THE HALF-PAY CAPTAIN.

“’Tis of little import, Corporal. A gallant soldier’s memory
will flourish, though humble turf be osier-bound upon his grave.
The tears of his country will moisten it.”
Colman.

On a cold and snowy night, in the winter of 1823, I was passing through the Strand, on my way home from a formal dinner-party, when I stepped into one of those houses of entertainment which abound in that semi-fashionable neighbourhood which skirts the occidental line of aristocratic demarcation—Charing Cross. Although this house had assumed the dignified appellation of tavern, the only claim it possessed to such distinction, was the display of a few mutton-chops, a plate of mutton kidneys, and two fine heads of celery, in the window. Nor was it what is termed “a public-house”— “Where ’bacco-pipes, and clumsy pots of beer
Regale the crowd:”
but might be said to have fixed its intrinsic rank midway between the two. It possessed a neat and comfortable parlour for public use, and, although perfumed by tobacco, and moistened by homely ale, neither vulgar “pipe” nor clumsy “pot” disgraced it—the segar, in its “naked beauty,” and the brightly polished pewter-vessel, there repelled the rabble, and imparted their cheering pleasures to respectable visitors. The evening paper was there—and so was the “Times,” to read both of which, as well as to escape a heavy fall of snow, I opened the parlour-door, took a seat at an agreeable distance from a fine blazing fire, and was soon accommodated with the newspaper, together with a cup of smoking-hot brandy and water.

There were five persons in the parlour, each at a separate table, but all conversing freely together on that never-ending and purely English topic—the weather. One of them, however, but seldom spoke, and then it was when addressed by others of the company: he seemed by his air, and the formation of a threadbare and well-brushed blue frock coat, to belong to the army, and I at once set him down as one of “the cloth.”

“Waiter, give me a Welsh-rabbit,” said this gentleman, in a mild voice to the attendant of the room, and then took up the newspaper, which he continued to peruse until his supper was brought in.

While he was reading, I had an opportunity of observing him closely: he was bald, except on the sides of the head, and there the thin hair was grey: his face was thin, his cheeks rather hollow, and his large and expressive eyes overshadowed by strongly marked brows: his figure was tall, but wasted; and from the oppressed and hurried way in which he breathed, it was evident that his health was broken. The whole of his dress was extremely clean, but almost worn out. I could perceive that his boots, on which the strong blaze of the fire fell, were in no state to guard the invalid who wore them from the dangerous effects of the melting snow, over which he must tread on his return home. When I thought of this, and considered that it might cause his death, or at least encrease his illness, I sincerely pitied his situation. I felt as if I had already learnt his history, and beheld in him the ruins of a genuine military gentleman.

On addressing my conversation occasionally to him, I found that he was by no means so reserved as at first I imagined; and in a short time we fell into a lively and an interesting chat. I politely asked him if he would take a little brandy and water; but he excused himself, although pressed, by saying that his health would not permit him to drink more than half a pint of porter: this, he said, he took usually in the evening. “Wine,” said he, “is too expensive in London, or I should certainly prefer it.” I immediately requested the waiter to bring some wine; but of this the gentleman also refused to partake—and in such a manner that I felt I should have wounded his feelings by pressing my request farther.

We were now undisturbed by general observations; for when the others in the room perceived we were not at all disposed to join them in chat, they continued to discuss the topics of the day without interrupting us. We conversed for about two hours, and I was never more delighted than by his conversation. Military affairs was the subject: we had both served in the Peninsula, and consequently talked of many mutual acquaintances, living and dead: this made us so far familiar, that he gave me an outline of his professional life.

He had entered the army as ensign in 1790, and had served in both the East and West Indies, Holland, and the Peninsula—obtained his Lieutenancy by chance, and his company by purchase. At the close of the last war he was placed on half-pay; in which state he remained: nor could he succeed in obtaining a return to full pay, notwithstanding his long services: this, however, was owing to the great reductions made in the army after the war. He was a native of Bath,—the son of a clergyman whose interest in the church was considerable at the time he became an Ensign; and he assured me, that had he taken his father’s advice and embraced the profession of the church instead of the army he would have been a rich man—not a poor pensioner with a ruined constitution, and without hopes of better days in this world: “But,” said he, “I was fond of gaiety—the fine uniform of the army caught my young mind, and pleased a beautiful and interesting young lady whom I afterwards married; so I gave up the reality for the shadow:” these were his expressions. His wife died in the West Indies, and left him two daughters: they grew up: both married officers in the army: one went to Sierra Leone and died: the other went to Madras; but whether alive or dead he did not know, not having heard from her for eleven months. All his relations were extinct. “I returned,” said he, “from Waterloo, where I was slightly wounded, and on going down to Bath met my father’s funeral—the only relation I had had then on earth except my daughter, who is in India.” He was placed on half-pay, by the reduction of the battalion in which he was effective. He possessed about four hundred pounds in cash; and this, with his income of seven shillings per day, promised fairly to place him above necessity. He remained in London perhaps more from a wish to be on the spot with the head-quarter people, than from any preference he had to an overgrown, noisy, expensive, metropolis; where, without wealth or friends, life is solitude of the worst description. He thought he possessed a better chance of being re-employed in the service, and so obtain a majority by staying near the Commander-in-chief, to watch the progress of military affairs. But year passed after year, in the same dull expectation, and he found himself as far removed from his hopes in 1823 as he was in 1817. His four hundred pounds he lodged in the hands of a mock army agent, who, from day to day, and month to month, promised him an exchange with some individual, with whom, perhaps, the impostor never had communicated. This mock agent at length failed, and ran away; leaving the poor Captain with nothing but his seven shillings a-day: and not only did he take with him his client’s four hundred pounds, but his last quarter’s half-pay, which the knave drew the day before he departed.[15]