Part 12

_Capt. Killdragon._ Ay, ay, _neutralized_ it, indeed; that is, he added an alkali to his acid—such union, we know, produces _froth_—insipid—nay, disgusting froth. The fact is, the patching only made things worse; for the Duke was in _articulo mortis_, (as _you_ would say, Doctor,) when the cold-blooded and heartless declaimer apologized for his wanton brutality. Besides, he found that he disgusted even his _own_ partisans, and therefore feared the loss of his all—his popularity—his _brief_ popularity.

_Major Mc Rocket._ By G—! yir raight, Killdragon; an' ye speak the feelings o' us a'.

_Dr. Slaughtery._ I do not defend the act: it certainly was bad; but I think it arose from party violence.

_Several Voices._ It admits of no excuse.

_Col. Shell._ And the Doctor thinks so too; but he loves argument as dearly as he does his country, and only wishes now to draw _you_ out, Killdragon.

_Dr. Slaughtery._ Thank you, Colonel; I _have_ drawn him out, and now I'll draw _in_ my horns.

_All the Mess._ Bravo! bravo!

_Capt. Ball._ Gentlemen, as we are on the subject of the Commander-in-Chief's death, I beg to mention that Mr. Steel, my worthy young _Sub_ here on my left, has written a song upon the occasion, and set it to music. You all know how he sings, and what do you say to hearing it? The band can accompany the song, for they have learnt the music of it.

[_This announcement was received with enthusiasm, and Ensign Steel, although blushing under his honours and opposing “the motion,” was obliged to yield to the general request. The band having been ordered to accompany the song, now played a fine impressive symphony, and the Ensign sung with great effect the following_:—

LAMENT OF THE CHIEF.

I.

Soldiers! the chief that you loved is gone To the tomb where his fathers sleep, Where the mighty rest,—but there is not one Like him in its holy keep. The dead where he lies wear diadems,— His crown is the soldier's love;— Not a thing of gold nor of costly gems, But a glory that's brought from above.

II.

Soldiers! the heart that was good and great, Is still, and its warmth is past; For you and your weal its first pulses beat— For you and your weal its last. In the midst of the forest of lofty pines Thus drops the parent stem, Thus a father whose hope in his children shines— All blessing, and blessed by them.

III.

Soldiers! go plant a branch by his tomb, From the wreath which to you he gave, And high may it grow, and spread, and bloom, And long may it over him wave! Oh, yes, it will bloom when past are ye, And age shall not number its years, For the smiles of your orphans shall sun the tree, And your widows shall wet it with tears.

[_The warmest applause followed this song, while the countenances of all the listeners glowed with the indescribable sensations which the union of the sentiment with fine voice and melody produced. The harmony was well executed, and Mr. Steel's admirable taste gave great effect to the whole._]

_Col. Shell._ The last lines, I presume, allude to the Duke's patronage of the Orphan School at Chelsea.

_Ensign Steel._ Yes, Sir.

_Major Mc Rocket._ An' a lasting monument it is, Colonel.

_Col. Shell._ Yet this, great as it is, is only a part of the good he has done to the army.

_Capt. Killdragon._ I, as an individual, can bear testimony of his paternal kindness. You all know I was cashiered on account of that cowardly dragoon, who first insulted me (then a mere boy), and afterwards refused to give satisfaction. I applied to the Duke, and presented the memorial myself. When the Aid-de-camp bowed me in, “ENSIGN KILLDRAGON,” my heart was in my mouth—I didn't know whether I was on my head or my heels; but when I saw the fine, smiling, good-natured GENTLEMAN, standing with his back to the fire, as careless as if he had been only a head clerk, I was relieved from my fears. I gave the paper into his own hands, and he, in the kindest manner, told me he would read the proceedings of the court martial, desiring me to call on the following levee-day. I did: he _had_ read the proceedings, and asked me several questions relating to the matter. At length he said, “You shall have an answer.” I withdrew, delighted with the affability of the Royal Duke, at the same time doubtful of success; “but,” thought I, “if I am refused, it will be like a gentleman.” I got a letter in four days after, informing me that I was reinstated. 'Faith! I drank a bottle to the Duke's health that night, and now I'll drink another to his memory.

_Col. Shell._ This is only one in thousands of instances. Whenever he _could_ grant a request, consistent with his duty, he did so.

_Major Mc Rocket._ The Duke o' Wellington has noo got the command, an' I have nae doobt that he'll gi'e us a' satisfaction. The army is a wee bit afraid o' him, because he is sic a disciplinarian, but in my opinion that's a' for the better; an' I'll wager ony mon in England a dozen o' claret, that the Duke will be as gude an officer at the heed o' the army as he was afore. Ye see he hasn't changed a single man in the office; but has already done a gude thing for the country, in uniting the Ordnance Department to his ain.

_Capt. Ball._ There is none like him; he is a good soldier, a prudent general, and a kind man. He was strict and severe while in the Peninsula, but he could have done nothing had he not been so; not only his own private interests, but his country's hopes and glory, depended upon his success. Gentlemen, I'll give you “The Duke of Wellington and the Army.”

[_This toast was drunk standing, and with “three times three,” and the band played “Rule Britannia” in the finest style._]

_Capt. Killdragon._ By Gad! Wellington is the boy that made _work_-men of us at any rate.

_Major Mc Rocket._ Yir nae far oot there, Killdragon; an' if we tak the field again, I hope he'll gang wi' us.

_Major Swordly._ Mr. President, the paymaster on your right there, is neglecting his _accounts_ very much:—bring him to _book_, and send the decanter this way.

_Mr. Cashly._ Don't fear, Major; I'll take a _receipt in full now:—à votre santé_.

_Major Swordly._ Mr. Quartermaster Sharp, you should keep to the _allowance_,—come, fill!

_Mr. Sharp._ I assure you, Major, I like a _full ration_.

_Dr. Slaughtery._ So do we all; and if we go out again, Sharp, my boy, we'll keep you to your word.

_Mr. Sharp._ I don't care how soon this may happen; another campaign would do the regiment no harm, particularly as regards these young subalterns here.

_Ensign Steel._ Heaven grant we may have another breeze!

_Major Mc Rocket._ Tak care, mun; it may come a bit too soon.

_Ensign Steel._ No, Major, not a minute too soon. I don't like home service; give me the field. I wish I had it in my power to volunteer to-night for the storming of a breach at daybreak.

_Capt. Ball._ You might have too much of that too, my boy; like young O'Connel, a lad of about eighteen—your own age. He volunteered on the storming-party at Badajoz, for his ensigncy in the 59th, and escaped; he then volunteered on the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo, and there also escaped,—got his Lieutenancy. Again, at the storming of St. Sebastian he _would_ volunteer, against the advice of all his brother officers. God knows! to have stormed twice as he had done, was enough for any _one_, but he was determined, and like a hero mounted the breach.

_Capt. Killdragon._ I saw him that day almost at the head of the column, smiling with as much confidence as if he thought the balls knew him and would run away from him.

_Capt. Ball._ Poor lad! he was made a riddle of. I counted sixteen ball-wounds in his body.

_Capt. Killdragon._ Rashness is very often the bane of courage. There was a countryman of mine at Badajoz, a young Ensign; he, with the men, was ordered to lie down, so as to conceal themselves from the view of the batteries on the ramparts. The young fellow was rash enough to put up the colours which he carried, in order (as he says himself) that it might receive a ball or two, and thus afford evidence of his danger. The consequence was, that a tremendous shower of cannon-ball was directed to the spot where the fool-hardy Ensign was: one struck him on the hip, and carried away the whole of the fleshy part of the thigh: then a musket-ball hit him in the breast. The rashness of this officer is greatly to be regretted, for many men fell beside him, from the fire in which he himself was mutilated. He is still alive, and on the half-pay of the Queen's Germans. I saw him in town a few weeks ago.

_Col. Shell._ This was not true courage, but hair-brained folly. Mr. Steel, I'll give you an instance of steady bravery:—When Colonel Higgins was a cornet (I think in the 18th), and in Holland, the Duke of Cambridge wished to send a despatch to a certain point, the way to which was cannonaded heavily by grape-shot. His Royal Highness asked, if there was any dragoon officer near him who would volunteer for the duty? Young Higgins immediately presented himself—he took the despatch—gallopped off: the Duke could see him from where he stood, the whole of the distance. When about half way, and in the thick of the fire, Higgins dropped his helmet: he coolly pulled up his horse, alighted, put his helmet upon his head, mounted again, and continued his course. The young officer returned through the same danger safely, and his Royal Highness was so pleased with his steady courage, that he appointed him to his personal staff, and he is his Royal Highness's private secretary at this day.

_Ensign Steel._ That I think, certainly, of different character from the conduct of the Ensign, although both might be equally brave. What regiment did Mr. O'Connel belong to, Captain Ball?

_Capt. Ball._ The 59th.

_Major Swordly._ That regiment had a vast deal to do on the last campaign in Spain.

_Capt. Killdragon._ It behaved nobly at Vittoria, although a great part of it were very young soldiers. At a little village on the left of the town, the French made a most desperate effort to prevent our troops crossing the little river. (I was Brigade Major at the time, and so could see those things.) They had two field-pieces planted close to the bridge, which was not wide enough to permit two carts to pass abreast, and their infantry defended this pass for a long time. The men were butting each other in a dense mass on the bridge, after they had been tired of the bayonet; and caps, and muskets, and bodies were heaved over the sides into the stream, till they almost choked the arches beneath. The 59th came up to the bridge, after a repulse, commanded by Colonels Fane and Weare, and the fire upon them was thick and destructive—grape and musketry. The _young_ fellows began to dip their heads and straggle, when Colonel Weare rode back to them, and cried out,—“_59th! for shame, for shame!_” This was like magic; the men dashed on steadily, but at the instant he received a ball in the spine. Colonel Fane, who headed the battalion, now rode up to Colonel Weare; and perceiving his state, shook hands with him, and then gave directions for his removal: there was not an instant to lose—the men were advancing like lions to the bridge—“_God bless you, Weare!_” was all that the Colonel had time to say, and he then rode on with the regiment; but in the next minute he received a shot himself in the groin, and was obliged to leave the men to themselves. They did their duty, and carried the bridge. Poor Fane was dead before his friend Weare, with whom he shook hands, in the belief that he would not be an hour alive. Both died of their wounds in a few days, and I attended both their funerals in the town of Vittoria. A finer picture of a hero in death, than the naked body of Weare on his cold bed was, no man ever beheld—noble fellow! A letter just arrived at the regiment the day after he died, to say that his wife and family had landed at Lisbon with the view of joining him: sad was the answer to that letter!... Colonel Fane was the brother of General Fane, you know, and a finer or more gallant fellow never fought. Both these leaders were buried in a _yard behind the Hospital_, while a French General was, at the same time, entombed _within the walls of the principal Church_; but this was because the Frenchman was a _Roman Christian_, and the others _English Christians_. It grieved me to see it; and never did I feel the folly and absurdity of such religious differences so forcibly as on that melancholy occasion. The Spanish priests regretted (and sincerely too) that they had it not in their power to honour the remains of their _allies_ as they, from Christian charity, did the remains of their _enemy_.

_Col. Shell._ I knew both Fane and Weare well, and better officers could not be.

_Ensign Young._ Captain Killdragon, was it Colonel Fane's horse that gallopped into the enemy's ranks, as you were telling us the other evening?

_Capt. Killdragon._ No, no. That was at the battle of Salamanca. It occurred with the 5th Dragoon Guards.

_Mr. Cashly._ What was that? I was in the brigade at the time.

_Capt. Killdragon._ The horse that lost his rider, and—

_Mr. Cashly._ Oh! yes, yes, yes. I know.

_Major Swordly._ Let us hear it.

_Capt. Killdragon._ When the regiment charged the French on the plain, one of the men was thrown off his horse: the animal dashed into the enemy's lines, and after the regiment to which he belonged had retired from the charge, he was seen scampering about amongst the French infantry, kicking and frolicking. The 5th was ordered to renew the charge, which they did; and as they were approaching the enemy, the horse in question gallopped over to them, regularly fell into the ranks, as if a dragoon had been upon his back: he continued in rank during the operation of the charge, and returned in line with his troop, to the astonishment of his rider, and the admiration of all who saw him.

_Mr. Cashly._ It is a fact, I know it to be so.

_Capt. Ball._ Mess-waiter, look to the decanters!—gentlemen, I have a proposal to make: we cannot be more harmonious than we are; but by way of diversifying our happiness, suppose Killdragon favours us with his “_British Bayoneteers_.” It will bring back the recollections of the “_work_” as he calls it.

[_All now warmly called on Captain Killdragon, who was not a man that required much pressing; so, having filled his glass and put on a regular corporal countenance, he sang the following song, in a fine bold voice, and all the Mess joined in merry chorus_:—

THE BRITISH BAYONETEERS.

I.

Eyes right! my jolly field boys, Who British bayonets bear, To teach your foes to yield, boys, When British steel they dare! Now fill the glass, for the toast of toasts Shall be drunk with the cheer of cheers:— Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! For the British Bayoneteers! Then fill the glass, for the toast of toasts, &c.

II.

Great guns have shot and shell, boys, Dragoons have sabres bright, Th' artillery's fire's like hell, boys, And the horse like devils fight; But neither light nor heavy horse, Nor thundering cannoneers, Can stem the tide of the foeman's pride, Like the British Bayoneteers. Then fill the glass, for the toast of toasts, &c.

III.

See, see, red Battle raging, In wild and bloody strife; His burning thirst assuaging In the smoking tide of life! From the shower of balls our men give way— But the rank of steel appears: They charge!—Hurrah! Hurrah! for the day Is the British Bayoneteers! Then fill the glass, for the toast of toasts, &c.

IV.

The English arm is strong, boys, The Irish arm is tough, The Scotchman's blow, the French well know, Is struck by sterling stuff; And when, before the enemy, Their shining steel appears— Good by'e! Good by'e!—How they run! How they fly From the British Bayoneteers! Then fill the glass, for the toast of toasts, &c.

Loud applause followed this song, for the wine had pretty freely circulated before it was sung. A deviled turkey was now brought in, the decanters were all replenished, and several jolly songs sung. It was a festival day; therefore did the young _subs_ leave off the everyday rule of quitting the mess-table after the “_second allowance_,” and indulged _ad libitum_. In short, a merrier set of fellows, from the Colonel to the Quarter-master, never broke up from a happy mess-table, than they, at half-past 12 o'clock, A. M.

GERAGHTY'S KICK.

“Send that to your next-door neighbour.”

At the battle of Talavera, when the hill on the left of the British line had been retaken from the enemy, after the most obstinate and bloody fighting, the French continued to throw shells upon it with most destructive precision. One of those terrible instruments of death fell close to a party of grenadiers belonging to the 45th regiment, who were standing on the summit of the hill. The fusee was burning rapidly, and a panic struck upon the minds of the soldiers, for they could not move away from the shell on account of the compact manner in which the troops stood: it was nearly consumed—every rapidly succeeding spark from it promised to be the last—all expected instant death—when Tom Geraghty, a tall raw-boned Irishman, ran towards the shell, crying out, “By J——, I'll have a kick for it, if it was to be my last;” and with a determined push from his foot, sent the load of death whirling off the height. It fell amongst a close column of men below, while Geraghty, leaning over the verge from whence it fell, with the most vehement and good-natured energy, bawled out “Mind your heads, boys, mind your heads!” Horror!—the shell burst!—it was over in a moment. At least twenty men were shattered to pieces by the explosion!

Geraghty was wholly unconscious of having done any mischief. It was a courageous impulse of the moment, which operated upon him in the first instance; and the injury to the service was not worse than if the shell had remained where it first fell. Self-preservation is positively in favour of the act, considering that there was no other way of escaping from destruction.

Very serious consequences would have still attended the matter, had it not been for the active exertions of the officers; for the men of the regiment, among which the shell was thrown, and who had escaped, were with difficulty prevented from mounting the hill and executing summary punishment upon the grenadiers, from whom the unwelcome messenger had been so unceremoniously despatched. Thus they would have increased to an alarming degree the evil consequences of Geraghty's kick.

An unexpected shower of admiration and flattery, like the sudden possession of great and unexpected wealth, produces evil effects upon a weak head. The perilous kick, instead of exalting Geraghty's fortunes, as it would have done had he been a prudent man, produced the very opposite consequences. He was talked of throughout the regiment—nay, the whole division, for this intrepid act; every body, officers and all, complimented him upon his coolness and courage; and the general who commanded his regiment (Sir John Doyle) gave him the most flattering encouragement. All this was lost upon Geraghty; he was one of those crazy fellows whom nothing but the weight of adversity could bring to any tolerable degree of steadiness; and instead of profiting by his reputed bravery, he gave way to the greatest excesses. Finding that he was tolerated in one, he would indulge in another, until it became necessary to check the exuberance of his folly. He gave way completely to drunkenness: when under the effects of liquor, although a most inoffensive being when sober, he would try to “carry all before him,” as the phrase goes; and having succeeded in this so frequently, amongst the privates and non-commissioned officers of his regiment, the excitement of the excess began to lose its pungency in his imagination, and he determined to extend his enjoyments amongst the officers: this very soon led him to most disagreeable results. It had been ordered that the privates should not walk upon a certain part of the parade in Colchester Barracks. Geraghty, however, thought proper to _kick_ against it as determinedly as he formerly did against the shell. Charged with strong rum, he one day strutted across it in a manner becoming a hero of Talavera (as he thought), and was seen by two of his officers, ensigns, who sent the orderly to desire him to move off the forbidden ground; but Geraghty declined obedience, and told the orderly to “_be off to the devil out o' that_.” The ensigns, on being informed of the disobedience, proceeded to the delinquent, and renewed their orders, which were not only disregarded, but accompanied by a violent assault from Geraghty. The refractory giant seized an ensign in each hand, and having lifted both off the ground, dashed their heads together. This was seen by some other officers and soldiers of the regiment, who all ran instantly to rescue the sufferers from Geraghty's gripe. None could, however, secure him; he raged and threatened vengeance on all who came within the length of his long arms; nor would he have surrendered had it not been for a captain in the regiment, under whose eye he pulled many a trigger against the enemy. This officer approached with a stick, seized him by the collar, and began to lay on in good style. “Leather away,” cried Geraghty, “I'll submit to _you_, Captain, and will suffer any thing; flog me, if you like. You are a good sodger, an' saw the enemy; but by J——, I'll not be insulted by brats o' boys who never smelt powdther.”

The consequences of this violence of course led to punishment: Geraghty was flogged for the mutiny; he received six hundred and fifty lashes, laid heavily on; yet he never uttered a groan during the whole of this suffering; and when taken down, although bleeding, bruised, and doubtless greatly exhausted, assumed an air of insolent triumph; put on his shirt, and boldly walked off to the hospital. The body of the man was overcome,—the pallid cheek, the bloodshot eye, the livid lip, the clammy mouth—all declared it; but the spirit was wholly untouched by the lash: nothing on earth _could_ touch it.

The 87th was subsequently quartered in Guernsey: here the sheriff, a little powdered personage of the forensic faculty, was the immediate cause of another punishment to Geraghty, by having preferred a complaint against him. The deepest enmity towards the civic officer arose in Geraghty's breast, and he vowed vengeance against him. It happened that after long looking out for the fulfilment of his vow, he met the sheriff one dark night in a narrow way: a moment so precious could not be wasted; so Geraghty, with an oath like the thunder of Jupiter, seized his victim by the collar of his coat and the posterior portion of his pantaloons, and having twirled him in the air just as he would a monkey, flung him “neck and crop” (as the flinger said) over the church-yard wall, which stood full seven feet high, beside the road.