never found an establishment that so little realized the glowing picture which Peter Crotty had so fancifully sketched. From his report, one would have imagined that head-quarters had been the selected home of social pleasure, with “Laughter holding both his sides,” and Bacchus aiding and assisting. I found it a very different concern; and had the domicile belonged to La Trappe, business could not have been carried on more quietly than it was. The serjeants seldom raised their heads from the table—the engineers conversed in whispers—and the place was as silent as the clerk’s office of a solicitor, with the head partner in bad temper in the room.
Still I fancied that there might be a secret symposium unapproached by the profanum vulgus, and to which none but the elect, with a favoured few like Peter Crotty, gained an entrance. Yet it was marvellous how well they managed matters in the house. No sound of distant merriment fell upon the ear—no explosion followed “the jest which set the table in a roar.” The walls must be confoundedly thick, or the company singularly prudent—you could have heard a cat cross the floor—and yet not an outburst of “tipsey jollity” was audible.
While lost in vague surmises as to the causes which might have occasioned this strange alteration in his lordship’s style of living since Peter Crotty had favoured him with a call, a servant opened the door, and requested Lieutenant O’Halloran to follow him. We crossed over to an opposite apartment—the attendant announced my name—and I found myself in the presence of him afterwards surnamed, the “Iron Duke.”
I never was more surprised than at the general appearance of my lord’s “great chamber.” Neither bottle nor glass were to be seen—the cards eluded discovery—and I could detect nothing in “the sporting line” except one solitary chess-board. The apartment contained not one article that could have been dispensed with. The table was over-spread with papers—and at one end, an aid-de-camp copied letters—at another, a private secretary wrote from the dictation of the Commander-in-chief.
“Sit down, Mr. O’llalloran,” said his lordship—“we have deciphered your despatch—and the information it contains is very valuable. May I inquire under what circumstances the packet fell into Juan Diez’ hands?”