With more asperity of manner than I ever observed him to make use of, he asked “Darby” to whose squad he belonged. Darby Rooney understood about as much English as enabled him to get over a parade tolerably, but a conversation such as the General was about to hold with him was beyond his capacity, and he began to feel a little confused at the prospect of a tête-à-tête with his General: “Squidha—squodha—cad-dershe-vourneen?”[[21]] said he, turning to the orderly-sergeant, Pat Gafney, who did not himself speak the English language quite as correctly as Lindley Murray. “Whist, ye Bostoon,”[[22]] said Gafney, “and don’t make a baste of yourself before the General.”—“Why,” said General Mackinnon, “I believe he don’t understand me.”—“No, sir,” replied Gafney, “he don’t know what your honour manes.”
[21]. “What does he say, honey?”
[22]. “Hold your tongue, you booby.”
The General passed on, taking it for granted that the man had never heard of a squad, and making some gentlemanlike observations on the utility of such partitions of a company, expressed himself satisfied with the fine appearance of the regiment, and our inspection ended with credit to us, this solitary instance excepted. This was, however, enough. Ill-nature and scandal seldom lack arguments. They are ever ready to take a hint, and it is unnecessary that a report should be as true as the gospel to form a foundation for their belief of it. An hour had not elapsed when the entire division were made acquainted (through some of our friends!) with the story. Groups of officers might be seen together (God forgive them!) laughing at our expense. “Well!” cried one, “did you hear what happened with the Connaughts to-day?”—“No,” replied a second, “but I’ll bet twenty dollars I guess; another sheep or goat found in their quarters?”—“No. But when General Mackinnon inspected them just now, there was not one man in the regiment who knew what a squad was!”—“I would have sworn it,” replied a third. An old crone of a major now joined the group, and shaking his head said, “Ah! they are a sad set!” Poor idiot! The 88th was a more really efficient regiment than almost any two corps in the 3rd Division.
CHAPTER XII
Officers and sergeants—Fairfield and his bad habit—Regimental mechanism—Impolitic familiarity—3rd Division at the siege of Ciudad Rodrigo—Lieutenant D‘Arcy and Ody Brophy—The Irish pilot.
The joke about Darby Rooney’s wardrobe, and the conversation that took place between him and General Mackinnon, was circulated throughout the army, and I believe there was not one regiment unacquainted with the circumstance; indeed, so general was its circulation, that it reached the headquarters of Lord Wellington himself, and, if report spoke truly (which it doesn’t always do), it caused his lordship to laugh heartily.
I have myself—before and since I wrote the story—often been asked if it was really a fact that we had no squads in the companies of my regiment, and I have invariably answered that we had not, and that every iota told by Bob Hardyman was true, for I think Bob’s description of the Connaught Rangers altogether too rich to be contradicted or even altered. But were I myself to give a “full and true account” of the “boys,” I would set them down as a parcel of lads that took the world easy—or, as they themselves would say, “aisy”—with a proper share of that nonchalance which is only to be acquired on service—real service; but I cannot bring myself to think them, as many did, a parcel of devils, neither will I by any manner of means try to pass them off for so many saints! But the fact is (and I have before said so) that there was not one regiment in the Peninsular army more severely—perhaps so severely—drilled as mine was; but I also say, without the slightest fear of contradiction, that the officers never tormented themselves or their men with too much fuss. We approached their quarters as seldom as we possibly could—I mean as seldom as was necessary—and thereby kept up that distance between officers and privates so essential to discipline; this we considered the proper line of conduct to chalk out, and we ever acted up to it. We were amused to see some regiments whose commanding officers obliged every subaltern to parade his men at bedtime in their blankets!—why, they looked like so many hobgoblins! But if such an observance were necessary as far as concerned the soldiers, surely a sergeant ought to be able to do this much.