“No, no!” rejoined the Captain, “my face and all—all are changed. I’m very unlike the Captain now, Tom, that led you up the hill at Talavera, and saved your life at Salamanca.”
Hanson changed colour—he looked closer—he recognized him—then fell on his knees by the bed and seizing his old Captain’s hand, wept like a child. I hurried out of the room, for I could not bear the scene.
Hanson never left the bed of the dying officer one hour at a time. However, the poor fellow died next day; and the last sad office of closing his eyes was performed by this faithful and humane soldier; nay, more—from his purse came the expenses of the funeral—his own hands made the coffin—and no mourner ever followed the beloved dead to the grave with a sincerer sorrow, than Hanson did his poor Captain.
MESS-TABLE CHAT.
No. IV.
(A SKETCH FOR THE “MEDICOS.”)
“There were four-and-twenty Doctors all of a row.”
Old Song.
Scene.—The mess-room, of the Medical Staff at Chatham. A couple of dozen Doctors at dinner; all in blue uniform,—red collar and cuffs, no epaulettes. Guests, consisting of a retired Major, and a Captain of Infantry on full pay. Attendants, &c. &c.
Staff Surgeon Ward. This goose is as good a subject as ever I cut up:—Doctor Adipose, shall I send you a superior extremity?[16]
Dr. Adipose. Thank you, Mr. Ward. I’ll take one—au—hau—, with a slice of the breast; and, as your hand is in, you may as well let me have the—au—Pope’s nose.