Maurice Tiernay, Soldier of Fortune

‘You are not to incur any risk, Tiernay; I want no struggle, still less a rescue. You understand me?’

‘Perfectly, general; the matter will, I trust, be easy enough.’

And so I left the room, my heart – shall I avow it? – bumping and throbbing in a fashion that gave a very poor corroboration to my words. There were always three or four horses ready saddled for duty at each general’s quarters, and, taking one of them, I ordered a corporal of dragoons to follow me, and set out. It was a fine night of autumn; the last faint sunlight was yet struggling with the coming darkness, as I rode at a brisk trot down the main street towards the scene of action.

I had not proceeded far when the crowds compelled me to slacken my pace to a walk, and finding that the people pressed in upon me in such a way as to prevent anything like a defence if attacked, still more, any chance of an escape by flight, I sent the corporal forward to clear a passage, and announce my coming to the redoubted commandant. It was curious to see how the old dragoon’s tactic effected his object, and with what speed the crowd opened and fell back, as, with a flank movement of his horse, he ‘passaged’ up the street, prancing, bounding, and back-leaping, yet all the while perfectly obedient to the hand, and never deviating from the straight line in the very middle of the thoroughfare.

I could catch from the voices around me that the mob had fired a volley at the church door, but that our men had never returned the fire; and now a great commotion of the crowd, and that swaying, surging motion of the mass, which is so peculiarly indicative of a coming event, told that something more was in preparation. And such was it; for already numbers were hurrying forward with straw faggots, broken furniture, and other combustible material, which, in the midst of the wildest cries and shouts of triumph, were now being heaped up against the door. Another moment, and I should have been too late; as it was, my loud summons to ‘halt,’ and a bold command for the mob to fall back, only came at the very last minute.

‘Where’s the commandant?’ said I, in an imperious tone.

‘Who wants him?’ responded a deep, husky voice, which I well knew to be Dowall’s.

‘The general in command of the town,’ said I firmly – ‘General Serasin.’

‘Maybe I’m as good a general as himself,’ was the answer. ‘I never called him my superior yet! Did I, boys?’

‘Never – devil a bit – why would you?’ and such like, were shouted by the mob around us, in every accent of drunken defiance.

‘You ‘ll not refuse General Serasin’s invitation to confer with your commandant, I hope?’ said I, affecting a tone of respectful civility, while I gradually drew nearer and nearer to him, contriving, at the same time, by a dexterous plunging of my horse, to force back the bystanders, and thus isolate my friend Dowall.

‘Tell him I’ve work to do here,’ said he, ‘and can’t come; but if he’s fond of a bonfire he may as well step down this far and see one.’

By this time, at a gesture of command from me, the corporal had placed himself on the opposite side of Dowall’s horse, and, by a movement similar to my own, completely drove back the dense mob, so that we had him completely in our power, and could have sabred or shot him at any moment.

‘General Serasin only wishes to see you on duty, commandant,’ said I, speaking in a voice that could be heard over the entire assemblage; and then, dropping it to a whisper, only audible to himself, I added —

‘Come along quietly, sir, and without a word. If you speak, if you mutter, or if you lift a finger, I’ll run my sabre through your body.’

‘Forward, way, there!’ shouted I aloud, and the corporal, holding Dowall’s bridle, pricked the horse with the point of his sword, and right through the crowd we went at a pace that defied following, had any the daring to think of it.

So sudden was the act and so imminent the peril, for I held the point of my weapon within a few inches of his back, and would have kept my word most assuredly too, that the fellow never spoke a syllable as we went, nor ventured on even a word of remonstrance till we descended at the general’s door. Then, with a voice tremulous with restrained passion, he said —

‘If ye think I’ll forgive ye this thrick, my fine hoy, may the flames and fire be my portion! and if I haven’t my revenge on ye yet, my name isn’t Mick Dowall.’

With a dogged, sulky resolution he mounted the stairs, but as he neared the room where the general was, and from which his voice could even now be heard, his courage seemed to fail him, and he looked back as though to see if no chance of escape remained. The attempt would have been hopeless, and he saw it.

‘This is the man, general,’ said I, half pushing him forward into the middle of the room, where he stood with his hat on, and in an attitude of mingled defiance and terror.

‘Tell him to uncover,’ said Serasin; but one of the aides-de-camp, more zealous than courteous, stepped forward and knocked the hat off with his hand. Dowall never budged an inch, nor moved a muscle, at this insult; to look at him you could not have said that he was conscious of it.

‘Ask him if it was by his orders that the guard was assailed,’ said the general.

I put the question in about as many words, but he made no reply.

‘Does the man know where he is? does he know who I am?’ repeated Serasin passionately.

‘He knows both well enough, sir,’ said I; ‘this silence is a mere defiance of us.’

‘Parbleu!’ cried an officer, ‘that is the coquin took poor Delaitre’s equipments; the very uniform he has on was his.’

‘The fellow was never a soldier,’ said another.

‘I know him well,’ interposed a third – ’ he is the very terror of the townsfolk.’

‘Who gave him his commission? – who appointed him?’ asked Serasin.

Apparently the fellow could follow some words of French, for as the general asked this he drew from his pocket a crumpled and soiled paper, which he threw heedlessly upon the table before us.

‘Why, this is not his name, sir,’ said I; ‘this appointment is made out in the name of Nicholas Downes, and our friend here is called Dowall.’

‘Who knows him? who can identify him?’ asked Serasin.

‘I can say that his name is Dowall, and that he worked as a porter on the quay in this town when I was a boy,’ said a young Irishman who was copying letters and papers at a side-table. ‘Yes, Dowall,’ said the youth, confronting the look which the other gave him. ‘I am neither afraid nor ashamed to tell you to your face that I know you well, and who you are, and what you are.’

‘I’m an officer in the Irish Independent Army now,’ said Dowall resolutely. ‘To the divil I fling the French commission and all that belongs to it. Tisn’t troops that run and guns that burst we want. Let them go back again the way they came – we ‘re able for the work ourselves.*

Before I could translate this rude speech an officer broke into the room, with tidings that the streets had been cleared, and the rioters dispersed; a few prisoners, too, were taken, whose muskets bore trace of being recently discharged.

‘They fired upon our pickets, general,’ said the officer, whose excited look and voice betrayed how deeply he felt the outrage.

The men were introduced; three ragged, ill-looking wretches, apparently only roused from intoxication by the terror of their situation, for each was guarded by a soldier with a drawn bayonet in his hand.

‘We only obeyed ordhers, my lord; we only did what the captain tould us,’ cried they, in a miserable, whining tone, for the sight of their leader in captivity had sapped all their courage.

‘What am I here for? who has any business with me?’ said Dowall, assuming before his followers an attempt at his former tone of bully.

‘Tell him,’ said Serasin, ‘that wherever a French general stands in full command he will neither brook insolence nor insubordination. Let those fellows be turned out of the town, and warned never to approach the quarters of the army under any pretence whatever. As for this scoundrel, we’ll make an example of him. Order a peloton into the yard, and shoot him!’

I rendered this speech into English as the general spoke it, and never shall I forget the wild scream of the wretch as he heard the sentence.

‘I’m an officer in the army of Ireland. I don’t belong to ye at all. You’ve no power over me. Oh, captain, darlin’; oh, gentlemen, speak for me! General, dear; general, honey, don’t sintince me! don’t, for the love o’ God!’ and in grovelling terror the miserable creature threw himself on his knees to beg for mercy.

‘Tear off his epaulettes,’ cried Serasin; ‘never let a French uniform be so disgraced!’

The soldiers wrenched off the epaulettes at the command, and, not satisfied with this, they even tore away the lace from the cuffs of the uniform, which now hung in ragged fragments over his trembling hands.

‘Oh, sir! oh, general! oh, gentlemen, have marcy!’

‘Away with him,’ said Serasin contemptuously; ‘it is only the cruel can be such cowards. Give the fellow his fusillade with blank cartridge, and, the chances are, fear will kill him outright.’

The scene that ensued is too shocking, too full of abasement, to record; there was nothing that fear of death, nothing that abject terror could suggest, that this miserable wretch did not attempt to save his life; he wept – he begged in accents that were unworthy of all manhood – he kissed the very ground at the general’s feet in his abject sorrow; and when at last he was dragged from the room, his screams were the most piercing and terrific.

Although all my compassion was changed into contempt, I felt that I could never have given the word to fire upon him, had such been my orders; his fears had placed him below all manhood, but they still formed a barrier of defence around him. I accordingly whispered a few words to the sergeant, as we passed down the stairs, and then, affecting to have forgotten something, I stepped back towards the room, where the general and his staff were sitting. The scuffling sound of feet, mingled with the crash of firearms, almost drowned the cries of the still struggling wretch; his voice, however, burst forth into a wild cry, and then there came a pause – a pause that at last became insupportable to my anxiety, and I was about to rush downstairs, when a loud yell, a savage howl of derision and hate burst forth from the street; and on looking out I saw a vast crowd before the door, who were shouting after a man, whose speed soon carried him out of reach. This was Dowall, who, thus suffered to escape, was told to fly from the town and never to return to it.

‘Thank Heaven,’ muttered I, ‘we’ve seen the last of him.’

The rejoicing was, however, premature.

CHAPTER XXIV. THE MISSION TO THE NORTH

I have never yet been able to discover whether General Humbert really did feel the confidence that he assumed at this period, or that he merely affected it, the better to sustain the spirits of those around him. If our success at Castlebar was undeniable, our loss was also great, and far more than proportionate to all the advantages we had acquired. Six officers and two hundred and forty men were either killed or badly wounded, and as our small force had really acquired no reinforcement worth the name, it was evident that another such costly victory would be our ruin.

Not one gentleman of rank or influence had yet joined us; few of the priesthood; and, even among the farmers and peasantry, it was easy to see that our recruits comprised those whose accession could never have conferred honour or profit on any cause.

Our situation was anything but promising. The rumours that reached us (and we had no other or more accurate information than rumours) told that an army of thirty thousand men, under the command of Lord Cornwallis, was in march against us; that all the insurrectionary movements of the south were completely repressed; that the spirit of the Irish was crushed, and their confidence broken, either by defeat or internal treachery. In a word, that the expedition had already failed, and the sooner we had the means of leaving the land of our disasters the better.

Such were the universal feelings of all my comrades; but Humbert, who had often told us that we were only here to prepare the way for another and more formidable mission, now pretended to think that we were progressing most favourably towards a perfect success. Perhaps he firmly believed all this, or perhaps he thought that the pretence would give more dignity to the finale of an exploit which he already saw was nearly played out. I know not which is the true explanation, and am half disposed to think that he was actuated as much by one impulse as the other.

‘The Army of the North’ was the talisman, which we now heard of for the first time, to repair all our disasters, and ensure complete victory. ‘The Army of the North,’ whose strength varied from twenty to twenty-five, and sometimes reached even thirty thousand men, and was commanded by a distinguished Irish general, was now the centre to which all our hopes turned. Whether it had already landed, and where, of what it consisted, and how officered, not one of us knew anything; but by dint of daily repetition and discussion we had come to believe in its existence as certainly as though we had seen it under arms.

The credulous lent their convictions without any trouble to themselves whatever; the more sceptical studied the map, and fancied twenty different places in which they might have disembarked; and thus the Army of the North grew to be a substance and reality, as undoubted as the scenes before our eyes.

Never was such a ready solution of all difficulties discovered as this same Army of the North. Were we to be beaten by Cornwallis, it was only a momentary check, for the Army of the North would come up within a few days and turn the whole tide of war. If our Irish allies grew insubordinate or disorderly, a little patience and the Army of the North would settle all that. Every movement projected was fancied to be in concert with this redoubted corps, and at last every trooper that rode in from Killala or Ballina was questioned as to whether his despatches did not come from the Army of the North.

Frenchmen will believe anything you like for twenty-four hours. They can be flattered into a credulity of two days, and, by dint of great artifice and much persuasion, will occasionally reach a third; but there, faith has its limit; and if nothing palpable, tangible, and real, intervene, scepticism ensues; and what with native sarcasm, ridicule, and irony, they will demolish the card edifice of credit far more rapidly than ever they raised it. For two whole days the Army of the North occupied every man amongst us. We toasted it over our wine; we discussed it at our quarters; we debated upon its whereabouts, its strength, and its probable destination; but on the third morning a terrible shock was given to our feelings by a volatile young lieutenant of hussars exclaiming – ‘Ma foi! I wish I could see this same Army of the North!’

Now, although nothing was more reasonable than this wish, nor was there any one of us who had not felt a similar desire, this sudden expression of it struck us all most forcibly, and a shrinking sense of doubt spread over every face, and men looked at each other as though to say – ‘Is the fellow capable of supposing that such an army does not exist?’ It was a very dreadful moment – a terrible interval of struggle between the broad daylight of belief and the black darkness of incredulity; and we turned glances of actual dislike at the man who had so unwarrantably shaken our settled convictions.

‘I only said I should like to see them under arms,’ stammered he, in the confusion of one who saw himself exposed to public obloquy.

This half-apology came too late – the mischief was done! and we shunned each other like men who were afraid to read the accusation of even a shrewd glance. As for myself, I can compare my feelings only to those of the worthy alderman, who broke out into a paroxysm of grief on hearing that Robinson Crusoe was a fiction. I believe, on that sudden revulsion of feeling, I could have discredited any and everything. If there was no Army of the North, was I quite sure that there was any expedition at all? Were the generals mere freebooters, the chiefs of a marauding venture? Were the patriots anything but a disorderly rabble eager for robbery and bloodshed? Was Irish Independence a mere phantom? Such were among the shocking terrors that came across my mind as I sat in my quarters, far too dispirited and depressed to mix among my comrades.

It had been a day of fatiguing duty, and I was not sorry, as night fell, that I might betake myself to bed, to forget, if it might be, the torturing doubts that troubled me. Suddenly I heard a heavy foot upon the stair, and an orderly entered with a command for me to repair to the headquarters of the general at once. Never did the call of duty summon me less willing, never found me so totally disinclined to obey. I was weary and fatigued; but worse, than this, I was out of temper with myself, the service, and the whole world. Had I heard that the Royal forces were approaching, I was exactly in the humour to have dashed into the thick of them, and sold my life as dearly as I could, out of desperation.

Discipline is a powerful antagonist to a man’s caprices, for with all my irritability and discontent I arose, and resuming my uniform, set out for General Humbert’s quarters. I followed ‘the orderly,’ as he led the way through many a dark street and crooked alley till we reached the square. There, too, all was in darkness, save at the mainguard, where, as usual, the five windows of the first storey were a blaze of light, and the sounds of mirth and revelry, the nightly orgies of our officers, were ringing out in the stillness of the quiet hour. The wild chorus of a soldier-song, with its rataplan accompaniment of knuckles on the table, echoed through the square, and smote upon my ear with anything but a congenial sense of pleasure.

In my heart I thought them a senseless, soulless crew, that could give themselves to dissipation and excess on the very eve, as it were, of our defeat, and with hasty steps I turned away into the side-street, where a large lamp, the only light to be seen, proclaimed General Humbert’s quarters.

A bustle and stir, very unusual at this late hour, pervaded the passages and stairs, and it was some time before I could find one of the staff to announce my arrival, which at last was done somewhat unceremoniously, as an officer hurried me through a large chamber crowded with the staff into an inner room, where, on a small field-bed, lay General Humbert, without coat or boots, a much-worn scarlet cloak thrown half over him, and a black handkerchief tied round his head. I had scarcely seen him since our landing, and I could with difficulty recognise the burly, high-complexioned soldier of a few days back, in the worn and haggard features of the sick man before me. An attack of ague, which he had originally contracted in Holland, had relapsed upon him, and he was now suffering all the lassitude and sickness of that most depressing of all maladies.

Maps, books, plans, and sketches of various kinds scattered the bed, the table, and even the floor around him; but his attitude as I entered betrayed the exhaustion of one who could labour no longer, and whose worn-out faculties demanded rest. He lay flat on his back, his arms straight down beside him, and with half-closed eyes, seemed as though falling off to sleep.

His first aide-de-camp, Merochamp, was standing with his back to a small turf fire, and made a sign to us to be still, and make no noise as we came in.

‘He ‘s sleeping,’ said he; ‘it ‘s the first time he has closed his eyes for ten days.’

We stood for a moment uncertain, and were about to retrace our steps, when Humbert said, in a low, weak voice —

‘No! I’m not asleep, come in.’

The officer who presented me now retired, and I advanced towards the bedside.

‘This is Tiernay, general,’ said Merochamp, stooping down and speaking low; ‘you wished to see him.’

‘Yes, I wanted him. Ha! Tiernay, you see me a good deal altered since we parted last; however, I shall be all right in a day or two, it’s a mere attack of ague, and will leave when the good weather comes. I wished to ask you about your family, Tiernay; was not your father Irish?’

‘No, sir; we were Irish two or three generations back, but since that we have belonged either to Austria or to France.’

‘Then where were you born?’

‘In Paris, sir, I believe, but certainly in France.’

‘Then I said so, Merochamp; I knew that the boy was French.’

‘Still I don’t think the precaution worthless,’ replied Merochamp; ‘Teeling and the others advise it.’

‘I know they do,’ said Humbert peevishly, ‘and for themselves it may be needful; but this lad’s case will be injured, not bettered by it. He is not an Irishman; he never was at any time a British subject. Have you any certificate of birth or baptism, Tiernay?’

‘None, sir; but I have my ‘livret’ for the school of Saumur, which sets forth my being a Frenchman by birth.’

‘Quite sufficient, boy, let me have it.’

It was a document which I always carried about with me since I landed, to enable me any moment, if made prisoner, to prove myself an alien, and thus escape the inculpation of fighting against the flag of my country. Perhaps there was something of reluctance in my manner as I relinquished it, for the general said, ‘I’ll take good care of it, Tiernay; you shall not fare the worse because it is in my keeping. I may as well tell you that some of our Irish officers have received threatening letters. It is needless to say they are without name, stating that if matters go unfortunately with us in this campaign they will meet the fate of men taken in open treason; and that their condition of officers in our service will avail them nothing. I do not believe this. I cannot believe that they will be treated in any respect differently from the rest of us. However, it is only just that I should tell you that your name figures amongst those so denounced; for this reason I have sent for you now. You, at least, have nothing to apprehend on this score. You are as much a Frenchman as myself. I know Merochamp thinks differently from me, and that your Irish descent and name will be quite enough to involve you in the fate of others.’

A gesture, half of assent but half of impatience, from the aide-de-camp, here arrested the speaker.

‘Why not tell him frankly how he stands?’ said Humbert eagerly; ‘I see no advantage in any concealment.’

Then addressing me, he went on. ‘I purpose, Tiernay, to give you the same option I gave the others, but which they have declined to accept. It is this: we are daily expecting to hear of the arrival of a force in the north under the command of Generals Tandy and Rey.’

‘The Army of the North?’ asked I, in some anxiety. ‘Precisely; the Army of the North. Now I desire to open a communication with them, and at the same time to do so through the means of such officers as, in the event of any disaster here, may have the escape to France open to them; which this army will have, and which, I need not say, we have no longer. Our Irish friends have declined this mission as being more likely to compromise them if taken; and also as diminishing and not increasing their chance of escape. In my belief that you were placed similarly I have sent for you here this evening, and at the same time desire to impress upon you that your acceptance or refusal is purely a matter at your own volition.’

‘Am I to regard the matter simply as one of duty, sir? or as an opportunity of consulting my personal safety?’

‘What shall I say to this, Merochamp?’ asked Humbert bluntly.

‘That you are running to the full as many risks of being banged for going as by staying; such is my opinion,’ said the aide-de-camp. ‘Here as a rebel, there as a spy.’

‘I confess, then,’ said I, smiling at the cool brevity of the speech, ‘the choice is somewhat embarrassing! May I ask what you advise me to do, general?’

‘I should say go, Tiernay.’

‘Go, by all means, lad,’ broke in the aide-de-camp, who throughout assumed a tone of dictation and familiarity most remarkable. ‘If a stand is to be made in this miserable country it will be with Rey’s force; here the game will not last much longer. There lies the only man capable of conducting such an expedition, and his health cannot stand up against its trials!’