“Why, possibly, keep us here for half our lives, and send us into France to put in the remainder of them pleasantly.”
“Ah, then, if they do,” said the fosterer, “they’r cuter * than they think. By all that’s beautiful!” and Mark flourished his sounder arm over the blanket,—“I’ll be off in a fortnight.”
Anglice,—more cunning.
“No, not so soon,” said a voice—laughingly; and Cammaran stepped from behind a wooden screen which had hidden him while approaching. At the same moment a salvo of artillery thundered from the Chofre battery—the guns of San Sebastian replied. The truce had expired—and the game of death had recommenced.
“So end civilities,” said the Frenchman; “still it is comfortable to know, that the calls of humanity have been attended to. I have applied for what you call in England ‘a billet’—that is, the commandant’s permission to reside during your convalesence in a private house, instead of being exposed, as you would be otherwise, to the inconvenience of a crowded hospital. For this indulgence I have given my parole, and that leaves you at liberty to visit any part of the city within the enceinte of the place when you are able to walk abroad. I know that my good friend here, even if leg and arm were not hors de combat as they are, would scarcely run away, when that act would compromise my honour.”
“Oh—by this book;” exclaimed the fosterer, raising himself upon his elbow—“we’re fairly ruined, Hector avourneeine! Here we’re regularly on the langle. Arrah—Mister Cammaran, dear, I know ye meant it for the best—but, why the divil did ye make a bargain of the kind? De ye think ye could get dacently out of it? Och—if we were only back in the country we were in, when we first became acquainted with that Empecinado, as they call him—it was no sayin’ what luck might turn up still. This moment, going to be hanged—the next, drinking as if ye were at a priest’s funeral. ‘Turn him out to be shot,’ was the order one minute—while, ‘turn him for brandy and water,’ was the next. One minute you wern’t master of a scultogue—the next ye were riding in the saddle of a French marshal. Of all the inns I ever stopped at, I never met any where they pay scores as they do in Spain. You go to bed in peace and quietness, and you’re bundled out before you’re well asleep, to be told, that you must light your way through a yard-full of hussars, and swim a river afterwards that would give a water-dog rheumatism for life. You stop at the next public house, and receive all manner of civility. Of course, you’re expected to pay up. Not at all: one black look from an ill-visaged gentleman who accompanies you; and the account is rubbed off the slate in a jiffy. Excepting there was over much shooting and hanging—a pleasanter excursion I never would desire—but, may the Lord forgive us! we were not sufficiently thankful at the time.”
“Well,—my dear friend,” said Captain Cammaran, with a smile. “My engagement is only binding while you are invalided. When perfectly recovered, my parole is easily recalled—and I have no doubt you will be very comfortable in La Mota. Plenty of fresh air—and free liberty to seek any corner you may fancy, as the least unlikely for a shell to drop upon. In the mean time, I recommend you to accept the billet I have obtained—and by the way, in the house of a Spaniard in worse odour with the old commandant than Don Francisco La Pablos, you could hardly have been established. But I have already ordered apartments to be prepared, and will see that every attention shall be paid to you. This place will be presently intolerable, and the sooner you remove to your new quarters all the better.”
The last remark was unhappily correct. The church filled rapidly with the wounded. Every minute fresh sufferers were brought in—and the scene of butchery—merciful and necessary—which commenced, was to us, particularly disgusting. It was wonderful how differently men submitted to sad alternatives,—death or amputation. One, an officer of faultless symmetry, sternly rejected the advice of his kind attendants. “Nothing but the removal of the fractured limb can save you—you will die, otherwise,” said the French surgeon. “Well—be it so,” returned the sufferer calmly, “death is preferable to deformity. Lose no time with me—you may be serviceable to my poor comrade.” Immediately beside him, a young lad was stretched—I should say he was not nineteen—-a fine, florid, healthy looking Englishman. His wound had been a severe contusion—and a passing observation of the French surgeons, announced that his was a hopeless case. And yet, death visited him in mercy. He appeared to undergo no pain—and in fancy, conversed with a “darling mother” and his “little sister,” as he termed them—babbled about green fields and expired with a smile upon his lips, under the firm belief that he had returned to the home he loved, and was re-united to those dear objects whom he idolized.
I never felt myself more relieved, than when a French fatigue-party came, to remove, me on a stretcher. Weak from loss of blood—dispirited at the painful recollection that I was now about to undergo imprisonment, to whose duration none could name the limit—every thing around was calculated to increase those feelings of despondency. The gloomy building seemed desecrated by the purposes it had been turned to—and where the faithful had worshipped, the penitent had told the tale of sin and shame, and been forgiven—where love had been hallowed by holy rite, and supplications for the soul’s weal of the departed had arisen—in that the temple of peace, war’s horrid consequences were exhibited—and, in all the terrible variety which attends on death by violence, many a spirit was escaping from its mortal coil.
The house where I was about to take up my residence was situated close to the harbour, and, being at a distance from the breaches, was consequently, out of the fire of the besiegers. As we passed through the streets, I could not but remark the melancholy and deserted appearance that all around presented. The shops were unopened—the private dwellings jealously closed up—and the terrified inhabitants seemed not yet satisfied that the assault had failed, and danger was over for the present. When we reached the domicile of La Pablos, we found that our arrival had been duly announced. We were admitted into a narrow court-yard—and at the door of his mansion, the owner was waiting to receive us.