It was with feelings of regret that I was now on the eve of quitting the first battalion of the Connaught Rangers, but, before doing so, I resolved to spend a few days with my old friend and companion, Captain Graham. He was attached to the 21st Portuguese Regiment, quartered in a large convent half-way between Leomil and Lamosa; and here, for the first time, I had a full specimen of the manners and habits of the priesthood of Portugal. I had, it is true, met them occasionally before, and always found them pleasant, agreeable companions; but I had little idea of the depraved state they lived in until I became, in a manner, an inmate of the convent where my friend was quartered.
Dinner was about to be announced when some five or six priests entered, each carrying under his arm a small pig-skin of wine. They were all merry, gay lads, and looked as if they had—which I have no doubt of—tasted the contents of their fardeau. All were agreeable men; they talked upon all subjects; but the fair sex “had the call.” My friend asked where the others were who had promised to come. He was told they were on duty; but what that “duty” was, I could not exactly define. Be this as it may, dinner was scarcely over when three monks entered the apartment. One, who seemed to be the provider, was loaded with an enormous pig-skin of wine, which he carried on his back; and, so soon as the door was flung open, he, with some difficulty, placed it in a corner, and then, with his two companions, joined our festive board.
Now, at the time I am speaking of, I was a very young lad. I had, nevertheless, seen something of the world; I had mixed in society, high and low; I had read books—some of them moral, some the contrary; but in all that I had ever seen, read, or heard of, I never could suppose that, amongst any set of men—much less priests—so great a scene of blackguardism could be amalgamated together as I witnessed on this night. Their songs and talk were as indecent as can be imagined. The fellows were so pleasant that, if you could forget they were priests, it would have been well enough; but it is disgraceful to see men in this calling adopt the manners and habits of the most profligate, by which means they not only disgrace themselves, but the religion they profess.
I took leave of my old regiment, and, with two hundred and sixty-five dollars in my pocket, bent my way towards Lisbon. My old friend D‘Arcy accompanied me, and my man, Dan Carsons, took charge of our baggage-mule, which carried our kits. This, indeed, was a sort of sinecure to him; for, to say the truth, we were not overstocked with many extras. Little occurred worthy of notice until we reached Lisbon, and there we met with our companion, Simon Fairfield, so well known to the army.[[37]] Maurice Quill was also there, and as they were both, like ourselves, waiting for a passage home by the first fleet that was to leave the Tagus for England, we thought we could not do better than “club” together.
[37]. Fairfield was better known in the army by his Christian name, and was almost invariably called “Sim,” or, as Joe Kelly called him, “Simmy.” He ended very badly, in abject misery caused by his own vices and thriftlessness, without a coat to his back or a roof to his head.
It was a rare circumstance to meet two such characters, and our time passed away agreeably in learning those anecdotes which have been told of both. Much has been related of Quill, but Fairfield was immeasurably his superior on some points. In the first place, he sang beautifully, while Maurice could not sing at all; and if Quill possessed that extraordinary humour, which it is so well known he did, poor Simon Fairfield was an overmatch for him as a punster.
Our stay in Lisbon was but short, as, in a few days after our arrival, the fleet was in readiness to sail for Portsmouth. But, short as our sojourn was, it was of sufficient length to nearly empty our purses. That sink of profligacy and nest of sharpers, the San Carlos gambling-house, was the constant resort of all the idlers in Lisbon; and, in a few days, I and my friends were completely eased of all our loose cash. But we had one resource left, in the shape of a horse each, which was the same thing as ready money, and we determined to try our luck once more at the gambling table. Accordingly, the horses were sent to the fair, were sold, and brought a “fair” price. Mine fetched one hundred and twenty-five dollars. Those belonging to Hill, D‘Arcy, and Adair, all of my corps, were also disposed of at a “fair” value. Poor “Fair”field had no horse or mule. He had an old jackass—his companion for years—which brought to the general fund only fifteen dollars. A sort of council of war was now held as to the line of operations we should follow, and it was unanimously agreed that D‘Arcy, being a good judge of the game, should be the purse-bearer, and play according to his own judgment to any amount he might think proper, for the profit or loss of the entire party.
Matters were so far arranged, and we were ready and panting with anxiety to have another trial with the bankers of the San Carlos tables, when Hill, a young man of sound sense, hinted that, to prevent any mistake, and not to leave all on the “hazard of the die,” we should deposit a certain number of dollars each for the purchase of our sea-stock. This hint was so replete with rationality that we all acquiesced, and fifteen dollars “par tête” was regularly pouched by Hill, who was understood to be our caterer. He laid in a capital stock of wine, brandy, fowls, and meat—and, so far, all went on right. The wine and brandy he purchased from the far-famed Signor Cavizoli; but, if he paid high for them, they were of excellent quality.