And they had a right to know Dennis,—at least their live stock had; for there was scarcely a fowl, rabbit, pig, sheep, or calf in the country, that he had not paid his respects to. Dennis used to say, “We are here starvin’ and fightin’ for the Portuguese; so the laste they may do, is to give us our dinner, at any rate.”
The last anecdote of this singular character, which I recollect, is as follows:—
A very hot engagement had taken place, in which the 31st regiment had been hard at work. Quill had his instruments, &c. under a hedge in a valley; at a little distance from the hill which his regiment was endeavouring to take from the French. He stayed pretty near the corps, (for Morris was no flincher,) and one of his brother officers being wounded in the leg, he ran over to him to render what surgical assistance he could. It was necessary to have something from the medicine-chest, which was behind the hedge in the valley, and Morris started off like a hare, to fetch it. At this moment the regiment was suffering from grape-shot, and the Brigadier-General, who was coming at a gallop along a narrow lane, saw Quill running, inside a hedge, as fast as he could, away from the regiment, in the uniform of which he was; and, thinking it was some cowardly officer who feared the grape, the General cried out to him, “Where are you going, Sir?” To which Morris only replied, still running under the hedge, “By J——s! I won’t stay any longer there; it’s too hot.” The General again cried out to him, and ordered his aid-de-camp to follow, and march him back a prisoner; but Morris outran the aid-de-camp’s horse, and arrived before him at the hedge where his instruments were. When the latter saw who it was, he well nigh fell off his horse with laughing, as he galloped back to tell the General his mistake. Morris laughed heartily, too; and, indeed, he had the laugh all on his own side, as he returned with the medicaments for which he had gone, to assist his wounded brother officer, and with which he ran as fast into the field as he had run out of it.
MESS-TABLE CHAT.
No. III.
“To laugh with gibing boys, and stand the push
Of every beardless vain Comparative.”
Shakspeare.
Scene.—The Depôt Mess-room at Winchester—a tolerably large apartment, more airy than comfortable; neither carpet nor curtains.—Dinner so so.—Wines of excellent MANUFACTURE.—Company, consisting of fifteen officers, (mostly youths) of different regiments, and of course in different uniforms.—Attendants, three recruits in undress, (white flannel,)—no band; but several dogs barking and scudding about the lobby.
Ensign Newly. By G—d, I never sat down to so d—d a dinner in my life; we get worse and worse every day: the fish smells infernally, and this hash is made of the hard mutton we had on table last Thursday. Simple, my boy, give us a sample of that old cock turkey before you, if you can get a knife into him.
Ensign Simple. I can’t carve. (In a whisper.) Captain Alder, will you cut the turkey? I never carved in my life.
Capt. Alder. Very well, Mr. Simple, I’ll try my skill. Hand that turkey this way, John.