Part 4

“Just as the light company was moving on to the bridge, (Harry and I belonged to the light company,) we halted a few minutes, and he fell out to spake a parting word to Maria an' her father, who were both waiting then at the bridge. Her mantilia a'most covered her face; but still I saw the tears rowling down her cheeks, poor girl, like rain. In a few moments the column moved on, and Harry was obliged to fall in. We both shook hands with the ould father—Harry kissed his sweetheart, and we marched on over the bridge. But to make a long story short, our rigiment remained at Elvas about three months, when the French began to attack us, and we retrated upon Abrantes. This was the time that they boasted of going to dthrive us into the sea, clane out o' Portugal; but by my sowl the Mounseers never were more mistaken in their lives. Well, we hadn't hard from Maria for two months, and I remember it was late in the evening when we entehred Abrantes on our retrate. Harry and I didn't want to taste bit or sup till we went down to ould Jozé's house, and there we larnt that he died of a faver six weeks afore: poor ould man! I was sorry to hear it, an' so was Harry—very sorry indeed. We inquired about the daughther, an' hard that she was living with a particular friend of her father's, at the other end o' the town. We soon found her out, although she was denied to us at first by an ould woman; but faith! a nice-looking young lad, dressed like a _pysano_, or counthry-boy, with a wide black hat an' red worsted sash on him, came out driving along, and threw his arms round Harry's neck, hugging an' kissing him. By my sowl! the boy was _herself_, sure enough. The fact is, Maria had dthressed herself up like a boy, fearful that the French would ill use her when they came into the town; an' they expected them from report, two days before. Faith! an' so they would, I'd warrant ye; for they never showed much mercy to a purty girl once in their power.

“The people with which Maria now lived, were good cratures, and as fond of her as if she was their own. They insisted upon us stopping with them, although there was six soldiers more in the house. A good room was provided for us, an' every thing comfortable. Harry and Maria made much o' their time; but I was obliged to go on the baggage-guard, so left them to themselves. Next morning, at day-light, we were all undther arms, and marched out o' the town towards Punhete. We were the rear-guard, and as we expected the advanced guard of the French up, we were prepared to give 'em a _good morning_: the baggage was all on, an hour before. Sure enough the enemy hung on our rare the whole day, and towards night our company had a bit of a brush with 'em.

“But I forgot to tell ya, that as we left the town of Abrantes, in the dusk o' the morning, and the column was moving down the hill, the mist was so thick I could hardly see Harry, although so close to my elbow; but I hard him discoursing a little with a Portuguese that walked beside him. ‘When did you lave Maria,’ says I.—‘Hush, man,’ says he, ‘she's here.’—‘O, by the Powers!’ says I again, ‘Harry, my boy, you did right, for she'd be desthroyed by these thundthering French beggars.’—‘For God's sake!’ says Harry, ‘then don't let on to mortyal man anything about it: she can be with us until I can get her down to her friends in Lisbon.’ I made no reply, but just put out my hand to Maria, who was close to Harry, an' I shook hands with her. ‘O, my honey!’ says I, ‘you'll be as good a little soldier as any in the division: take a dthrop out o' this canteen.’ Poor thing! she smiled and seemed happy, although we had no great prospects of an asy life of it, for a few days at laste. She wouldn't taste the rum, of coorse, but with the best humour in the world, pulled out a tin bottle and dthrank a little of its contents, which I saw was only milk.

“The mist began to rise above us by this time, and the sun threw out a pleasant bame or two, to warm us a bit; for the men were all chilly with the djew. In a very few minets, the walking and the canteens produced a little more talk along the line o' march, and we seemed as merry as a bag o' flays, cracking our jokes all along; although a squadthron o' blue bottles was plain enough to be seen, on their garrons, through the bushes on the top o' the hill behind us; but divel a toe they daared come down. Well! we arrived at Punhete, about one o'clock, and afther ating some beef, just killed and briled on a wooden skewer; and washing it down with a canteen o' wine; the division crossed the river _Se hairy_,[4] an' encamped on the other side in green tents: that is, good wholesome branches o' cork, chesnut, olive, and orange threes waving purtily over our heads. Dy you remember the night, Pattherson? Dy _you_, Redmond?”

“Yes, faith! we do,” says Patterson; “and that was the first time I saw Maria, though I then thought she was a boy.”

“Well, I'll never forget that night as long as I live. There we were, Harry, and Maria, and myself, undther a three, with a ratling fire blazing away before us. We gave our blankets to the girl when the men were asleep, and I got plenty of India corn straw, which is like our flaggers, an' made up a good bed for her, an' stuck plenty o' branches into the bank over her, to keep off the djew. There she slept, poor sowl! while Harry and I sat at the fire, until we fell asleep, discoursing o' one thing or other. We had some grapes an' bread, an' a thrifle o' wine which I got in the town on the way (becaise I had a look out for a dthry day), upon which the whole of us faisted well.

“When the girl fell asleep, Harry towld me all about her coming away with him. Says he, ‘Tom, you're my only friend in the regiment that I would confide in, and if I fall I request you will do what's right for that poor dear girl, just the same as a sisther.’ ‘Don't talk about falling,’ says I, ‘till you're dead in earnest. God forbid ya should ever lave us without _falling in_ with a few score o' the French scoundthrels and giving them their godsend.’

“‘Well,’ says he, ‘Tom there's no knowing any of our fates, so God bless you, do as I bid you.’ (I shook his hand, and it was in thrue friendship too. I didn't spake; but he knew what I meant.) ‘She has got most respectable friends in Lisbon, and here's the adthress—“_Rua de Flores, Lisbōa_.”’ I took the paper, and put it up in the inside breast-pocket o' my jacket, where I kept my _will_ in case I was _settled_; for I had a thrifle which I wished my mother and sisther to get in case of accident; an' by my sowl, there was plenty o' rason to expect it, for the report was that the French was coming up in very great force. ‘Tom,’ says he, ‘that sweet girl sleeping there, is as dear to me as my life; an' dearer too. I'll take care of her, plase God, until I bring her to her friends; now that her father is dead and she's an orphan, she shall be to me only as a sisther, until we get to Lisbon, an' then she shall be my wife. Therefore, stand by me, Tom, in protecting her on the march. In the dthress she now wears, she will pass as a muleteer of our division, and not rise wondther in the men. We must say that his mule was killed, an' that he is a good fellow we have taken a liking to—if any body asks about her. I took her away for the best; becaise she was in danger of every thing bad, and also a burthen to the people she was with, at such a time as this. I swore on the Holy Evangelists, before the ould couple, that I would protect her to Lisbon inviolate, and I hope I'll keep my oath, Tom. If I brake it, may that burning log there watch my corpse!’ ‘Then,’ says I, ‘Tom, I'll do my part, an' if I don't mane to do it, may the same light watch mine!’

“In this way we talked over the night, until the day broke. We could just see all spread undther the threes, the men snoring fast asleep, an' the senthries posted in front. Before the light got much clearer, I spied, over on the hill fornent us about half-a-quarter of a mile, our pickets moving in a bit of a hurry; and faith! about half a dozen shots from them showed us plainly what sort of a storm was beginning. The alarm was amongst us in a minet, an' every one of us sazed the cowld iron, in the twinklin' of a bed-post. ‘Harry,’ says I, ‘waken poor Maria.’—‘Yes,’ says he, ‘God help her, I will.’ With that he did, and without frightening her much, towld her to keep him in sight, but not to be very close to him when he was in any danger. O she was a heroine every inch of her! She didn't spake much, but bowldly buttoned her coat, put her hand on her heart, and looked at him as if she said, ‘Wherever you are, there will I be.’

“Very few minutes more passed, till the Granadiers and we (being the light company) were ordthered out to cover the retrate; a squadthron o' the French 16th dragoons, in green coats and brass helmets, came trhotting up the road through the ravine, that was on our right an' opening with the main road. We were within about two hundthred yards o' them before they _got_ into the main road, for we advanced close to it, undther the cover of a ridge o' bushes; an' in about a minet we let slap amongst them. O! faith, it bothered them, for they didn't want for the word ‘_threes about_,’ but galloped off, laving about a dozen o' them behind. Howsomever, they didn't go far when they returned at a throt, seeing that a column of infantry was moving down the main road from the top o' the hill, to dislodge us. At this moment our own light dthragoons (the 13th, I think,) with horses that looked like giants to the French garrons, came smashing down behind us on the main road, just as the French horse were coming up. Oh! by Jabus! such a licking no poor devils ever got; the sabres went to work in style, an' our captain gave us the word to face about, an' give it right in to the column coming down the road; which we did with a “_cead mille falthea_,” an' then retired as steady as a rock, before our cavalry. It was just at this time I saw Maria close to us, an' as pale as death, though all on the alert, an' as brave as a lion. We were now in full march afther the breeze we had kicked up; when, from an opening on our right, through a wood of olives, an immense body of horse approached at full gallop: we had just time to give them a volley an' run, when they were in amongst us. Harry an' I, an' about eighteen more, were cut off from the rest and surrounded, when all further fighting _with us_ was out o' the question; so we were marched off prisoners. The divil a much they got by this manœuvre, for we could see that they came back quick enough, with our dthragoons afther 'em, and if it wasn't that the French infantry by this time cum up, we should have been retaken. I saw one fellow, a sarjeant o' the French horse, going back to the rear, with his thigh laid open and his face cut down the sides: Faith an' many a French horse galloped by us without a ridther at all.”

“I lost all feelings about myself when I looked at Harry, for his countenance was like a wild man's. I knew the cause: it was that Maria was missing. He attempted to run back, an' was near being bagneted by the French guard in charge of us, for doing so.

“There was no time for thinking; or for any thing else. Away we were marched to the rear as fast as we could go, meeting at every step fresh regiments of the French cavalry an' artillery, all in high spirits,—humbugging us with ‘_God dam Crabs_,’[5] an' the like. Then we were taken across the river at Punhete, an' packed off to Abrantes. In going through, the rascals paraded us about the town to show they had taken _some_ prisoners, an' telling the Portuguese that they killed _thousunds_ of us that morning! On the way to Abrantes poor Harry hardly spoke a word, an' I didn't say much, for our hearts were sick and sore. The whole o' the road along was in a bustle with the advancing army, singing French songs and shouting at us as we passed. ‘Ah!’ says I to myself, ‘if I had half a dozen o' ye to my own share, I'd larn you to shout at th' other side o' yir mouths.’ But we'd _one_ comfort; an' that was, that we knew these fellows' tone would be changed before they went many miles farther.

“We arrived at Abrantes—right back to where we started from the day before,—an' was again made a show of about the town by the braggadocios o' Frenchmen. One o' their generals came up to me—a finikin little hop-o'-my-thumb fellow, who could talk a little broken English; an' says he, ‘You Englisman, eh?’—‘Yes,’ says I, ‘in throth I am.’—‘From what part?’—‘From a place called Ballinamore, in the county of Leitrim.’ ‘Is dat in Hirlaund?’—‘Yes, faith,’ says I, ‘it is.’—‘Ah bon,’ says the general, ‘you be von Catholic—von slave d'Angleterre.’—‘No, Monseer, I'm no _slave_ to Angleterre, though I _am_ a Catholic. There's a little differ in our religion, to be sure, but we are all _one_ afther all.’—‘Vell, Sare, you be Catholic, an Frenchmen be Catholic. You give me all de information of de English army, and vee make you sargeant in de French Guard, and give you de l'argent; you can den fight against de heretick English.’—‘Thank you,’ says I, ‘Monseer General, but I'd much rather be excused, if you plase. I know no differ between Ireland and England when once out o' the counthries; we may squabble a bit at home, just to keep us alive, but you mistake us if you think we would do such a thing as fight against our King and counthry. Come, boys, says I, (turning about to my comrades,) if any o' yiz want promotion an' plenty o' money, now is your time. All you'll be asked to do, is to fight against your ould king, your ould counthry, an' your ould rigiment. Any o' yiz that likes this, let him spake now.’ The General was a little astonished, an' so was the officers with him. There was a bit of a grin on all my comrades' faces, but divil a word one o' them answered.—‘O! I see how it is,’ says I, ‘none o' yiz accepts the General's offer; so now take off your caps an' give three hearty cheers for ould England, Ireland, an' Scotland, against the world.’ Hoo! by the holy St. Dinis! you never hard such a shout—it was like blowing up a mine. The General hadn't a word in his gob; he saw there was no use o' pumping us any more, and so he turned round smiling to one of his officers, an' says he in French (which I understood well, though he didn't think it) ‘_En verité ce sont de braves gens! si toute l'armée Britannique est comme cet echantillon-ci, tant pis pour nous autres_:’ and galloped off. The maning o' that was this, you see—that _we were the broth o' boys, an' if the remaindhar o' the English army was like us, the divil a much chance the French would have_.”

“It was nae bad compliment, Corporal,” said Sergeant M'Fadgen; a sentiment in which the rest of the guard unanimously joined.

“By my soul it wasn't, Sergeant, and we all felt what it was to have the honour of our regiment in our hands, and to stick to it like good soldiers, as we ought through thick an' thin.”

“Well, we were there standing in the market-place, surrounded by straggling French an' Frenchified Portuguese; that is, fellows who followed their invaders, like our dogs, to be kicked about as they liked; but there wasn't many o' them, an' maybe the poor divils couldn't help it, unless they preferred a male o' could iron. The shops were all shut up, except where they were broke open by the French, and in every balcony you could see, instead of young women, a set of French soldiers smoking and drinking. Says I to Harry Gainer, ‘If poor Maria was here now, she'd have a bad chance among these rapscallions.’ Harry shook his head and said, with a heavy sigh, ‘Ah, Tom, is she any betther off now? God help her, where can she be?’ At this very minet, a muleteer boy appeared amongst them, crying out ‘_Viva os Francesos_,’ along with some others, and he had a tri-color cockade in his hat. It was nobody else but Maria herself! She put up her finger to her lip, when she saw that we were looking at her; an' this is the Portuguese sign for silence. We undtherstood her in a jiffy, an', by the Powers! poor Harry's face grew like a May-day morning. I could see that he didn't know whether he was on his head or his heels. ‘Silence, my boy,’ says I, ‘don't you see how it is? don't take the laste notice of her for your life.’ We were immadiately marched off to a church, close by, where we were to lie for the night. Some brown bread was given to us, an' some of Adam's ale to faste ourselves; an' there we were—twenty of us. Now just as we were going in, Maria, in a bustling sort o' way, got close to Harry and me, and says she, in a whisper, ‘_Non dorme vos merce esta note, Anrique, pour amor de Dios_.’ She then went away in a careless manner, pretending to join in the jokes passed off upon us by those around.”

“The English o' that,” said Serjeant M'Fadgen, anxious to show his knowledge of the Portuguese, “is _For the loo o' God, Harry, dinna sleep a wink the naight_.”

“Throth you're just right! It is, Sergeant; you ought to know it well, for you were a long time in the Peninsula.”

The Sergeant shut his eyes, and smoked again.

“Well! we got into the church, which was more like a stable; for there was a squadthron of dthragoons' horses in it the night before; the sthraw that remained was all we had to sleep on, an' wet enough it was, God knows! The althar piece,—a fine painting, cut and hacked, an' the wood of the althar itself tore up for firing. ‘There's something a brewing, Harry,’ says I.—‘Whisht!’ says he, ‘Tom; she manes to get us out if she can; an' sorry enough I am, for she may get shot, or be hung by these Frenchmen, if they discover that she is our friend.’ So we talked about it awhile, and agreed to watch all night, as she desired. It was then coming dark, an' we all sat down on the sthraw, an' afther a few mouthfuls of what we had, an' some conversation, all fell asleep, except Harry and I. We talked together to pass the time, till about nine o'clock, when we both from fatague felt very sleepy, so we agreed to lie down, one at a time, while the other walked about. I had the first sleep; an' I suppose it might be two hours, when Harry wakened me, an' lay down himself; but although he did, his sleep was only a doze, for he used to start an' ask me something or other every ten minutes. At last, about one o'clock—I think it couldn't be more—the high window on one side began to rise up, and I could just disarn a figure of a head an' shouldhers, like Maria's, between me an' the faint grey light o' the sky; so I wakens Harry, an' we both went over undther the window. ‘It's she, sure enough!’ says I; an' a whisper from her soon showed it was. The snores of our comrades were just loud enough to dhrown her voice, an' ours too, from any danger; an' from the great fatague they suffered, there wasn't a sowl awake, but ourselves and the senthry outside the door. ‘Take this rope,’ says she, in Portuguese, ‘an' pull up the ladther, while I guide it down to you:—make no noise.’ We then laid howld o' the rope, which by a little groping we found hanging down from the window, an' we pulled steady, while she took the top o' the ladther, an' guided it down as nice as you plase. She then sat down across on the window, while we cautiously mounted the ladther, an' got up to her. I was first; so I looked all round to see if I could make out any o' the senthries; but the heavy sky and a high wind favoured us. So Harry an' I stands on the edge, an' we slowly draws up the ladther an' put it down. ‘Here goes!’ says I; an' I took a parting look at my poor comrades. ‘God send you safe, lads!’ thought I, as I went down. Maria was the next, and then Harry. When we all three got out clear, I was putting my hand to the ladther to take it away, when the senthry cried out ‘_Qui va là?_’ from the front o' the church. Thinks I, ‘It's all up with us!’ Maria seemed to sink into nothing: she laned against us both, thrembling like an aspin-lafe, while we stirred not a limb, and held fast our breath. ‘_Qui va là?_’ was again roared out by the senthry, in a louder voice. O God! how I suffered then, an' poor Harry too: the dhrops run off our faces with the anxiety, for it was now whether we should answer to the senthry's challenge, an' be taken, or remain silent an' be shot! He challenged a third time, when, at the highest pitch of our feelings, a Frenchman answered to the challenge as he passed the senthry. I suppose it was some officer prowling about the town to watch the guards. Oh! what a relief it was to us! Ye may _guess_ how glad we were to find that our chance was as good as ever.

“Afther a bit, Maria tould us to follow exactly wherever she went, and to carry the ladther with us. So we proceeded—she first—picking our steps in the dark, till we got out over a little wall into a narrow lane, where we left the ladther down in a ditch. The wind blew as loud as ever I hard it, which favoured us greatly; an' the sort o' grey twilight that was above us, was just sufficient to show us our way. Maria now got into a little garden o' grapes, through a broken wall, and desired us to follow her; which we did, all along undther the vines, which grew over the walk as thick as hops. We creeped on, 'till we came to a sort of an outhouse; where we halted to dthraw our breath, an' thank God for our escape so far. Says Maria to Harry, ‘Men Anrique! men curaçao!’—but there's no use of telling it in Portuguese, so I'll give it in plain English—‘Henry, my heart,’ says she, ‘we are now at the back of Señor Luiz de Alfandega's house,’ (that was her friend's, where she lived) ‘and we must stay there until morning.’ ‘Are the French in it, or not?’ says Harry. ‘No,’ replied Maria, ‘none of the soldiers, except a sick French curnel and his servant; but both are fast asleep above stairs. Poor Luiz an' his wife are fled, and there is nobody remaining in the house but Emanuel’ (that was an ould crature of a man, sixty years in the family—a sort o' care-taker o' the vineyard). ‘I will go to the window an' see if all is safe. It was he who provided me with the ladther, an' now waits to hear of my success. Stay here until I return.’ She went up to the house, and in a few minutes came back an' guided us safely into the kitchen, where ould Emanuel was waiting.

“When we got into the kitchen, there was the poor ould man sitting. We couldn't see him till we sthruck a light—which was a good while first, owing to his groping about for a flint, an' being fearful o' wakening the curnel or his sarvant, that was above stairs. Well, we got the light, an' a sad sight it showed us; _there_ was desthruction itself—every thing broken and batthered—the windows knocked out—the partitions burned—an' the ould man, with his white head, standing, like Despair, over the ruins. This was all done by the rascals o' French; an' I suppose if they wern't turned out, to make room for the sick curnel, they'd have burned the boords o' the floors afore they'd ha' left the house.