the amiable and adorable Charlotte Clarke became the gentle Mrs. Jenkins.
“War's clarion blew!” Napoleon and Wellington struggled like two giants for ascendancy. Ensign Jenkins volunteered into the line, and proceeded to the fields of Lusitania. Could Charlotte stay behind? No! the briny waters soon bore her, with her husband and seven other officers (all members of the mess), to Portugal. Ensign Jenkins was ordered to the front. Could Mrs. Jenkins stay behind? No! she braved the fatigues of the march and the horrors of the battle, like a true heroine: she loved the 48th, and she would go along with it, through thick and thin. The parching sun, the drenching storm, the unmoistened biscuit, and the chill damp bivouac alike she would endure.—“Love and Glory” carried her through all. It was a sight worth all the jewels of romance to see—a thought worth all heaven to contemplate—the sight of Mrs. Charlotte Jenkins, like a “ministering angel,” standing amidst the terrors of the field!
The battle raged; the slain were many; the regiment covered themselves with glory—but poor Jenkins fell! The moon arose upon the field of battle, and shone upon the dead—the fight was over. Could Mrs. Jenkins rest without her husband? Oh, no! Forth she hied to search out the body of her Jenkins, dead as he was, at the dead hour of night. She gazed at the moon—she gazed upon the slain—and she thought upon the days of her teens, of Newman's novels, and Portarlington.
A tender-hearted sympathetic soul, by name Captain Rogers of the Grenadiers, watched the fair Charlotte's steps (for she had told him she would go and seek her Jenkins) and gently led her from the sickening scene.
Poor Jenkins was not found; but dead, no doubt he was, for there were several witnesses of his fall. He had fallen upon his face—the Sergeant lifted him from the earth, but he did not speak—life was no longer there; so the Sergeant left him lying on the field, for he had yet to knock some others down.
The truth struck strong upon fair Charlotte's heart; her bursting bosom was saved from rending by a well-timed flood of tears, which the Captain politely wiped away. “Cease, lady, cease this useless, unavailing grief,” sighed the sympathetic Rogers; “if thou hast lost a husband, still are a thousand left for thy choice;—and though one Jenkins may be gone, another Jenkins may supply his place.”
Oh! to be thus addressed amidst romantic war! and by a Captain, too, of Grenadiers!—I cannot, will not further—
Draw, draw the veil upon her weakness! But stay, I must—I must reveal it—she was comforted; and not many nights passed o'er her widowed bed, till ... married was Charlotte to her Rogers—as well as in the field they could be married, where parsons are but rare as all who know allow.
In joyous honeymoon the pair repaired to Lisbon (for Rogers was detached upon a special duty), mayhap because the blushing bride wished for retirement from a scene which must have ever reminded her of Ensign Jenkins. But be that as it may, a month had scarcely told its thirty days (or thirty-one, I know not which), when one dark night, such as the wolf delights in, a solemn knock was heard at the outer door of the house where rested Rogers and his lady, “Who comes?” The door is opened—a figure stands at the threshold.—It is Ensign Jenkins!!! O appalling sight! “A ghost, a ghost! my husband's ghost!” the frighted Mrs. Rogers cries; “Oh, take him from my sight!”
“No, thank you, Ma'am,” replies the visitor; “I am no ghost, but Ensign Jenkins of the 48th!!!”