Charles O'Malley, The Irish Dragoon, Volume 1

“I had not gone above a hundred yards when I heard some one running after, and calling out my name.

“‘I say, Monsoon; Major, confound you, pull up.’

“‘Well, what’s the matter? Has any more lush turned up?’ inquired I, for we had drank the tap dry when I left.

“‘Not a drop, old fellow!’ said he; ‘but I was thinking of what you’ve been saying about that sherry.’

“‘Well! What then?’

“‘Why, I want to know how we could get a taste of it?’

“‘You’d better get elected one of the Cortes,’ said I, laughing; ‘for it doesn’t seem likely you’ll do so in any other way.’

“‘I’m not so sure of that,’ said he, smiling. ‘What road do you travel to-morrow?’

“‘By Cavalhos and Reina.’

“‘Whereabouts may you happen to be towards sunset?’

“‘I fear we shall be in the mountains,’ said I, with a knowing look, ‘where ambuscades and surprise parties would be highly dangerous.’

“‘And your party consists of – ’

“‘About twenty Portuguese, all ready to run at the first shot.’

“‘I’ll do it, Monsoon; I’ll be hanged if I don’t.’

“‘But, Tom,’ said I, ‘don’t make any blunder; only blank cartridge, my boy.’

“‘Honor bright!’ cried he. ‘Your fellows are armed of course?’

“‘Never think of that; they may shoot each other in the confusion. But if you only make plenty of noise coming on, they’ll never wait for you.’

“‘What capital fellows they must be!’

“‘Crack troops, Tom; so don’t hurt them. And now, good-night.’

“As I cantered off, I began to think over O’Flaherty’s idea; and upon my life, I didn’t half like it. He was a reckless, devil-may-care fellow; and it was just as likely he would really put his scheme into practice.

“When morning broke, however, we got under way again, and I amused myself all the forenoon in detailing stories of French cruelty; so that before we had marched ten miles, there was not a man among us not ready to run at the slightest sound of attack on any side. As evening was falling we reached Morento, a little mountain pass which follows the course of a small river, and where, in many places, the mule carts had barely space enough to pass between the cliffs and the stream. ‘What a place for Tom O’Flaherty and his foragers!’ thought I, as we entered the little mountain gorge; but all was silent as the grave, – except the tramp of our party, not a sound was heard. There was something solemn and still in the great brown mountain, rising like vast walls on either side, with a narrow streak of gray sky at top and in the dark, sluggish stream, that seemed to awe us, and no one spoke. The muleteer ceased his merry song, and did not crack or flourish his long whip as before, but chid his beasts in a half-muttered voice, and urged them faster, to reach the village before nightfall.

“Egad, somehow I felt uncommonly uncomfortable; I could not divest my mind of the impression that some disaster was impending, and I wished O’Flaherty and his project in a very warm climate. ‘He’ll attack us,’ thought I, ‘where we can’t run; fair play forever. But if they are not able to get away, even the militia will fight.’ However, the evening crept on, and no sign of his coming appeared on any side; and to my sincere satisfaction, I could see, about half a league distant, the twinkling light of the little village where we were to halt for the night. It was just at this time that a scout I had sent out some few hundred yards in advance came galloping up, almost breathless.

“‘The French, Captain; the French are upon us!’ said he, with a face like a ghost.

“‘Whew! Which way? How many?’ said I, not at all sure that he might not be telling the truth.

“‘Coming in force!’ said the fellow. ‘Dragoons! By this road!’

“‘Dragoons? By this road?’ repeated every man of the party, looking at each other like men sentenced to be hanged.

“Scarcely had they spoken when we heard the distant noise of cavalry advancing at a brisk trot. Lord, what a scene ensued! The soldiers ran hither and thither like frightened sheep; some pulled out crucifixes and began to say their prayers; others fired off their muskets in a panic; the mule-drivers cut their traces, and endeavored to get away by riding; and the intendant took to his heels, screaming out to us, as he went, to fight manfully to the last, and that he’d report us favorably to the Junta.

“Just at this moment the dragoons came in sight; they came galloping up, shouting like madmen. One look was enough for my fellows; they sprang to their legs from their devotions, fired a volley straight at the new moon, and ran like men.

“I was knocked down in the rush. As I regained my legs, Tom O’Flaherty was standing beside me, laughing like mad.

“‘Eh, Monsoon! I’ve kept my word, old fellow! What legs they have! We shall make no prisoners, that’s certain. Now, lads, here it is! Put the horses to, here. We shall take but one, Monsoon; so that your gallant defence of the rest will please the Junta. Good-night, good-night! I will drink your health every night these two months.’

“So saying, Tom sprang to his saddle; and in less time than I’ve been telling it, the whole was over and I sitting by myself in the gray moonlight, meditating on all I saw, and now and then shouting for my Portuguese friends to come back again. They came in time, by twos and threes; and at last the whole party re-assembled, and we set forth again, every man, from the intendant to the drummer, lauding my valor, and saying that Don Monsoon was a match for the Cid.”

“And how did the Junta behave?”

“Like trumps, Charley. Made me a Knight of Battalha, and kissed me on both cheeks, having sent twelve dozen of the rescued wine to my quarters, as a small testimony of their esteem. I have laughed very often at it since. But hush, Charley? What’s that I hear without there?”

“Oh, it’s my fellow Mike. He asked my leave to entertain his friends before parting, and I perceive he is delighting them with a song.”

“But what a confounded air it is! Are the words Hebrew?”

“Irish, Major; most classical Irish, too, I’ll be bound!”

“Irish! I’ve heard most tongues, but that certainly surprises me. Call him in, Charley, and let us have the canticle.”

In a few minutes more, Mr. Free appeared in a state of very satisfactory elevation, his eyebrows alternately rising and falling, his mouth a little drawn to one side, and a side motion in his knee-joints that might puzzle a physiologist to account for.

“A sweet little song of yours, Mike,” said the major; “a very sweet thing indeed. Wet your lips, Mickey.”

“Long life to your honor and Master Charles there, too, and them that belongs to both of yez. May a gooseberry skin make a nightcap for the man would harm either of ye.”

“Thank you, Mike. And now about that song.”

“It’s the ouldest tune ever was sung,” said Mike, with a hiccough, “barring Adam had a taste for music; but the words – the poethry – is not so ould.”

“And how comes that?”

“The poethry, ye see, was put to it by one of my ancesthors, – he was a great inventhor in times past, and made beautiful songs, – and ye’d never guess what it’s all about.”

“Love, mayhap?” quoth Monsoon.

“Sorra taste of kissing from beginning to end.”

“A drinking song?” said I.

“Whiskey is never mentioned.”

“Fighting is the only other national pastime. It must be in praise of sudden death?”

“You’re out again; but sure you’d never guess it,” said Mike. “Well, ye see, here’s what it is. It’s the praise and glory of ould Ireland in the great days that’s gone, when we were all Phenayceans and Armenians, and when we worked all manner of beautiful contrivances in gold and silver, – bracelets and collars and teapots, elegant to look at, – and read Roosian and Latin, and played the harp and the barrel-organ, and eat and drank of the best, for nothing but asking.”

“Blessed times, upon my life!” quoth the major; “I wish we had them back again.”

“There’s more of your mind,” said Mike, steadying himself. “My ancesthors was great people in them days; and sure it isn’t in my present situation I’d be av we had them back again, – sorra bit, faith! It isn’t, ‘Come here, Mickey, bad luck to you, Mike!’ or, ‘That blackguard, Mickey Free!’ people’d be calling me. But no matter; here’s your health again, Major Monsoon – ”

“Never mind vain regrets, Mike. Let us hear your song; the major has taken a great fancy to it.”

“Ah, then, it’s joking you are, Mister Charles,” said Mike, affecting an air of most bashful coyness.

“By no means; we want to hear you sing it.”

“To be sure we do. Sing it by all means; never be ashamed. King David was very fond of singing, – upon my life he was.”

“But you’d never understand a word of it, sir.”

“No matter; we know what it’s about. That’s the way with the Legion; they don’t know much English, but they generally guess what I’m at.”

This argument seemed to satisfy all Mike’s remaining scruples; so placing himself in an attitude of considerable pretension as to grace, he began, with a voice of no very measured compass, an air of which neither by name nor otherwise can I give any conception; my principal amusement being derived from a tol-de-rol chorus of the major, which concluded each verse, and indeed in a lower key accompanied the singer throughout.

Since that I have succeeded in obtaining a free-and-easy translation of the lyric; but in my anxiety to preserve the metre and something of the spirit of the original, I have made several blunders and many anachronisms. Mr. Free, however, pronounces my version a good one, and the world must take his word till some more worthy translator shall have consigned it to immortal verse.

With this apology, therefore, I present Mr. Free’s song:

AIR, —Na Guilloch y’ GoulenOh, once we were illigint people,Though we now live in cabins of mud;And the land that ye see from the steepleBelonged to us all from the Flood.My father was then King of Connaught,My grand-aunt Viceroy of Tralee;But the Sassenach came, and signs on it,The devil an acre have we.The least of us then were all earls,And jewels we wore without name;We drank punch out of rubies and pearls, —Mr. Petrie can tell you the same.But except some turf mould and potatoes,There’s nothing our own we can call;And the English, – bad luck to them! – hate us,Because we’ve more fun than them all!My grand-aunt was niece to Saint Kevin,That’s the reason my name’s Mickey Free!Priest’s nieces, – but sure he’s in heaven,And his failins is nothin’ to me.And we still might get on without doctors,If they’d let the ould Island alone;And if purple-men, priests, and tithe-proctorsWere crammed down the great gun of Athlone.

As Mike’s melody proceeded, the major’s thorough bass waxed beautifully less, – now and then, it’s true, roused by some momentary strain, it swelled upwards in full chorus, but gradually these passing flights grew rarer, and finally all ceased, save a long, low, droning sound, like the expiring sigh of a wearied bagpipe. His fingers still continued mechanically to beat time upon the table, and still his head nodded sympathetically to the music; his eyelids closed in sleep; and as the last verse concluded, a full-drawn snore announced that Monsoon, if not in the land of dreams, was at least in a happy oblivion of all terrestrial concerns, and caring as little for the woes of green Erin and the altered fortunes of the Free family as any Saxon that ever oppressed them.

There he sat, the finished decanter and empty goblet testifying that his labors had only ceased from the pressure of necessity; but the broken, half-uttered words that fell from his lips evinced that he reposed on the last bottle of the series.

“Oh, thin, he’s a fine ould gentleman!” said Mike, after a pause of some minutes, during which he had been contemplating the major with all the critical acumen Chantrey or Canova would have bestowed upon an antique statue, – “a fine ould gentleman, every inch of him; and it’s the master would like to have him up at the Castle.”

“Quite true, Mike; but let us not forget the road. Look to the cattle, and be ready to start within an hour.”

When he left the room for this purpose I endeavored to shake the major into momentary consciousness ere we parted.

“Major, Major,” said I, “time is up. I must start.”

“Yes, it’s all true, your Excellency: they pillaged a little; and if they did change their facings, there was a great temptation. All the red velvet they found in the churches – ”

“Good-by, old fellow, good-by!”

“Stand at ease!”

“Can’t, unfortunately, yet awhile; so farewell. I’ll make a capital report of the Legion to Sir Arthur; shall I add anything particularly from yourself?”

This, and the shake that accompanied it, aroused him. He started up, and looked about him for a few seconds.

“Eh, Charley! You didn’t say Sir Arthur was here, did you?”

“No, Major; don’t be frightened; he’s many a league off. I asked if you had anything to say when I met him?”

“Oh, yes, Charley! Tell him we’re capital troops in our own little way in the mountains; would never do in pitched battles, – skirmishing’s our forte; and for cutting off stragglers, or sacking a town, back them at any odds.”

“Yes, yes, I know all that; you’ve nothing more?”

“Nothing,” said he, once more closing his eyes and crossing his hands before him, while his lips continued to mutter on, – “nothing more, except you may say from me, – he knows me, Sir Arthur does. Tell him to guard himself from intemperance; a fine fellow if he wouldn’t drink.”

“You horrid old humbug, what nonsense are you muttering there?”

“Yes, yes; Solomon says, ‘Who hath red eyes and carbuncles?’ they that mix their lush. Pure Sneyd never injured any one. Tell him so from me, – it’s an old man’s advice, and I have drunk some hogsheads of it.”

With these words he ceased to speak, while his head, falling gently forward upon his chest, proclaimed him sound asleep.

“Adieu, then, for the last time,” said I, slapping him gently on the shoulder. “And now for the road.”

CHAPTER LVII

CUESTA

The second day of our journey was drawing to a close as we came in view of the Spanish army.

The position they occupied was an undulating plain beside the Teitar River; the country presented no striking feature of picturesque beauty, but the scene before us needed no such aid to make it one of the most interesting kind. From the little mountain path we travelled we beheld beneath a force of thirty thousand men drawn up in battle array, dense columns of infantry alternating with squadrons of horse or dark masses of artillery dotted the wide plain, the bright steel glittering in the rich sunset of a July evening when not a breath of air was stirring; the very banners hung down listlessly, and not a sound broke the solemn stillness of the hour. All was silent. So impressive and so strange was the spectacle of a vast army thus resting mutely under arms, that I reined in my horse, and almost doubted the reality of the scene as I gazed upon it. The dark shadows of the tall mountain were falling across the valley, and a starry sky was already replacing the ruddy glow of sunset as we reached the plain; but still no change took place in the position of the Spanish army.

“Who goes there?” cried a hoarse voice, as we issued from the mountain gorge, and in a moment we found ourselves surrounded by an outpost party. Having explained, as well as I was able, who I was, and for what reason I was there, I proceeded to accompany the officer towards the camp.

On my way thither I learned the reason of the singular display of troops which had been so puzzling to me. From an early hour of that day Sir Arthur Wellesley’s arrival had been expected, and old Cuesta had drawn up his men for inspection, and remained thus for several hours patiently awaiting his coming; he himself, overwhelmed with years and infirmity, sitting upon his horse the entire time.

As it was not necessary that I should be presented to the general, my report being for the ear of Sir Arthur himself, I willingly availed myself of the hospitality proffered by a Spanish officer of cavalry; and having provided for the comforts of my tired cattle and taken a hasty supper, issued forth to look at the troops, which, although it was now growing late, were still in the same attitude.

Scarcely had I been half an hour thus occupied, when the stillness of the scene was suddenly interrupted by the loud report of a large gun, immediately followed by a long roll of musketry, while at the same moment the bands of the different regiments struck up, and as if by magic a blaze of red light streamed across the dark ranks. This was effected by pine torches held aloft at intervals, throwing a lurid glare upon the grim and swarthy features of the Spaniards, whose brown uniforms and slouching hats presented a most picturesque effect as the red light fell upon them.

The swell of the thundering cannon grew louder and nearer, – the shouldering of muskets, the clash of sabres, and the hoarse roll of the drum, mingling in one common din. I at once guessed that Sir Arthur had arrived, and as I turned the flank of a battalion I saw the staff approaching. Nothing can be conceived more striking than their advance. In the front rode old Cuesta himself, clad in the costume of a past century, his slashed doublet and trunk hose reminding one of a more chivalrous period, his heavy, unwieldy figure looming from side to side, and threatening at each moment to fall from his saddle. On each side of him walked two figures gorgeously dressed, whose duty appeared to be to sustain the chief in his seat. At his side rode a far different figure. Mounted upon a slight-made, active thorough-bred, whose drawn flanks bespoke a long and weary journey, sat Sir Arthur Wellesley, a plain blue frock and gray trousers being his unpretending costume; but the eagle glance which he threw around on every side, the quick motion of his hand as he pointed hither and thither among the dense battalions, bespoke him every inch a soldier. Behind them came a brilliant staff, glittering in aiguillettes and golden trappings, among whom I recognized some well-remembered faces, – our gallant leader at the Douro, Sir Charles Stewart, among the number.

As they passed the spot where I was standing, the torch of a foot soldier behind me flared suddenly up and threw a strong flash upon the party. Cuesta’s horse grew frightened, and plunged so fearfully for a minute that the poor old man could scarcely keep his seat. A smile shot across Sir Arthur’s features at the moment, but the next instant he was grave and steadfast as before.

A wretched hovel, thatched and in ruins, formed the headquarters of the Spanish army, and thither the staff now bent their steps, – a supper being provided there for our commander-in-chief and the officers of his suite. Although not of the privileged party, I lingered round the spot for some time, anxiously expecting to find some friend or acquaintance who might tell me the news of our people, and what events had occurred in my absence.

CHAPTER LVIII

THE LETTER

The hours passed slowly over, and I at length grew weary of waiting. For some time I had amused myself with observing the slouching gait and unsoldier-like air of the Spaniards as they lounged carelessly about, looking in dress, gesture, and appointment, far move like a guerilla than a regular force. Then again, the strange contrast of the miserable hut with falling chimney and ruined walls, to the glitter of the mounted guard of honor who sat motionless beside it, served to pass the time; but as the night was already far advanced, I turned towards my quarters, hoping that the next morning might gratify my curiosity about my friends.

Beside the tent where I was billeted, I found Mike in waiting, who, the moment he saw me, came hastily forward with a letter in his hand. An officer of Sir Arthur’s staff had left it while I was absent, desiring Mike on no account to omit its delivery the first instant he met me. The hand – not a very legible one – was perfectly unknown to me, and the appearance of the billet such as betrayed no over-scrupulous care in the writer.

I trimmed my lamp leisurely, threw a fresh log upon the fire, disposed myself completely at full length beside it, and then proceeded to form acquaintance with my unknown correspondent. I will not attempt any description of the feelings which gradually filled me as I read on; the letter itself will suggest them to those who know my story. It ran thus: —

PLACENTIA, July 8, 1809.

DEAR O’MALLEY, – Although I’d rather march to Lisbon barefoot than write three lines, Fred Power insists upon my turning scribe, as he has a notion you’ll be up at Cuesta’s headquarters about this time. You’re in a nice scrape, devil a lie in it! Here has Fred been fighting that fellow Trevyllian for you, – all because you would not have patience and fight him yourself the morning you left the Douro, – so much for haste! Let it be a lesson to you for life.

Poor Fred got the ball in his hip, and the devil a one of the doctors can find it. But he’s getting better any way, and going to Lisbon for change of air. Meanwhile, since Power’s been wounded, Trevyllian’s speaking very hardly of you, and they all say here you must come back – no matter how – and put matters to rights. Fred has placed the thing in my hands, and I’m thinking we’d better call out the “heavies” by turns, – for most of them stand by Trevyllian.

Maurice Quill and myself sat up considering it last night; but, somehow, we don’t clearly remember to-day a beautiful plan we hit upon. However, we’ll have at it again this evening. Meanwhile, come over here, and let us be doing something. We hear that old Monsoon has blown up a town, a bridge, and a big convent. They must have been hiding the plunder very closely, or he’d never have been reduced to such extremities. We’ll have a brush with the French soon.

Yours most eagerly,

D. O’SHAUGHNESSY.

My first thought, as I ran my eye over these lines, was to seek for Power’s note, written on the morning we parted. I opened it, and to my horror found that it only related to my quarrel with Hammersley. My meeting with Trevyllian had been during Fred’s absence, and when he assured me that all was satisfactorily arranged, and a full explanation tendered, that nothing interfered with my departure, – I utterly forgot that he was only aware of one half my troubles, and in the haste and bustle of my departure, had not a moment left me to collect myself and think calmly on the matter. The two letters lay before me, and as I thought over the stain upon my character thus unwittingly incurred; the blast I had thrown upon my reputation; the wound of my poor friend, who exposed himself for my sake, – I grew sick at heart, and the bitter tears of agony burst from my eyes.

That weary night passed slowly over; the blight of all my prospects, when they seemed fairest and brightest, presented itself to me in a hundred shapes; and when, overcome by fatigue and exhaustion, I closed my eyes to sleep, it was only to follow up in my dreams my waking thoughts. Morning came at length; but its bright sunshine and balmy air brought no comfort to me. I absolutely dreaded to meet my brother officers; I felt that in such a position as I stood, no half or partial explanation could suffice to set me right in their estimation; and yet, what opportunity had I for aught else? Irresolute how to act, I sat leaning my head upon my hands, when I heard a footstep approach; I looked up and saw before me no other than my poor friend Sparks, from whom I had been separated so long. Any other adviser at such a moment would, I acknowledge, have been as welcome; for the poor fellow knew but little of the world, and still less of the service. However, one glance convinced me that his heart at least was true; and I shook his outstretched hand with delight. In a few words he informed me that Merivale had secretly commissioned him to come over in the hope of meeting me; that although all the 14th men were persuaded that I was not to blame in what had occurred, – yet that reports so injurious had gone abroad, so many partial and imperfect statements were circulated, that nothing but my return to headquarters would avail, and that I must not lose a moment in having Trevyllian out, with whom all the misrepresentation had originated.

“This, of course,” said Sparks, “is to be a secret; Merivale, being our colonel – ”

“Of course,” said I, “he cannot countenance, much less counsel, such a proceeding; Now, then, for the road.”