“‘Oh, murder!’ said I. ‘Oh, Sparks, darling, sure you’re not going to tell?’
“‘Doctor Quill,’ replied he, in an austere tone, ‘it is impossible for me to conceal it.’
“‘Oh, Sparks, dear, will you betray me?’
“I gave him here a look of the most imploring entreaty, to which he replied by one of unflinching sternness.
“‘I have made up my mind, sir,’ continued he; ‘it is possible the officers of this corps may look more leniently than I do upon this transaction; but know it they shall.’
“‘Out with it, Sparks; tell it by all means!’ cried a number of voices; for it was clear to every one, by this time, that he was involved in a hoax.
“Amidst, therefore, a confused volley of entreaty on one side, and my reiterated prayers for his silence, on the other, Sparks thus began: —
“‘Are you aware, gentlemen, why Dr. Quill left the Fifty-sixth?’
“‘No, no, no!’ rang from all sides; ‘let’s have it!’
“‘No, sir,’ said he, turning towards me, ‘concealment is impossible; an officer detected with the mess-plate in his pocket – ’
“They never let him finish, for a roar of laughter shook the table from one end to the other; while Sparks, horror-struck at the lack of feeling and propriety that could make men treat such a matter with ridicule, glared around him on every side.
“‘Oh, Maurice, Maurice!’ cried the major, wiping his eyes, ‘this is too bad; this is too bad!’
“‘Gracious Heaven!’ screamed Sparks, ‘can you laugh at it?’
“‘Laugh at it!’ re-echoed the paymaster, ‘God grant I only don’t burst a blood-vessel!’ And once more the sounds of merriment rang out anew, and lasted for several minutes.
“‘Oh, Maurice Quill,’ cried an old captain, ‘you’ve been too heavy on the lad. Why, Sparks, man, he’s been humbugging you.’
“Scarcely were the words spoken when he sprang from the room. The whole truth flashed at once upon his mind; in an instant he saw that he had exposed himself to the merciless ridicule of a mess-table and that all peace for him, in that regiment at least, was over.
“We got a glorious fellow in exchange for him; and Sparks descended into a cavalry regiment, – I ask your pardon, Charley, – where, as you are well aware, sharp wit and quick intellect are by no means indispensable. There now, don’t be angry or you’ll do yourself harm. So good-by, for an hour or two.”
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE COUNT’S LETTER
O’Shaughnessy’s wound, like my own, was happily only formidable from the loss of blood. The sabre or the lance are rarely, indeed, so death-dealing as the musket or the bayonet; and the murderous fire from a square of infantry is far more terrific in its consequences than the heaviest charge of a cavalry column. In a few weeks, therefore, we were once more about and fit for duty; but for the present the campaign was ended. The rainy season with its attendant train of sickness and sorrow set in. The troops were cantoned along the line of the frontier, – the infantry occupying the villages, and the cavalry being stationed wherever forage could be obtained.
The Fourteenth were posted at Avintas, but I saw little of them. I was continually employed upon the staff; and as General Crawfurd’s activity suffered no diminution from the interruption of the campaign, rarely passed a day without eight or nine hours on horseback.
The preparations for the siege of Ciudad Rodrigo occupied our undivided attention. To the reduction of this fortress and of Badajos, Lord Wellington looked as the most important objects, and prosecuted his plans with unremitting zeal. To my staff appointment I owed the opportunity of witnessing that stupendous feature of war, a siege; and as many of my friends formed part of the blockading force, I spent more than one night in the trenches. Indeed, except for this, the tiresome monotony of life was most irksome at this period. Day after day the incessant rain poured down. The supplies were bad, scanty, and irregular; the hospitals crowded with sick; field-sports impracticable; books there were none; and a dulness and spiritless depression prevailed on every side. Those who were actively engaged around Ciudad Rodrigo had, of course, the excitement and interest which the enterprise involved: but even there the works made slow progress. The breaching artillery was defective in every way: the rain undermined the faces of the bastions; the clayey soil sank beneath the weight of the heavy guns; and the storms of one night frequently destroyed more than a whole week’s labor had effected.
Thus passed the dreary months along; the cheeriest and gayest among us broken in spirit, and subdued in heart by the tedium of our life. The very news which reached us partook of the gloomy features of our prospects. We heard only of strong reinforcements marching to the support of the French in Estramadura. We were told that the Emperor, whose successes in Germany enabled him to turn his entire attention to the Spanish campaign, would himself be present in the coming spring, with overwhelming odds and a firm determination to drive us from the Peninsula.
In that frame of mind which such gloomy and depressing prospects are well calculated to suggest, I was returning one night to my quarters at Mucia, when suddenly I beheld Mike galloping towards me with a large packet in his hand, which he held aloft to catch my attention. “Letters from England, sir,” said he, “just arrived with the general’s despatches.” I broke the envelope at once, which bore the war-office seal, and as I did so, a perfect avalanche of letters fell at my feet. The first which caught my eye was an official intimation from the Horse Guards that the Prince Regent had been graciously pleased to confirm my promotion to the troop, my commission to bear date from the appointment, etc., etc. I could not help feeling struck, as my eye ran rapidly across the lines, that although the letter came from Sir George Dashwood’s office, it contained not a word of congratulation nor remembrance on his part, but was couched in the usual cold and formal language of an official document. Impatient, however, to look over my other letters, I thought but little of this; so, throwing them hurriedly into my sabretasche, I cantered on to my quarters without delay. Once more alone in silence, I sat down to commune with my far-off friends, and yet with all my anxiety to hear of home, passed several minutes in turning over the letters, guessing from whom they might have come, and picturing to myself their probable contents. “Ah, Frank Webber, I recognize your slap-dash, bold hand without the aid of the initials in the corner; and this – what can this be? – this queer, misshapen thing, representing nothing save the forty-seventh proposition of Euclid, and the address seemingly put on with a cat’s-tail dipped in lampblack? Yes, true enough, it is from Mister Free himself. And what have we here? This queer, quaint hand is no new acquaintance; how many a time have I looked upon it as the ne plus ultra of caligraphy! But here is one I’m not so sure of. Who could have written this bolt-upright, old-fashioned superscription, not a letter of which seems on speaking terms with its neighbor? The very O absolutely turns its back upon the M in O’Malley, and the final Y wags his tail with a kind of independent shake, as if he did not care a curse for his predecessors! And the seal, too, – surely I know that griffin’s head, and that stern motto, Non rogo sed capio. To be sure, it is Billy Considine’s, the count himself. The very paper, yellow and time-stained, looks coeval with his youth; and I could even venture to wager that his sturdy pen was nibbed half a century since. I’ll not look farther among this confused mass of three-cornered billets, and long, treacherous-looking epistles, the very folding of which denote the dun. Here goes for the count!” So saying to myself, I drew closer to the fire, and began the following epistle: —
O’MALLEY CASTLE, November 3.
Dear Charley, – Here we sit in the little parlor with your last letter, the “Times,” and a big map before us, drinking your health, and wishing you a long career of the same glorious success you have hitherto enjoyed. Old as I am – eighty-two or eighty-three (I forget which) in June – I envy you with all my heart. Luck has stood to you, my boy; and if a French sabre or a bayonet finish you now, you’ve at least had a splendid burst of it. I was right in my opinion of you, and Godfrey himself owns it now, – a lawyer, indeed! Bad luck to them! we’ve had enough of lawyers. There’s old Hennesy, – honest Jack, as they used to call him, – that your uncle trusted for the last forty years, has raised eighteen thousand pounds on the title-deeds, and gone off to America. The old scoundrel! But it’s no use talking; the blow is a sore one to Godfrey, and the gout more troublesome than ever. Drumgold is making a motion in Chancery about it, to break the sale, and the tenants are in open rebellion and swear they’ll murther a receiver, if one is sent down among them. Indeed, they came in such force into Galway during the assizes, and did so much mischief, that the cases for trial were adjourned, and the judges left with a military escort to protect them.
This, of course, is gratifying to our feelings; for, thank Providence, there is some good in the world yet. Kilmurry was sold last week for twelve thousand. Andy Blake would foreclose the mortgage, although we offered him every kind of satisfaction. This has done Godfrey a deal of harm; and some pitiful economy – taking only two bottles of claret after his dinner – has driven the gout to his head. They’ve been telling him he’d lengthen his days by this, and I tried it myself, and, faith, it was the longest day I ever spent in my life. I hope and trust you take your liquor like a gentleman and an Irish gentleman.
Kinshela, we hear, has issued an execution against the house and furniture; but the attempt to sell the demesne nearly killed your uncle. It was advertised in a London paper, and an offer made for it by an old general whom you may remember when down here. Indeed, if I mistake not, he was rather kind to you in the beginning. It would appear he did not wish to have his name known, but we found him out, and such a letter as we sent him! It’s little liking he’ll have to buy a Galway gentleman’s estate over his head, that same Sir George Dashwood! Godfrey offered to meet him anywhere he pleased, and if the doctor thought he could bear the sea voyage, he’d even go over to Holyhead; but the sneaking fellow sent an apologetic kind of a letter, with some humbug excuse about very different motives, etc. But we’ve done with him, and I think he with us.
When I had read thus far, I laid down the letter, unable to go on; the accumulated misfortunes of one I loved best in the world, following so fast one upon another, the insult – unprovoked, gratuitous insult – to him upon whom my hopes of future happiness so much depended, completely overwhelmed me. I tried to continue. Alas, the catalogue of evils went on; each line bore testimony to some farther wreck of fortune, some clearer evidence of a ruined house.
All that my gloomiest and darkest forebodings had pictured was come to pass; sickness, poverty, harassing unfeeling creditors, treachery, and ingratitude were goading to madness and despair a spirit whose kindliness of nature was unequalled. The shock of blasted fortunes was falling upon the dying heart; the convictions which a long life had never brought home – that men were false and their words a lie – were stealing over the man upon the brink of the grave; and he who had loved his neighbor like a brother was to be taught, at the eleventh hour, that the beings he trusted were perjured and forsworn.
A more unsuitable adviser than Considine, in difficulties like these, there could not be; his very contempt for all the forms of law and justice was sufficient to embroil my poor uncle still farther; so that I resolved at once to apply for leave, and if refused, and no other alternative offered, to leave the service. It was not without a sense of sorrow bordering on despair, that I came to this determination. My soldier’s life had become a passion with me. I loved it for its bold and chivalrous enthusiasm, its hour of battle and strife, its days of endurance and hardship, its trials, its triumphs; its very reverses were endeared by those they were shared with; and the spirit of adventure and the love of danger – that most exciting of all gambling – had now entwined themselves in my very nature. To surrender all these at once, and to exchange the daily, hourly enthusiasm of a campaign for the prospects now before me, was almost maddening. But still a sustaining sense of duty of what I owed to him, who, in his love, had sacrificed all for me, overpowered every other consideration. My mind was made up.
Father Rush’s letter was little more than a recapitulation of the count’s. Debt, distress, sickness, and the heart-burnings of altered fortunes filled it; and when I closed it, I felt like one over all whose views in life a dark and ill-omened cloud was closing forever. Webber’s I could not read; the light and cheerful raillery of a friend would have seemed, at such a time, like the cold, unfeeling sarcasm of an enemy. I sat down at last to write to the general, enclosing my application for leave, and begging of him to forward it, with a favorable recommendation, to headquarters.
This done, I lay down upon my bed, and overcome by fatigue and fretting, fell asleep to dream of my home and those I had left there; which, strangely too, were presented to my mind with all the happy features that made them so dear to my infancy.
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE TRENCHES
“I have not had time, O’Malley, to think of your application,” said Crawfurd, “nor is it likely I can for a day or two. Read that.” So saying, he pushed towards me a note, written, in pencil, which ran thus: —
CIUDAD RODRIGO, December 18.
Dear C., – Fletcher tells me that the breaches will be practicable by to-morrow evening, and I think so myself. Come over, then, at once, for we shall not lose any time.
Yours, W.
“I have some despatches for your regiment, but if you prefer coming along with me – ”
“My dear General, dare I ask for such a favor?”
“Well, come along; only remember that, although my division will be engaged, I cannot promise you anything to do. So now, get your horses ready; let’s away.”
It was in the afternoon of the following day that we rode into the large plain before Ciudad Rodrigo, and in which the allied armies were now assembled to the number of twelve thousand men. The loud booming of the siege artillery had been heard by me for some hours before; but notwithstanding this prelude and my own high-wrought expectations, I was far from anticipating the magnificent spectacle which burst upon my astonished view. The air was calm and still; a clear, blue, wintry sky stretched overhead, but below, the dense blue smoke of the deafening guns rolled in mighty volumes along the earth, and entirely concealed the lower part of the fortress; above this the tall towers and battlemented parapets rose into the thin, transparent sky like fairy palaces. A bright flash of flame would now and then burst forth from the walls, and a clanging crash of the brass metal be heard; but the unceasing roll of our artillery nearly drowned all other sounds, save when a loud cheer would burst from the trenches, while the clattering fall of masonry, and the crumbling stones as they rolled down, bespoke the reason of the cry. The utmost activity prevailed on all sides; troops pressed forward to the reliefs in the parallels; ammunition wagons moved to the front; general and staff officers rode furiously about the plain; and all betokened that the hour of attack was no longer far distant.
While all parties were anxiously awaiting the decision of our chief, the general order was made known, which, after briefly detailing the necessary arrangements, concluded with the emphatic words, “Ciudad Rodrigo must be stormed to-night.” All speculation as to the troops to be engaged in this daring enterprise was soon at an end; for with his characteristic sense of duty, Lord Wellington made no invidious selection, but merely commanded that the attack should be made by whatever divisions might chance to be that day in the trenches. Upon the Third and Light Divisions, therefore, this glorious task devolved. The former was to attack the main breach; to Crawfurd’s Division was assigned the, if possible, more difficult enterprise of carrying the lesser one; while Pack’s Portuguese Brigade were to menace the convent of La Caridad by a feint attack, to be converted into a real one, if circumstances should permit.
The decision, however matured and comprehensive in all its details, was finally adopted so suddenly that every staff officer upon the ground was actively engaged during the entire evening in conveying the orders to the different regiments. As the day drew to a close, the cannonade slackened on either side, a solitary gun would be heard at intervals, and in the calm stillness around, its booming thunder re-echoed along the valleys of the Sierra; but as the moon rose and night set in, these were no longer heard, and a perfect stillness and tranquillity prevailed around. Even in the trenches, crowded with armed and anxious soldiers, not a whisper was heard; and amidst that mighty host which filled the plain, the tramp of a patrol could be distinctly noted, and the hoarse voice of the French sentry upon the walls, telling that all was well in Ciudad Rodrigo.
The massive fortress, looming larger as its dark shadow stood out from the sky, was still as the grave; while in the greater breach a faint light was seen to twinkle for a moment, and then suddenly to disappear, leaving all gloomy and dark as before.
Having been sent with orders to the Third Division, of which the Eighty-eighth formed a part, I took the opportunity of finding out O’Shaughnessy, who was himself to lead an escalade party in M’Kinnon’s Brigade. He sprang towards me as I came forward, and grasping my hand with a more than usual earnestness, called out, “The very man I wanted! Charley, my boy, do us a service now!”
Before I could reply, he continued in a lower tone, “A young fellow of ours, Harry Beauclerc, has been badly wounded in the trenches; but by some blunder, his injury is reported as a slight one, and although the poor fellow can scarcely stand, he insists upon going with the stormers.”
“Come here, Major, come here!” cried a voice at a little distance.
“Follow me, O’Malley,” cried O’Shaughnessy, moving in the direction of the speaker.
By the light of a lantern we could descry two officers kneeling upon the ground; between them on the grass lay the figure of a third, upon whose features, as the pale light fell, the hand of death seemed rapidly stealing. A slight froth, tinged with blood, rested on his lip, and the florid blood which stained the buff facing of his uniform indicated that his wound was through the lungs.
“He has fainted,” said one of the officers, in a low tone.
“Are you certain it is fainting?” said the other, in a still lower.
“You see how it is, Charley,” said O’Shaughnessy; “this poor boy must be carried to the rear. Will you then, like a kind fellow, hasten back to Colonel Campbell and mention the fact. It will kill Beauclerc should any doubt rest upon his conduct, if he ever recover this.”
While he spoke, four soldiers of the regiment placed the wounded officer in a blanket. A long sigh escaped him, and he muttered a few broken words.
“Poor fellow, it’s his mother he’s talking of! He only joined a month since, and is a mere boy. Come, O’Malley, lose no time. By Jove! it is too late; there goes the first rocket for the columns to form. In ten minutes more the stormers must fall in.”
“What’s the matter, Giles?” said he to one of the officers, who had stopped the soldiers as they were moving off with their burden, – “what is it?”
“I have been cutting the white tape off his arm; for if he sees it on waking, he’ll remember all about the storming.”
“Quite right – thoughtfully done!” said the other; “but who is to lead his fellows? He was in the forlorn hope.”
“I’ll do it,” cried I, with eagerness. “Come, O’Shaughnessy, you’ll not refuse me.”
“Refuse you, boy!” said he, grasping my hand within both of his, “never! But you must change your coat. The gallant Eighty-eighth will never mistake their countryman’s voice. But your uniform would be devilish likely to get you a bayonet through it; so come back with me, and we’ll make you a Ranger in no time.”
“I can give your friend a cap.”
“And I,” said the other, “a brandy flask, which, after all, is not the worst part of a storming equipage.”
“I hope,” said O’Shaughnessy, “they may find Maurice in the rear. Beauclerc’s all safe in his hands.”
“That they’ll not,” said Giles, “you may swear. Quill is this moment in the trenches, and will not be the last man at the breach.”
“Follow me now, lads,” said O’Shaughnessy, in a low voice. “Our fellows are at the angle of this trench. Who the deuce can that be, talking so loud?”
“It must be Maurice,” said Giles.
The question was soon decided by the doctor himself, who appeared giving directions to his hospital-sergeant.
“Yes, Peter, take the tools up to a convenient spot near the breach. There’s many a snug corner there in the ruins; and although we mayn’t have as good an operation-room as in old ‘Steevens’s,’ yet we’ll beat them hollow in cases.”
“Listen to the fellow,” said Giles, with a shudder. “The thought of his confounded thumbscrews and tourniquets is worse to me than a French howitzer.”
“The devil a kinder-hearted fellow than Maurice,” said O’Shaughnessy, “for all that; and if his heart was to be known this moment, he’d rather handle a sword than a saw.”
“True for you, Dennis,” said Quill, overhearing him, “but we are both useful in our way, as the hangman said to Lord Clare.”
“But should you not be in the rear, Maurice?” said I.
“You are right, O’Malley,” said he, in a whisper; “but, you see, I owe the Cork Insurance Company a spite for making me pay a gout premium, and that’s the reason I’m here. I warned them at the time that their stinginess would come to no good.”
“I say, Captain O’Malley,” said Giles, “I find I can’t be as good as my word with you; my servant has moved to the rear with all my traps.”
“What is to be done?” said I.
“Is it shaving utensils you want?” said Maurice. “Would a scalpel serve your turn?”
“No, Doctor, I’m going to take a turn of duty with your fellows to-night.”
“In the breach, with the stormers?”
“With the forlorn hope,” said O’Shaughnessy. “Beauclerc is so badly wounded that we’ve sent him back; and Charley, like a good fellow, has taken his place.”
“Martin told me,” said Maurice, “that Beauclerc was only stunned; but, upon my conscience, the hospital-mates, now-a-days, are no better than the watchmakers; they can’t tell what’s wrong with the instrument till they pick it to pieces. Whiz! there goes a blue light.”
“Move on, move on,” whispered O’Shaughnessy; “they’re telling off the stormers. That rocket is the order to fall in.”
“But what am I to do for a coat?”
“Take mine, my boy,” said Maurice, throwing off an upper garment of coarse gray frieze as he spoke.
“There’s a neat bit of uniform,” continued he, turning himself round for our admiration; “don’t I look mighty like the pictures of George the First at the battle of Dettingen!”
A burst of approving laughter was our only answer to this speech, while Maurice proceeded to denude himself of his most extraordinary garment.
“What, in the name of Heaven, is it?” said I.
“Don’t despise it, Charley; it knows the smell of gunpowder as well as any bit of scarlet in the service;” while he added, in a whisper, “it’s the ould Roscommon Yeomanry. My uncle commanded them in the year ‘42, and this was his coat. I don’t mean to say that it was new then; for you see it’s a kind of heirloom in the Quill family, and it’s not every one I’d be giving it to.”
“A thousand thanks, Maurice,” said I, as I buttoned it on, amidst an ill-suppressed titter of laughter.
“It fits you like a sentry-box,” said Maurice, as he surveyed me with a lantern. “The skirts separate behind in the most picturesque manner; and when you button the collar, it will keep your head up so high that the devil a bit you’ll see except the blessed moon. It’s a thousand pities you haven’t the three-cocked hat with the feather trimming. If you wouldn’t frighten the French, my name’s not Maurice. Turn about here till I admire you. If you only saw yourself in a glass, you’d never join the dragoons again. And look now, don’t be exposing yourself, for I wouldn’t have those blue facings destroyed for a week’s pay.”
“Ah, then, it’s yourself is the darling, Doctor, dear!” said a voice behind me. I turned round; it was Mickey Free, who was standing with a most profound admiration of Maurice beaming in every feature of his face. “It’s yourself has a joke for every hour o’ the day.”
“Get to the rear, Mike, get to the rear with the cattle; this is no place for you or them.”
“Good-night, Mickey,” said Maurice.
“Good-night, your honor,” muttered Mike to himself; “may I never die till you set a leg for me.”
“Are you dressed for the ball?” said Maurice, fastening the white tape upon my arm. “There now, my boy, move on, for I think I hear Picton’s voice; not that it signifies now, for he’s always in a heavenly temper when any one’s going to be killed. I’m sure he’d behave like an angel, if he only knew the ground was mined under his feet.”
“Charley, Charley!” called out O’Shaughnessy, in a suppressed voice, “come up quickly!”
“No. 24, John Forbes – here! Edward Gillespie – here!”
“Who leads this party, Major O’Shaughnessy?”
“Mr. Beauclerc, sir,” replied O’Shaughnessy, pushing me forward by the arm while he spoke.
“Keep your people together, sir; spare the powder, and trust to your cold iron.” He grasped my hand within his iron grip, and rode on.
“Who was it, Dennis?” said I.
“Don’t you know him, Charley? That was Picton.”