“I am satisfied that my daughter is not with your regiment, sir; yet I am anything but satisfied as to her fate!” replied the old man.
The band played a quick march; Thorp, as Drum-Major, flourished his cane; the daughter of the Juiz de Fora, in her new and disguised character of cymbal-boy, with her face blacked, and regimental jacket, banged the Turkish cymbals, and Thorp, who as Drum-Major was destined to make a noise in the world, was for obvious reasons silent on this occasion. The regiment reached Monte Forte the same day, and the padre of that town performed the marriage ceremony in due form.
In detailing the history of the elopement and marriage of Jacintha Cherito with Drum-Major Thorp, I have given but a short outline of a very romantic and, as it was nigh turning out, a tragical affair. But were I to sit down quietly, and write of all the intrigues that were set in motion, or of all the attempts that were made to assassinate this girl, and also her husband, what I could truly write would be fitting for the pages of a romance. Thorp’s history shall be told in a few words. It was this:—
He joined the 88th Regiment on its return from South America in 1807. He was quite a lad, and being rather too young to be placed in the ranks, was handed over to the Drum-Major. He soon became so great a proficient that, on the regiment embarking for Portugal, at the end of 1808, he was raised to the rank of Drum-Major, in the room of his preceptor, who was invalided. In those days our Drum-Majors wore hats pretty much the same as those now worn by Field-Marshals; indeed, the only difference between them was that the hat then worn by the former was not only of a more imposing and capacious size, but more copiously garnished with white feathers round the brim than those of the latter now are. The coat, too, a weight in itself, from the quantity of silver lace with which it was bedizened, was an object sufficient to attract attention and respect from the multitude that witnessed the debarkation of the regiment at Lisbon. In short, Thorp was mistaken by the Portuguese for a General Officer, and some went so far as to guess at his being the Earl of Moira, who, it was rumoured at the time, was about to join the army. Absurd as those opinions were—and most absurd they assuredly were, because Thorp, neither in years nor appearance, resembled in the slightest degree the high personage he was mistaken for—Thorp felt gratified—and where is the Drum-Major that would not?—at being taken for a General Officer; and from that moment he made up his mind to pitch drums, drummers, and drum-sticks, not only from his hands but his thoughts also, and fight his way to the honourable privilege of carrying the pole of a colour in place of the mace of a Drum-Major.
His wish was soon gratified, for when his regiment, at Busaco, was running headlong with the bayonet against three of Reynier’s splendid battalions, Thorp, to the amazement of Colonel Wallace, was seen at the head of the 88th, not with his “mace of office” in his hand, but with his plumed hat, waving it high over his head, as he called out, “The Connaught Rangers for ever!” During the action the Sergeant-Major had been killed while fighting beside Thorp, and Wallace, on the field of battle, named him as Sergeant-Major, in place of the one he had lost. From this period up to the battle of Toulouse, Thorp was a distinguished man. Four times had he been wounded, but he was always up with his regiment in time for the next battle, often with his wounds unhealed. At the battle of Orthes, his conduct was so remarkable that his name was forwarded for an ensigncy. Thorp knew this, and at Toulouse, the last battle fought by the Peninsular army, he was resolved to prove that his recommendation was deserved. In this action his bravery was not bravery alone—it was rashness.
Some companies of Picton’s division had been repulsed in an attack at the bridge-head, near the canal—which attack it has been said, and in my opinion truly said, should never have been made—when Thorp ran forward, and assisted in rallying the soldiers. The fire from the firearms and batteries of the French was incessant, and many officers and soldiers had fallen. There was one spot in particular that had been the scene of much slaughter to those who occupied it, and five officers, besides numbers of soldiers, had been already struck down by cannon-shot, and others wounded by musketry. Amongst the latter was Captain Robert Nickle, one of the most distinguished officers in the army. While he was hobbling to the rear, he observed Thorp standing in the midst of those who had fallen, the rest having been withdrawn out of fire from a position that should never have been occupied. For in the front of the French battery, and running in a direct line from the canal to this position, was a low narrow avenue or hedge, which ended within a few yards of where our people had formed after their repulse, and this avenue served as a guide, or groove, for the enemy’s range; they were now, however, more or less, under cover. In a moment of excitement, Thorp, with his cap in his hand, stood alone on this spot, saying, “Now let us see if they can hit me!” Nickle, who was passing at the moment, supported by two of his company—for his arm was badly shattered—called out to Thorp to leave the spot. “Oh, Captain Nickle,” replied Thorp, “they can’t hit me, I think.” Those were the last words he ever uttered. A round shot struck his chest, and, cutting him in two, whirled his remains in the air. Thus fell the gallant Thorp, and though his rank was humble, his chivalrous deeds were those of a hero. The day after his death the English mail brought the Gazette in which poor Thorp’s name was seen as promoted to an ensigncy in his old regiment; and though this announcement came too late for him to know it, it was a great consolation to his poor afflicted widow, and it was the means of reconciling her father to the choice she had made, and her return once more to her home was made a scene of great rejoicing; but nothing more of her was ever heard by the regiment.
The war in the Peninsula was now ended, after having continued for nearly six years with various changes; and gloriously, in truth, was it ended by the British General and his unconquerable army. “Thus the war terminated, and with it all remembrance of the veterans' services.” And now, reader, I am about to take leave of you, for the present at least. In these “Adventures” I have told you many circumstances you never before heard of, and I hope I have not fatigued you, or trespassed too long on your patience. I have, without being, I trust, too tedious, told you of the wrongs my old corps has suffered. I have, without presuming to write a History of the Peninsular War, told you something of the services performed by the Peninsular army; and I have drawn your attention to the scandalous manner in which the never-to-be-forgotten services of that wonderful army were treated by the Government and by the Duke of Wellington. I leave the continuation of the Adventures of the Connaught Rangers dependent on the favour of which you may think the pages I have now presented to you deserving.
THE END
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