Part 12

E’er pass’d the red flashes, he seized on his prize-- Oh, think how the lover was blest! He chafed her--he kiss’d her--she open’d her eyes;-- “I’ve saved thee, my Ellen!” poor Allemar cries, As he presses her close to his breast.

How deceitful and vain were his hopes and his boast-- He saw not the ill that was nigh; The last ray of twilight in darkness was lost, And, alas! he was more than a mile from the coast-- Not a star could be seen in the sky!

“I’ve saved thee, my Ellen!” he wildly repeated-- Life rose in her heart at the sound-- “We are safe,” she replied--but how suddenly fleeted The false light of hope which their love had created!-- The horror of truth was around.

Still loud raged the storm, and still wild roll’d the wave-- Will Heav’n not the fond lovers save? They kiss--and they cling--and the shriek:--Oh, dismay!-- Break--break not upon them, dark billow!--away!-- It is past--they are sunk in the wave!

THE COUP DE GRACE.

“_Pat._ Holloa! Sergeant, I have caught a Tartar. _Sergt._ Then bring him along with you. _Pat._ He won’t come. _Sergt._ Then come without him. _Pat._ He won’t let me. _Sergt._ Ho! ho! is that the way _you_ catch a Tartar?”

HIBERNIAN JOKE.

To those officers who happened to have been on sick leave at Belem, near Lisbon, in 1810 and 11, General P****** must “of a verity” be well known: few, indeed, could have sojourned many days in that invalid retirement, without having observed the stooped shoulder, topped by the shallow cocked-hat, and covered with the eternal blue frock-coat, stealing along close to the wall upon a tall English horse. Who of those have not been haunted by the said phantom, at some time or other, if perchance in order to relax the dreary and monotonous hours of a sick chamber, they dared to meet on the road to enjoy a little cheerful conversation? Terrible, indeed, was this evening apparition--this warning spirit, who like the death fetch came to _fetch_ the sick away! No tom cat ever paid more determined attention to mouse-catching pastime, than did the General to his favourite pleasure of pouncing upon the invalid officer, who but dared to show himself out of his melancholy quarters. He conceived that no man could possibly be sick, who was able to move his legs; and if a half dead officer could but smoke a cigar, or twist the corners of his mouth into a smile, the whole medical staff could not have persuaded the General out of his opinion, that such a person was not only in excellent health, but fit to brave the rudest weather, and the severest duties of the field.

It cannot be denied that, even among the _officers_ of the peninsular army, there have been “_skulkers_”--men who, in order to avoid the necessary fatigues of a campaign, have “shammed” sickness, or having been really ill, contrived to obtain sick leave for a long time after they had recovered; but such instances, highly to the credit of “the cloth,” were very rare indeed.

Belem was the place appointed for sick officers, and General P******, no doubt in his zeal for the service, conceived that most of the residents there were (in his own phraseology) “_humbugging_;” he therefore, in addition to his proper duties, took upon himself those of the staff surgeons, and left no experiment untried for the cure of the malady which he believed epidemically to rage at Belem, namely, the _Idle Disease_ or _Lazy Fever_. The treatment which he principally adopted was of the _stimulating_ description; but, alas! his method of cure obtained no favour for him in the eyes of his patients.

It was common among those sick officers at Belem, whenever any of them in their walks happened to be so unlucky as to have met the General, to go home and make instant preparations for joining, whether capable of doing duty or not; for their names were sure to be in the garrison orders of the following day, for marching.

This system of _espionnage_ was very naturally looked upon as cruel and insulting in the extreme; it rouzed the indignant feelings of all the officers against the General; but for obvious reasons they could not resent his proceedings in any other way than by demonstrations of contempt. One, however, a convalescent Lieutenant, who had

“Done the state some service,”

happened to have fallen within the General’s _evening_ eye: he was, in fact, as the phrase is, _dogged_ a mile out of the town, and next day popped into orders for “_joining forthwith_,” although still very weak, and a man

“---- Who never turned his back On duty or the foe.”

The Lieutenant prepared to obey, and the day previous to his departure, in riding through Lisbon, whither he had gone to purchase some articles necessary for his march, accompanied by a brother officer, he met General P. in one of the main streets, attended by his orderly dragoon--one of the Portuguese police. The Lieutenant, on perceiving him, allowed his friend to ride on, while he pulled up a little, so as to come very slowly in front of the General. As soon as he breasted him, he stopped--affected an animated smile of recognition--took off his hat in a most respectful manner--held out his hand to the General, which was duly received; and, still smiling, griped his fingers as fast as if they were fixed in a vice, while he thus emphatically addressed him:--“Sir, an officer who has served in seven actions, and who has been thrice wounded, has the pleasure of telling you that you are a most _contemptible spy_, and a _disgrace to the commission you hold_. You are fit for no command unless it be in the police. Good morning, _mouchard_.” The General instantly called to the orderly dragoon;--“Listen to this officer,” said he; “Mark him, Sir--mark his words, Sir.” Then calling after the officer--who trotted off bowing politely--“Come back here, Sir--Mr.---- I say--do you hear, Sir?” he almost gasped with passion; but the Lieutenant was gone, and the General left with his orderly, who looked as apathetically as the statue in St. James’s square.

The Lieutenant went home, but was not permitted to march so soon as he expected: for he was placed in arrest, and his conduct submitted to the investigation of a court of inquiry, upon charges of mutinous conduct highly unbecoming the character of an officer and a gentleman, &c. &c., preferred against him by General P******.

The Court was composed of the highest officers in Lisbon, and on the awful day of inquiry, the General minutely detailed before it, the circumstance of which he had to complain. The Lieutenant, with an air of the utmost confidence totally denied the charges, and insinuated that the General must have laboured under some aberration of mind, or else had mistaken him for another person. The only witness of the transaction (the Portuguese dragoon) was called, who answered by an interpreter. His evidence was conclusive against the General: for, on being asked by the Court to describe what he had seen, he said that the Lieutenant met the General in the street--_took off his hat most politely--that the parties shook hands cordially_--that in a few moments they parted, the Lieutenant _bowing, with his hat off, most respectfully_:--and that then the General talked a good deal to himself.

“But, Sir,” demanded the complainant petulantly, through the interpreter, “what did the Lieutenant _say_?” To which the evidence answered with a Portuguese shrug--“that he _did not understand a word of English_, but that he supposed the Lieutenant to have been _enquiring after the state of the General’s health_!”

Further evidence in favour of the officer than the prosecutor’s own witness was needless--the Lieutenant was released from his arrest, and the General obliged to “pocket the affront.”

A VOLUNTEER OF FORTY.

---- “Seeking the bubble reputation, Even in the cannon’s mouth.”

SHAKSPEARE.

Cæsar was forty years of age before he fought his first battle; or, indeed, before he could be fairly said to have been a soldier: yet he became one of the most able and successful generals the Roman empire ever produced. This age in a general is by no means out of keeping with the wisdom and energy required to constitute a good commander: it may be rather considered as not sufficiently advanced, by at least from five to ten years. But an _ensign_ of forty is a thing quite out of character--a monstrous absurdity, as the army is now constituted; and if Cæsar himself had had to enter the Roman army in that grade, judging by our British scale of promotion, he never would have arrived at a brevet-majority. An Ensign is the boy of the colours--the page to regimental victory, whose chin should never bear a beard while he holds the post--a youthful soldier,--a Mars of fifteen, with the staff of his country’s flag fixed firmly in the earth, supporting and supported by him, while the rough mustachioed band like rocks surround and shield him from the tempest of the fight. But a _Volunteer_ of forty!--Is not that an odd production? I do not mean a “_City Volunteer_,” nor a “_County Volunteer_;” but an individual who joins a regiment of the line on service in the field, by permission of its Colonel--clothes himself--and, although avowedly for the purpose of becoming soon an Ensign--and although received as a gentleman by the officers of the corps he joins, is drilled in the ranks, and fights as a private soldier. Such a man, I say, “begins at the beginning” of his profession, and has a tolerably long road to travel ere he obtain his first commission--that of Ensign. A Volunteer of forty, then, is a ridiculous anomaly, a _rara avis in exercitu_, and (thank Minerva!) was even more scarce during the Peninsular war, than is a French Eagle in “this piping time of peace.” However, we _had_ one of those odd birds, _nigroque simillima cygno_, who flew out from his native hills in Cambria to the more classic mountains of the Pyrenees, at the very _latter end_ of the very _last_ campaign which the Anglo-Lusitanian army accomplished. Considering, then, this hero’s age, and the time at which he joined the standard of war, every one must allow that he did not “begin at the beginning;” and it must appear equally evident that he never could have become a Cæsar, even though he had lived to the age of old Parr.

This military aspirant arrived at Passages a little after the siege of San Sebastian, and I happened to be on the verge of the quay, as the vessel which contained him brought up:--it was a wretched-looking schooner, and not at all engaged in the service; but contained, in addition to the _Volunteer_, a cargo of butter, cheese, and ready-made slops.

When her anchor was dropped, and the master of the vessel, with his passenger, jumped on shore beside me, I thought the latter was the former, and the former a mate. Without hesitation I asked them had they come from England, and what news. The hero immediately furnished me with an abridgement of the preceding month’s “_Times_” and “_Chronicle_,” in such a peculiar way, and with such familiarity, that I immediately concluded I had caught hold of as odd a fish as ever came from the ocean; and I should have had no objection to examine him further, but the time which I had to spare was expired; and as he had concluded his _report_, I wished him good morning, stepped into the ferry-boat, and passed to the other side of the gut which divides the town.

When I had made the purchases of various articles of provision for which I had come to Passages, I went back to _Renteria_, the town in which I was quartered, and which is situated about a league from the former.

I had dined at home--(_home!_ where is the soldier’s home?) I had dined at my quarters at Renteria, and had strolled along the beach, listening to the boat-women singing as they crossed the lake of Leso, when I saw the “new arrival” approaching the shore in a ferry-boat.

“Captain, Captain!” roared he out, “how are you _again_, Sir? I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Thus was I saddled with his company, rather against my will; but as I had nothing either to amuse or employ me at that moment, I submitted quietly, and we walked together towards the market-place. It was during this walk I learned that my companion was not the master of the butter-schooner, but a “Gentleman Volunteer,” absolutely on his way to the head-quarters of the army. So sincerely did he assure me of this, ridiculous as it appeared, that I hesitated not to offer the hospitality of my quarters, which he very readily accepted, and we lost not a moment in proceeding to crack a bottle; or, rather, broach a pig-skin, for in such vessels was the wine of Renteria usually contained.

We sat together for a few hours, and I found that, in his new profession, my guest was an enthusiast of the most capacious calibre; yet upon other subjects rational, and sometimes acute. To carry the matter by comparison, I will say that his intellect could have hit a thought, as a screw-barrelled pocket pistol might the ace of hearts, at ten paces, when aimed and discharged by a tolerably good shot--he would never fly a mile from it, but seldom if ever pop right through the centre. A short extract from the conversation of the evening will outline my man, far better than comment. This I will attempt from memory. In the dialogue, I will call him I. and myself II.--not that there were two to one against the Volunteer in any sense; but for the sake of brevity.

I. Yes, Captain, I have determined to join my gallant countrymen in their glorious cause, and lend a hand to pull down the tyrant Buonaparte.

II. That is laudable, Sir; but I fear it will not be very profitable to you.

I. Profitable! I don’t much care for profit, so as I obtain well-earned promotion.

II. The war is now drawing to a close, and it will be difficult to succeed in your hopes.

I. The war, Sir, will never end. Excuse me, Sir--when I say never, I say only with the everlasting Scriptures, “We shall have wars and wars and rumours of wars.” Besides, Sir, the Russians, and Prussians, and Austrians, and even British, I fear, cannot effectually overcome that scourge of civil liberty, Napoleon.

II. Pardon me, Sir, I think his day is drawing to a close.

I. Impossible! the hordes of the North must vanish before him, even like the chaff before the wind. England is the only hope.

II. Be that as it may: your Ensigncy will not be very long coming, if you get it at the fall of Buonaparte.

I. I would give up all my hopes to see him fall; for in taking the crown, he betrayed the cause that raised him to glory.

II. Then I suppose you say, he sold liberty for a _crown_?

I. Precisely. Look at Cromwell, Sir; the man, like David, after God’s own heart--_he_ reigned without a crown. Look at the Roman republic, Sir--_that_ was sold for a crown. Look to America--no crowns there.

II. If you have such objections to crowns, why wish to fight for them?

I. Indeed, Sir, I am now only--a--talking as it were--a--on public matters. I am as loyal as any man.

II. ’Pon my honour, if opinions upon such subjects were often canvassed in the army, even by men of half your age, they would stand but a poor chance of promotion.

I. Half my age:--how old do you think I am?

II. About fifty-two.

I. What!--Oh, you joke.

II. Well, how old _are_ you?

I. I’m not yet forty.

II. Forty! that’s pretty well, I think, for a Volunteer.

I. It is, in my mind, the proper age for every thing which requires the full energy of the mind; and what calls for _that_ more than the art of war? I always had a taste for the noble profession--I have _taught_ military tactics.

II. Taught!

I. Yes, Sir, taught--and some of my pupils are now Captains in the local militia.

II. Indeed!

I. Yes, Sir; I led the business of one of the first schools in England.

II. God bless me!

I. Forty! Have you read Cæsar, Sir?--_Omnis Gallia divisa est in partes tres, &c._--_He_ was beyond that age, when his talents came into the field. Look at Washington, Sir, that “_patriæ Columen_”--_he_ was also beyond that age when he took up arms. Cromwell, too--see what a soldier he became. Pichegru, also, was at my age before he was made an officer. And let me tell you, Sir, that boys are _not_ fit to command--give me the man, whose sense and judgment are matured. I don’t mind two years as Ensign;--I get my Lieutenancy before I am forty-two: there are now many Lieutenants older than that, Sir.--Well--I know the use of tactics, and as to fighting--give me an opportunity. I wish I had been out time enough for the storming of San Sebastian! Let me have but an opportunity--I’ll die in the breach, or I’ll be promoted. I have entered the temple of Mars, Sir,--I have shaken the _Ancilia_--I have waved his sacred spear, and I have cried “_Mars, Vigilia!_” But, Sir, this is my motto:--

“ὁτι εν τῳ πολεμῳ αλλ’ εργων χρεία.”

Do you understand that?

II. I see you are very enthusiastic.

I. And is there any thing to be done without it?

II. You are right. Come fill your glass again, Sir.

I. Oh, by George! I have filled too often: I have taken two glasses for your one; but pleasant company, and good wine, are persuasive arguments. Your very good health, Sir; and although you are not three-and-twenty, and I am forty, we shall see who will run up the hill fastest. Excuse me--“_Palmam qui meruit ferat._” Your health, Sir.

II. I hope you will not be like Tantalus, in the waters of promotion.

I. What!--

_Tantalus à labris sitiens fugientia captat_ _Flumina_.

Give me your hand, Sir; you are a classical scholar,--Horace,--I can see that:--I respect you, Sir;--I re-_spect_ you, Sir.

II. What do you think of an ensign, who passed from the age of seventeen to forty-seven without promotion?

I. He must have had no education,--knew nothing,--nothing of tactics,--nothing of the art of war. I have made it my study; I am well acquainted with the best schools of warfare--the Grecian, the Roman, and the modern. Granicus, Marathon, and Pharsalia, are familiar to me. I have made myself acquainted with the characters of every great conqueror, from Charles the Twelfth, who was my favourite, down to Lord Wellington. The Duke of Marlborough’s campaigns I have deeply studied, and know every move in the battles of Fredlingen, Scardigen, Schwemmingen, Spinbach, Shellenberg, Blenheim, and Ramillies. In short, Sir, if I do not succeed, it will be my own fault.

II. With those qualifications for the military profession, it is to be lamented that you did not embrace it earlier in life.

I. If I had taken up the profession earlier, I should not have been so well qualified. A series of years devoted to the instruction of young gentlemen, in--not only military science--but of general learning, afforded me the very qualification by which I hope to rise in the army.

II. Come, fill again; you are not doing any thing at all.

I. Doing! Ecod, I am doing away with my brains, and I’m half done over; but a pleasant companion and good wine, I say again, are not to be resisted--

_Solis æterna est Phœbo Bacchoque juventa._

Isn’t that right, eh?

II. _Tunc dolor et curæ_ RUGA_que frontis abit._

I. Excellent! good! fine! give me your hand.--Ovid, Sir--good! I respect you, Sir; I reverence you, Sir. You’ll be a general; you’ll be a great commander, depend upon it. I’ll fill a bumper; there, there, there! and now--here is wishing you every success--may you be a field-marshal!

II. Thank you; thank you:--when I _am_, I’ll recommend you for promotion, and do for all your sons.

I. Sons! I have no sons. I may say with the great North American Chief,--“There runs not one drop of my blood in any living creature.”

II. But this may not be so hereafter.

I. That’s all over, Sir. I once approached the steps of Hymen’s altar; but the torch of the god was quenched: it never shall be lighted for me again.

II. Ah! I suppose you were jilted?

I. Jilted! Sir, I was shamefully treated. I, for three years, courted a young lady; she was every thing to me; she personified the woman I all my life pictured in my imagination. She was two-and-twenty--tall--fine countenance--bold outline of features;--danced--played;--a perfect scholar, Sir.

II. Take care you don’t make such a beautiful form now, that, like Pygmalion, you will break your rash vow, and pray for the animated reality.

I. Oh, Sir; you delight me. Your classic conversation--I am glad,--glad,--very glad of your acquaintance.

II. Well, about the lady.

I. Ah, Sir! (_a deep sigh._) I courted her for nearly three years; she approved--I approved--father and mother approved; and I had absolutely engaged to take a house, Sir--fine, spacious premises, fit for an extensive sch--seminary,--ladies’ seminary; for she was the daughter of the gentleman whose business I had conducted. Well, Sir, we were to be married; and what do you think?--Damn me! if she didn’t run away with a Sergeant of the Lancers, two days previous to our intended wedding!--Ah, Sir! (_deep sigh_) that broke down my habits of business. I gave up every thing connected with seminaries, or schools, or private tuition, and applied to General Dizzyman, for whom my father always votes: he gave me a letter to Colonel Pepperton, and I am now on my way to that gentleman. It produced a shock, Sir; but the life of a soldier will, I hope, make all things right again.

II. Hang all the sex!

I. Hang them all, I say, three times over--the jilts--the runaway wretches!

* * * * *

My guest now grew melancholy: he helped himself to more wine, and gradually fell into an unintelligible grumble. The poor fellow had no quarter; and as it was late, I could not think of turning him out, so applied to the _Patron_ of my _Caza_ for assistance. He was a good man, and offered a bed; so I directed my servant to lead my guest to his repose.

Next morning he was gone; but at about nine o’clock, as I was about to breakfast, he returned, came into my room and requested me to look out of the window at a purchase which he had made for twenty dollars. I looked out: it was a miserable donkey which he had that moment bought from a Portuguese. On its back was strapped an old saddle, with a still more veteran valise attached to it, while a pair of boots, balanced by a striped blue handkerchief full of sundry articles of provision, hung across the animal’s neck. With perfect good humour the adventurer philosophized on the poverty of his stud and baggage, giving me several appropriate quotations. We then sat down, and after eating a hearty breakfast of chocolate, eggs, and cold beef, he took his leave of me, mounted the ass, and proceeded slowly on the road to Irun, where the regiment to which he had his introduction was stationed.

I heard no more of the Volunteer until the day on which our troops crossed the Bidassoa--about three weeks after his departure from Renteria. It was in the evening, and about a mile from Irun, on the high road. He was walking in custody of the Provost Marshal--had on a red _coatee_, torn and bemudded--his head without its proper covering, and his whole aspect that of a madman. He recognized me in a moment, and my presence seemed to calm the rage which burnt within him,--to the no small delight of the Provost, who evidently had been very much troubled in the management of his charge. A part of the dialogue which passed between us I will try to recollect:--

_Myself._ What have you been doing?

_Volunteer._ Doing? I have been doing thankless work. I am disgusted with the service, Sir. A man of mind or genius has no business in it.

_Myself._ Bless me! what can all this mean?

_Provost._ The gentleman has been playing the very devil in front, Sir, and the General has ordered me to see that he goes to the rear.