Charles O'Malley, The Irish Dragoon, Volume 2

“Madre de Dios, indeed!” cried Mike, imitating the tone of a repentant old sinner in a patched mantle; “it’s much the blessed Virgin thinks of the like o’ ye, thieves and rogues as ye are; it a’most puts me beyond my senses to see ye there crossing yourselves like rale Christians.”

If I could not help indulging myself in this retributive cruelty towards the chief, and leaving him to the tender mercies of Mike, I ordered the others to rise and form in line before me. Affecting to occupy myself entirely with them, I withdrew the attention of all from the French officers, who remained quiet spectators of the scene around them.

“Point de façons, gentlemen,” said I, in a whisper. “Get to your horses and away! Now’s your time. Good-by!”

A warm grasp of the hand from each was the only reply, and I turned once more to my discomforted friends the Guerillas.

“There, Mike, let the poor devil rise. I confess appearances were strong against me just now.”

“Well, Captain, are you convinced by this time that I was not deceiving you?”

The Guerilla muttered some words of apology between his teeth, and while he shook the dust from his cloak, and arranged the broken feather of his hat, cast a look of scowling and indignant meaning upon Mike, whose rough treatment he had evidently not forgiven.

“Don’t be looking at me that way, you black thief! or I’ll – ”

“Hold there!” said I; “no more of this. Come, gentlemen, we must be friends. If I mistake not, we’ve got something like refreshment at our bivouac. In any case you’ll partake of our watch-fire till morning.”

They gladly accepted our invitation, and ere half an hour elapsed Mike’s performance in the part of host had completely erased every unpleasant impression his first appearance gave rise to; and as for myself, when I did sleep at last, the confused mixture of Spanish and Irish airs which issued from the thicket beside me, proved that a most intimate alliance had grown up between the parties.

CHAPTER XXVII

MIKE’S MISTAKE

An hour before daybreak the Guerillas were in motion, and having taken a most ceremonious leave of us, they mounted their horses and set out upon their journey. I saw their gaunt figures wind down the valley, and watched them till they disappeared in the distance. “Yes, brigands though they be,” thought I, “there is something fine, something heroic in the spirit of their unrelenting vengeance.” The sleuth-hound never sought the lair of his victim with a more ravening appetite for blood than they track the retreating columns of the enemy. Hovering around the line of march, they sometimes swoop down in masses, and carry off a part of the baggage, or the wounded. The wearied soldier, overcome by heat and exhaustion, who drops behind his ranks, is their certain victim; the sentry on an advanced post is scarcely less so. Whole pickets are sometimes attacked and carried off to a man; and when traversing the lonely passes of some mountain gorge, or defiling through the dense shadows of a wooded glen, the stoutest heart has felt a fear, lest from behind the rock that frowned above him, or from the leafy thicket whose branches stirred without a breeze, the sharp ring of a Guerilla carbine might sound his death-knell.

It was thus in the retreat upon Corunna fell Colonel Lefebvre. Ever foremost in the attack upon our rear-guard, this gallant youth (he was scarce six-and-twenty), a colonel of his regiment, and decorated with the Legion of Honor, he led on every charge of his bold “sabreurs,” riding up to the very bayonets of our squares, waving his hat above his head, and seeming actually to court his death-wound; but so struck were our brave fellows with his gallant bearing, that they cheered him as he came on.

It was in one of these moments as, rising high in his stirrups, he bore down upon the unflinching ranks of the British infantry, the shrill whistle of a ball strewed the leaves upon the roadside, the exulting shout of a Guerilla followed it, and the same instant Lefebvre fell forward upon his horse’s mane, a deluge of blood bursting from his bosom. A broken cry escaped his lips, – a last effort to cheer on his men; his noble charger galloped forward between our squares, bearing to us our prisoner, the corpse of his rider.

“Captain O’Malley,” said a mounted dragoon to the advanced sentry at the bottom of the little hill upon which I was standing. “Despatches from headquarters, sir,” delivering into my hands a large sealed packet from the adjutant-general’s office. While he proceeded to search for another letter of which he was the bearer, I broke the seal and read as follows: —

ADJUTANT-GENERAL’S OFFICE.

May 15.

Sir, – On the receipt of this order you are directed, having previously resigned your command to the officer next in seniority, to repair to headquarters at Fueutes d’Onoro, there to report yourself under arrest.

I have the honor to be your obedient servant,

GEORGE HOPETON,Military Secretary.

“What the devil can this mean?” said I to myself, as I read the lines over again and again. “What have I done lately, or what have I left undone to involve me in this scrape? Ah!” thought I, “to be sure, it can be nothing else. Lord Wellington did recognize me that unlucky morning, and has determined not to let me pass unpunished. How unfortunate. Scarcely twenty-four hours have elapsed since fortune seemed to smile upon me from every side, and now the very destiny I most dreaded stares me fully in the face.” A reprimand, or the sentence of a court-martial, I shrank from with a coward’s fear. It mattered comparatively little from what source arising, the injury to my pride as a man and my spirit as a soldier would be almost the same.

“This is the letter, sir,” said the orderly, presenting me with a packet, the address of which was in Power’s hand-writing. Eagerly tearing it open, I sought for something which might explain my unhappy position. It bore the same date as the official letter, and ran thus: —

My Dear Charley, – I joined yesterday, just in time to enjoy the heartiest laugh I have had since our meeting. If notoriety can gratify you, by Jove, you have it; for Charles O’Malley and his man Mickey Free are bywords in every mess from Villa Formosa to the rear-guard.

As it’s only fair you should participate a little in the fun you’ve originated, let me explain the cause. Your inimitable man Mike, to whom it appears you intrusted the report of killed and wounded for the adjutant-general, having just at that moment accomplished a letter to his friends at home, substituted his correspondence for your returns, and doubtless, sent the list of the casualties as very interesting information to his sweetheart in Ireland. If such be the case, I hope and trust she has taken the blunder in better part than old Colbourn, who swears he’ll bring you to a court-martial, under Heaven knows what charges. In fact, his passion has known no bounds since the event; and a fit of jaundice has given his face a kind of neutral tint between green and yellow, like nothing I know of except the facings of the “dirty half-hundred.”2

As Mr. Free’s letter may be as great a curiosity to you as it has been to us, I enclose you a copy of it, which Hopeton obtained for me. It certainly places the estimable Mike in a strong light as a despatch-writer. The occasional interruption to the current of the letter, you will perceive, arises from Mike having used the pen of a comrade, writing being, doubtless, an accomplishment forgotten in the haste of preparing Mr. Free for the world; and the amanuensis has, in more than one instance, committed to paper more than was meant by the author: —

Mrs. M’Gra, – Tear an’ ages, sure I need not be treating he way. Now, just say Mrs. Mary – ay, that’ll do – Mrs. Mary, it’s may be surprised you’ll be to be reading a letter from your humble servant, sitting on the top of the Alps, – arrah, may be it’s not the Alps; but sure she’ll never know, – fornent the whole French army, with Bony himself and all his jinnerals – God be between us and harm – ready to murther every mother’s son of us, av they were able, Molly darlin’;

but, with the blessing of Providence, and Lord Wellington and Mister Charles, we’ll bate them yet, as we bate them afore.

My lips is wathering at the thought o’ the plunder. I often of Tim Riley, that was hanged for sheep-stealing; he’d be worth his weight in gold here.

Mr. Charles is now a captain – devil a less – and myself might be somethin’ that same, but ye see I was always of a bashful n and recommended the master in my place. “He’s mighty young, Mister Charles is,” says my Lord Wellington to me, – “He’s mighty young, Mr.

Free.” “He is, my lord,” says I; “he’s young, as you obsarve, but he’s as much divilment in him as many that might be his father.”

“That’s somethin’, Mr. Free,” says my lord; “ye say he comes from a good stock?” “The rale sort, my lord,” says I; “an ould, ancient family, that’s spent every sixpence they had in treating their neighbors. My father lived near him for years,” – you see, Molly, I said that to season the discourse. “We’ll make him a captain,” says my lord; “but, Mr. Free, could we do nothing for you?” “Nothing, at present, my lord. When my friends comes into power,” says I, “they’ll think of me. There’s many a little thing to give away in Ireland, and they often find it mighty hard to find a man for lord-lieutenant; and if that same, or a tide-waiter’s place was vacant – ” “Just tell me,” says my lord. “It’s what I’ll do,” says I. “And now, wishing you happy dreams, I’ll take my lave.” Just so, Molly, it’s hand and glove we are. A pleasant face, agreeable manners seasoned with natural modesty, and a good pair of legs, them’s the gifts to push a man’s way in the world. And even with the ladies – but sure I am forgetting, my master was proposed for, and your humble servant too, by two illigant creatures in Lisbon; but it wouldn’t do, Molly, it’s higher nor that we’ll be looking, —rale princesses, the devil a less. Tell Kitty Hannigan I hope she’s well; she was a disarving young in her situation in life. Shusey Dogherty, at the cross road —

I don’t forget the name – was a good-looking slip too; give her my affectionate salutations, as we say in the Portuguese. I hope I’ll be able to bear the inclementuous nature of your climate when I go back;

but I can’t expect to stay long – for Lord Wellington can’t do without me. We play duets on the guitar together every evening. The master is shouting for a blanket, so no more at present from,

Your very affectionate friend,

MICKEY FREE.

P. S. – I don’t write this myself, for the Spanish tongue p out o’ the habit of English. Tell Father Rush, if he’d study the Portuguese, I’d use my interest for him with the Bishop of Toledo.

It’s a country he’d like – no regular stations, but promiscuous eating and drinking, and as pretty girls as ever confessed their sins.

My poor Charley, I think I am looking at you. I think I can see the struggle between indignation, and laughter, which every line of this letter inflicts upon you. Get back as quickly as you can, and we’ll try if Crawfurd won’t pull you through the business. In any case, expect no sympathy; and if you feel disposed to be angry with all who laugh at you, you had better publish a challenge in the next general order. George Scott, of, the Greys, bids me say, that if you’re hard up for cash, he’ll give you a couple of hundred for Mickey Free. I told him I thought you’d accept it, as your uncle has the breed of those fellows upon his estate, and might have no objection to weed his stud. Hammersley’s gone back with the Dashwoods;

but I don’t think you need fear anything in that quarter.

At the same time, if you wish for success, make a bold push for the peerage and half-a-dozen decorations, for Miss Lucy is most decidedly gone wild about military distinction. As for me, my affairs go on well: I’ve had half-a-dozen quarrels with Inez, but we parted good friends, and my bad Portuguese has got me out of all difficulties with papa, who pressed me tolerably close as to fortune. I shall want your assistance in this matter yet. If parchments will satisfy him, I think I could get up a qualification; but somehow the matter must be done, for I’m resolved to have his daughter.

The orderly is starting, so no more till we meet.

Yours ever,

FRED POWER.

“Godwin,” said I, as I closed the letter, “I find myself in a scrape at headquarters; you are to take the command of the detachment, for I must set out at once.”

“Nothing serious, I hope. O’Malley?”

“Oh, no; nothing of consequence. A most absurd blunder of my rascally servant.”

“The Irish fellow yonder?”

“The same.”

“He seems to take it easily, however.”

“Oh, confound him! he does not know what trouble he has involved me in; not that he’ll care much when he does.”

“Why, he does not seem to be of a very desponding temperament. Listen to the fellow! I’ll be hanged, if he’s not singing!”

“I’m devilishly disposed to spoil his mirth. They tell me, however, he always keeps the troop in good humor; and see, the fellows are actually cleaning his horses for him, while he is sitting on the bank!”

“Faith, O’Malley, that fellow knows the world. Just hear him.”

Mr. Free was, as described, most leisurely reposing on a bank, a mug of something drinkable beside him, and a pipe of that curtailed proportion which an Irishman loves held daintily between his fingers. He appeared to be giving his directions to some soldiers of the troop, who were busily cleaning his horses and accoutrements for him.

“That’s it, Jim! Rub ‘em down along the hocks; he won’t kick; it’s only play. Scrub away, honey; that’s the devil’s own carbine to get clean.”

“Well, I say, Mr. Free, are you going to give us that ere song?”

“Yes. I’ll be danged if I burnish your sabre, if you don’t sing.”

“Tear an’ ages! ain’t I composing it? Av I was Tommy Moore, I couldn’t be quicker.”

“Well, come along, my hearty; let’s hear it.”

“Oh, murther!” said Mike, draining the pot to its last few drops, which he poured pathetically upon the grass before him; and then having emptied the ashes from his pipe, he heaved a deep sigh, as though to say life had no pleasures in store for him. A brief pause followed, after which, to the evident delight of his expectant audience, he began the following song, to the popular air of “Paddy O’Carroll”: —

BAD LUCK TO THIS MARCHINGAir, —Paddy O’CarrollBad luck to this marching,Pipe-claying, and starching,How neat one must be to be killed by the French,I’m sick of parading,Through wet and cowld wading,Or standing all night to be shot in a trench.To the tune of a fifeThey dispose of your life,You surrender your soul to some illigant lilt;Now, I like Garryowen,When I hear it at home,But it’s not half so sweet when you’re going to be kilt.Then, though up late and early,Our pay comes so rarely,The devil a farthing we’ve ever to spare;They say some disasterBefell the paymaster;On my conscience, I think that the money’s not there.And just think what a blunder,They won’t let us plunder,While the convents invite us to rob them, ‘tis clear;Though there isn’t a village,But cries, “Come and pillage,”Yet we leave all the mutton behind for Mounseer.Like a sailor that’s nigh land,I long for that islandWhere even the kisses we steal if we please;Where it is no disgraceIf you don’t wash your face,And you’ve nothing to do but to stand at your ease.With no sergeant t’abuse us,We fight to amuse us;Sure, it’s better bate Christians than kick a baboon.How I’d dance like a fairyTo see ould Dunleary,And think twice ere I’d leave it to be a dragoon!

“There’s a sweet little bit for you,” said Mike, as he concluded; “thrown off as aisy as a game at football.”

“I say, Mr. Free, the captain’s looking for you; he’s just received despatches from the camp, and wants his horses.”

“In that case, gentlemen, I must take my leave of you; with the more regret, too, that I was thinking of treating you to a supper this evening. You needn’t be laughing; it’s in earnest I am. Coming, sir, coming!” shouted he, in a louder tone, answering some imaginary call, as an excuse for his exit.

When he appeared before me, an air of most business-like alacrity had succeeded to his late appearance, and having taken my orders to get the horses in readiness, he left me at once, and in less than half an hour we were upon the road.

CHAPTER XXVIII

MONSOON IN TROUBLE

As I rode along towards Fuentes d’Onoro, I could not help feeling provoked at the absurd circumstances in which I was involved. To be made the subject of laughter for a whole army was by no means a pleasant consideration; but what I felt far worse was the possibility that the mention of my name in connection with a reprimand might reach the ears of those who knew nothing of the cause.

Mr. Free himself seemed little under the influence of similar feelings; for when, after a silence of a couple of hours, I turned suddenly towards him with a half-angry look, and remarked, “You see, sir, what your confounded blundering has done,” his cool reply was, —

“Ah, then! won’t Mrs. M’Gra be frightened out of her life when she reads all about the killed and wounded in your honor’s report? I wonder if they ever had the manners to send my own letter afterwards, when they found out their mistake!”

“Their mistake, do you say? rather yours! You appear to have a happy knack of shifting blame from your own shoulders. And do you fancy that they’ve nothing else to do than to trouble their heads about your absurd letters?”

“Faith, it’s easily seen you never saw my letter, or you wouldn’t be saying that. And sure, it’s not much trouble it would give Colonel Fitzroy or any o’ the staff that write a good hand just to put in a line to Mrs. M’Gra, to prevent her feeling alarmed about that murthering paper. Well, well; it’s God’s blessing! I don’t think there’s anybody of the name of Mickey Free high up in the army but myself; so that the family won’t be going into mourning for me on a false alarm.”

I had not patience to participate in this view of the case; so that I continued my journey without speaking. We had jogged along for some time after dark, when the distant twinkle of the-watch-fires announced our approach to the camp. A detachment of the Fourteenth formed the advanced post, and from the officer in command I learned that Power was quartered at a small mill about half a mile distant; thither I accordingly turned my steps, but finding that the path which led abruptly down to it was broken and cut up in many places, I sent Mike back with the horses, and continued my way alone on foot.

The night was deliciously calm; and as I approached the little rustic mill, I could not help feeling struck with Power’s taste in a billet.

A little vine-clad cottage, built close against a rock, nearly concealed by the dense foliage around it, stood beside a clear rivulet whose eddying current supplied water to the mill, and rose in a dew-like spray which sparkled like gems in the pale moonlight. All was still within, but as I came nearer I thought I could detect the chords of a guitar. “Can it be,” thought I, “that Master Fred has given himself up to minstrelsy; or is it some little dress rehearsal for a serenade? But no,” thought I, “that certainly is not Power’s voice.” I crept stealthily down the little path, and approached the window; the lattice lay open, and as the curtain waved to and fro with the night air, I could see plainly all who were in the room.

Close beside the window sat a large, dark-featured Spaniard, his hands crossed upon his bosom and his head inclined heavily forward, the attitude perfectly denoting deep sleep, even had not his cigar, which remained passively between his lips, ceased to give forth its blue smoke wreath. At a little distance from him sat a young girl, who, even by the uncertain light, I could perceive was possessed of all that delicacy of form and gracefulness of carriage which characterize her nation.

Her pale features – paler still from the contrast with her jet black hair and dark costume – were lit up with an expression of animation and enthusiasm as her fingers swept rapidly and boldly across the strings of a guitar.

“And you’re not tired of it yet?” said she, bending her head downwards towards one whom I now for the first time perceived.

Reclining carelessly at her feet, his arm leaning upon her chair, while his hand occasionally touched her taper fingers, lay my good friend, Master Fred Power. An undress jacket, thrown loosely open, and a black neck-cloth, negligently knotted, bespoke the easy nonchalance with which he prosecuted his courtship.

“Do sing it again?” said he, pressing her fingers to his lips.

What she replied, I could not catch; but Fred resumed: “No, no; he never wakes. The infernal clatter of that mill is his lullaby.”

“But your friend will be here soon,” said she. “Is it not so?”

“Oh, poor Charley! I’d almost forgotten him. By-the-bye, you mustn’t fall in love with him. There now, do not look angry; I only meant that, as I knew he’d be desperately smitten, you shouldn’t let him fancy he got any encouragement.”

“What would you have me do?” said she, artlessly.

“I have been thinking over that, too. In the first place, you’d better never let him hear you sing; scarcely ever smile; and as far as possible, keep out of his sight.”

“One would think, Senhor, that all these precautions were to be taken more on my account than on his. Is he so very dangerous, then?”

“Not a bit of it! Good-looking enough he is, but, only a boy; at the same time, a devilish bold one! And he’d think no more of springing through that window and throwing his arms round your neck, the very first moment of his arrival, than I should of whispering how much I love you.”

“How very odd he must be! I’m sure I should like him.”

“Many thanks to both for your kind hints; and now to take advantage of them.” So saying, I stepped lightly upon the window-sill, cleared the miller with one spring, and before Power could recover his legs or Margeritta her astonishment, I clasped her in my arms, and kissed her on either cheek.

“Charley! Charley! Damn it, man, it won’t do!” cried Fred; while the young lady, evidently more amused at his discomfiture than affronted at the liberty, threw herself into a seat, and laughed immoderately.

“Ha! Hilloa there! What is’t?” shouted the miller, rousing himself from his nap, and looking eagerly round. “Are they coming? Are the French coming?”

A hearty renewal of his daughter’s laughter was the only reply; while Power relieved his anxiety by saying, —

“No, no, Pedrillo, not the French; a mere marauding party, – nothing more. I say, Charley,” continued he, in a lower tone, “you had better lose no time in reporting yourself at headquarters. We’ll walk up together. Devilish awkward scrape, yours.”

“Never fear, Fred; time enough for all that. For the present, if you permit me, I’ll follow up my acquaintance with our fair friend here.”

“Gently, gently!” said he, with a look of most imposing seriousness. “Don’t mistake her; she’s not a mere country girl: you understand? – been bred in a convent here, – rather superior kind of thing.”

“Come, come, Fred, I’m not the man to interfere with you for a moment.”

“Good-night, Senhor,” said the old miller, who had been waiting patiently all this time to pay his respects before going.

“Yes, that’s it!” cried Power, eagerly. “Good-night, Pedrillo.”

“Buonos noches,” lisped out Margeritta, with a slight curtsy.

I sprang forward to acknowledge her salutation, when Power coolly interposed between us, and closing the door after them, placed his back against it.

“Master Charley, I must read you a lesson – ”

“You inveterate hypocrite, don’t attempt this nonsense with me. But come, tell me how long you have been here?”

“Just twenty-four of the shortest hours I ever passed at an outpost. But listen, – do you know that voice? Isn’t it O’Shaughnessy?”

“To be sure it is. Hear the fellow’s song.”

“My father cared little for shot or shell,He laughed at death and dangers;And he’d storm the very gates of hellWith a company of the ‘Rangers.’So sing tow, row, row, row, row,” etc.

“Ah, then, Mister Power, it’s twice I’d think of returning your visit, if I knew the state of your avenue. If there’s a grand jury in Spain, they might give you a presentment for this bit of road. My knees are as bare as a commissary’s conscience, and I’ve knocked as much flesh off my shin-bones as would make a cornet in the hussars!”