Charles O'Malley, The Irish Dragoon, Volume 2

The position which Massena occupied at Santarem, naturally one of great strength, and further improved by intrenchments, defied any attack on the part of Lord Wellington, until the arrival of the long-expected reinforcements from England. These had sailed in the early part of January, but delayed by adverse winds, only reached Lisbon on the 2d of March; and so correctly was the French marshal apprised of the circumstance, and so accurately did he anticipate the probable result, that on the fourth he broke up his encampment, and recommenced his retrograde movement, with an army now reduced to forty thousand fighting men, and with two thousand sick, destroying all his baggage and guns that could not be horsed. By a demonstration of advancing upon the Zezere, by which he held the allies in check, he succeeded in passing his wounded to the rear, while Ney, appearing with a large force suddenly at Leiria, seemed bent upon attacking the lines. By these stratagems two days’ march were gained, and the French retreated upon Torres Novas and Thomar, destroying the bridges behind them as they passed.

The day was breaking on the 12th of March, when the British first came in sight of the retiring enemy. We were then ordered to the front, and broken up into small parties, threw out our skirmishers. The French chasseurs, usually not indisposed to accept this species of encounter, showed now less of inclination than usual, and either retreated before us, or hovered in masses to check our advance; in this way the morning was passed, when towards noon we perceived that the enemy was drawn up in battle array, occupying the height above the village of Redinha. This little straggling village is situated in a hollow traversed by a narrow causeway which opens by a long and dangerous defile upon a bridge, on either side of which a dense wood afforded a shelter for light troops, while upon the commanding eminence above a battery of heavy guns was seen in position.

In front of the village a brigade of artillery and a division of infantry were drawn up so skilfully as to give the appearance of a considerable force, so that when Lord Wellington came up he spent some time in examining the enemy’s position. Erskine’s brigade was immediately ordered up, and the Fifty-second and Ninety-fourth, and a company of the Forty-third were led against the wooded slopes upon the French right. Picton simultaneously attacked the left, and in less than an hour, both were successful, and Ney’s position was laid bare; his skirmishers, however, continued to hold their ground in front, and La Ferrière, a colonel of hussars, dashing boldly forward at this very moment, carried off fourteen prisoners from the very front of our line. Deceived by the confidence of the enemy, Lord Wellington now prepared for an attack in force. The infantry were therefore formed into line, and, at the signal of three shots fired from the centre, began their foremost movement.

Bending up a gentle curve, the whole plain glistened with the glancing bayonets, and the troops marched majestically onward; while the light artillery and the cavalry, bounding forward from the left and centre, rushed eagerly towards the foe. One deafening discharge from the French guns opened at the moment, with a general volley of small-arms. The smoke for an instant obscured everything, and when that cleared away, no enemy was to be seen.

The British pressed madly on, like heated blood-hounds; but when they descended the slope, the village of Redinha was in flames, and the French in full retreat beyond it. A single howitzer seemed our only trophy, and even this we were not destined to boast of, for from the midst of the crashing flame and dense smoke of the burning village, a troop of dragoons rushed forward, and charging our infantry, carried it off. The struggle, though but for a moment, cost them dear: twenty of their comrades lay dead upon the spot; but they were resolute and determined, and the officer who led them on, fighting hand to hand with a soldier of the Forty-second, cheered them as they retired. His gallant bearing, and his coat covered with decorations, bespoke him one of note, and well it might; he who thus perilled his life to maintain the courage of his soldiers at the commencement of a retreat, was none other than Ney himself, le plus brave des braves. The British pressed hotly on, and the light troops crossed the river almost at the same time with the French. Ney, however, fell back upon Condeixa, where his main body was posted, and all farther pursuit was for the present abandoned.

At Casa Noval and at Foz d’Aronce, the allies were successful; but the French still continued to retire, burning the towns and villages in their rear, and devastating the country along the whole line of march by every expedient of cruelty the heart of man has ever conceived. In the words of one whose descriptions, however fraught with the most wonderful power of painting, are equally marked by truth, “Every horror that could make war hideous attended this dreadful march. Distress, conflagration, death in all modes, – from wounds, from fatigue, from water, from the flames, from starvation, – vengeance, unlimited vengeance, was on every side.” The country was a desert!

Such was the exhaustion of the allies, who suffered even greater privations than the enemy, that they halted upon the 16th, unable to proceed farther; and the river Ceira, swollen and unfordable, flowed between the rival armies.

The repose of even one day was a most grateful interruption to the harassing career we had pursued for some time past; and it seemed that my comrades felt, like myself, that such an opportunity was by no means to be neglected; but while I am devoting so much space and trespassing on my reader’s patience thus far with narrative of flood and field, let me steal a chapter for what will sometimes seem a scarcely less congenial topic, and bring back the recollection of a glorious night in the Peninsula.

CHAPTER XXI

PATRICK’S DAY IN THE PENINSULA

The réveil had not yet sounded, when I felt my shoulder shaken gently as I lay wrapped up in my cloak beneath a prickly pear-tree.

“Lieutenant O’Malley, sir; a letter, sir; a bit of a note, your honor,” said a voice that bespoke the bearer and myself were countrymen. I opened it, and with difficulty, by the uncertain light, read as follows: —

Dear Charley, – As Lord Wellington, like a good Irishman as he is, wouldn’t spoil Patrick’s Day by marching, we’ve got a little dinner at our quarters to celebrate the holy times, as my uncle would call it. Maurice, Phil Grady, and some regular trumps will all come, so don’t disappoint us. I’ve been making punch all night, and Casey, who has a knack at pastry, has made a goose-pie as big as a portmanteau. Sharp seven, after parade. The second battalion of the Fusiliers are quartered at Melanté, and we are next them. Bring any of yours worth their liquor. Power is, I know, absent with the staff; perhaps the Scotch doctor would come; try him. Carry over a little mustard with you, if there be such in your parts.

Yours,

D. O’SHAUGHNESSY.

Patrick’s day, and raining like blazes.

Seeing that the bearer expected an answer, I scrawled the words, “I’m there,” with my pencil on the back of the note, and again turned myself round to sleep. My slumbers were, however, soon interrupted once more; for the bugles of the light infantry and the hoarse trumpet of the cavalry sounded the call, and I found to my surprise that, though halted, we were by no means destined to a day of idleness. Dragoons were already mounted, carrying orders hither and thither, and staff-officers were galloping right and left. A general order commanded an inspection of the troops, and within less than an hour from daybreak the whole army was drawn up under arms. A thin, drizzling rain continued to fall during the early part of the day, but the sun gradually dispelled the heavy vapor; and as the bright verdure glittered in its beams, sending up all the perfumes of a southern clime, I thought I had never seen a more lovely morning. The staff were stationed upon a little knoll beside the river, round the base of which the troops defiled, at first in orderly, then in quick time, the bands playing and the colors flying. In the same brigade with us the Eighty-eighth came, and as they neared the commander-in-chief, their quick-step was suddenly stopped, and after a pause of a few seconds, the band struck up “St. Patrick’s Day;” the notes were caught up by the other Irish regiments, and amidst one prolonged cheer from the whole line, the gallant fellows moved past.

The grenadier company were drawn up beside the road, and I was not long in detecting my friend O’Shaughnessy, who wore a tremendous shamrock in his shako.

“Left face, wheel! Quick march! Don’t forget the mustard!” said the bold major; and a loud roar of laughing from my brother officers followed him off the ground. I soon explained the injunction, and having invited some three or four to accompany me to the dinner, waited with all patience for the conclusion of the parade.

The sun was setting as I mounted, and joined by Hampden, Baker, the doctor, and another, set out for O’Shaughnessy’s quarters. As we rode along, we were continually falling in with others bent upon the same errand as ourselves, and ere we arrived at Melanté our party was some thirty strong; and truly a most extraordinary procession did we form. Few of the invited came without some contribution to the general stock; and while a staff-officer flourished a ham, a smart hussar might be seen with a plucked turkey, trussed for roasting; most carried bottles, as the consumption of fluid was likely to be considerable; and one fat old major jogged along on a broken-winded pony, with a basket of potatoes on his arm. Good fellowship was the order of the day, and certainly a more jovial squadron seldom was met together than ours. As we turned the angle of a rising ground, a hearty cheer greeted us, and we beheld in front of an old ordnance marquee a party of some fifty fellows engaged in all the pleasing duties of the cuisine. Maurice, conspicuous above all, with a white apron and a ladle in his hand, was running hither and thither, advising, admonishing, instructing, and occasionally imprecating. Ceasing for a second his functions, he gave us a cheer and a yell like that of an Indian savage, and then resumed his duties beside a huge boiler, which, from the frequency of his explorations into its contents, we judged to be punch.

“Charley, my son, I’ve a place for you; don’t forget. Where’s my learned brother? – haven’t you brought him with you? Ah, Doctor, how goes it?”

“Nae that bad, Master Quell: a’ things considered, we’ve had an awfu’ time of it lately.”

“You know my friend Hampden, Maurice. Let me introduce Mr. Baker, Mr. Maurice Quill. Where’s the major?”

“Here I am, my darling, and delighted to see you. Some of yours, O’Malley, ain’t they? Proud to have you, gentlemen. Charley, we are obliged to have several tables; but you are to be beside Maurice, so take your friends with you. There goes the ‘Roast Beef;’ my heart warms to that old tune.”

Amidst a hurried recognition, and shaking of hands on every side, I elbowed my way into the tent, and soon reached a corner, where, at a table for eight, I found Maurice seated at one end; a huge, purple-faced old major, whom he presented to us as Bob Mahon, occupied the other. O’Shaughnessy presided at the table next to us, but near enough to join in all the conviviality of ours.

One must have lived for some months upon hard biscuit and harder beef to relish as we did the fare before us, and to form an estimate of our satisfaction. If the reader cannot fancy Van Amburgh’s lions in red coats and epaulettes, he must be content to lose the effect of the picture. A turkey rarely fed more than two people, and few were abstemious enough to be satisfied with one chicken. The order of the viands, too, observed no common routine, each party being happy to get what he could, and satisfied to follow up his pudding with fish, or his tart with a sausage. Sherry, champagne, London porter, Malaga, and even, I believe, Harvey’s sauce were hobnobbed in; while hot punch, in teacups or tin vessels, was unsparingly distributed on all sides. Achilles himself, they say, got tired of eating, and though he consumed something like a prize ox to his own cheek, he at length had to call for cheese, so that we at last gave in, and having cleared away the broken tumbrels and baggage-carts of our army, cleared for a general action.

“Now, lads!” cried the major, “I’m not going to lose your time and mine by speaking; but there are a couple of toasts I must insist upon your drinking with all the honors; and as I like despatch, we’ll couple them. It so happens that our old island boasts of two of the finest fellows that ever wore Russia ducks. None of your nonsensical geniuses, like poets or painters or anything like that; but downright, straightforward, no-humbug sort of devil-may-care and bad-luck-to-you kind of chaps, – real Irishmen! Now, it’s a strange thing that they both had such an antipathy to vermin, they spent their life in hunting them down and destroying them; and whether they met toads at home or Johnny Crapaud abroad, it was all one. [Cheers.] Just so, boys; they made them leave that; but I see you are impatient, so I’ll not delay you, but fill to the brim, and with the best cheer in your body, drink with me the two greatest Irishmen that ever lived, ‘Saint Patrick and Lord Wellington.’”

The Englishmen laughed long and loud, while we cheered with an energy that satisfied even the major.

“Who is to give us the chant? Who is to sing Saint Patrick?” cried Maurice. “Come, Bob, out with it.”

“I’m four tumblers too low for that yet,” growled out the major.

“Well, then, Charley, be you the man; or why not Dennis himself? Come, Dennis, we cannot better begin our evening than with a song; let us have our old friend ‘Larry M’Hale.’”

“Larry M’Hale!” resounded from all parts of the room, while O’Shaughnessy rose once more to his legs.

“Faith, boys, I’m always ready to follow your lead; but what analogy can exist between ‘Larry M’Hale’ and the toast we have just drank I can’t see for the life of me; not but Larry would have made a strapping light company man had he joined the army.”

“The song, the song!” cried several voices.

“Well, if you will have it, here goes:” —

LARRY M’HALEAIR, —“It’s a bit of a thing,” etcOh, Larry M’Hale he had little to fear,And never could want when the crops didn’t fail;He’d a house and demesne and eight hundred a year,And the heart for to spend it, had Larry M’Hale!The soul of a party, the life of a feast,And an illigant song he could sing, I’ll be bail;He would ride with the rector, and drink with the priest,Oh, the broth of a boy was old Larry M’Hale!It’s little he cared for the judge or recorder,His house was as big and as strong as a jail;With a cruel four-pounder, he kept in great order,He’d murder the country, would Larry M’Hale.He’d a blunderbuss too, of horse-pistols a pair;But his favorite weapon was always a flail.I wish you could see how he’d empty a fair,For he handled it neatly, did Larry M’Hale.His ancestors were kings before Moses was born,His mother descended from great Grana Uaile;He laughed all the Blakes and the Frenches to scorn;They were mushrooms compared to old Larry M’Hale.He sat down every day to a beautiful dinner,With cousins and uncles enough for a tail;And, though loaded with debt, oh, the devil a thinner,Could law or the sheriff make Larry M’Hale!With a larder supplied and a cellar well stored,None lived half so well, from Fair-Head to Kinsale,As he piously said, “I’ve a plentiful board,And the Lord he is good to old Larry M’Hale.”So fill up your glass, and a high bumper give him,It’s little we’d care for the tithes or repale;For ould Erin would be a fine country to live in,If we only had plenty like LARRY M’HALE.

“Very singular style of person your friend Mr. M’Hale,” lisped a spooney-looking cornet at the end of the table.

“Not in the country he belongs to, I assure you,” said Maurice; “but I presume you were never in Ireland.”

“You are mistaken there,” resumed the other; “I was in Ireland, though I confess not for a long time.”

“If I might be so bold,” cried Maurice, “how long?”

“Half an hour, by a stop-watch,” said the other, pulling up his stock; “and I had quite enough of it in that time.”

“Pray give us your experiences,” cried out Bob Mahon; “they should be interesting, considering your opportunities.”

“You are right,” said the cornet; “they were so; and as they illustrate a feature in your amiable country, you shall have them.”

A general knocking upon the table announced the impatience of the company, and when silence was restored the cornet began: —

When the ‘Bermuda’ transport sailed from Portsmouth for Lisbon, I happened to make one of some four hundred interesting individuals who, before they became food for powder, were destined to try their constitutions on pickled pork. The second day after our sailing, the winds became adverse; it blew a hurricane from every corner of the compass but the one it ought, and the good ship, that should have been standing straight for the Bay of Biscay, was scudding away under a double-reefed topsail towards the coast of Labrador. For six days we experienced every sea-manoeuvre that usually preludes a shipwreck, and at length, when, what from sea-sickness and fear, we had become utterly indifferent to the result, the storm abated, the sea went down, and we found ourselves lying comfortably in the harbor of Cork, with a strange suspicion on our minds that the frightful scenes of the past week had been nothing but a dream.

“‘Come, Mr. Medlicot,’ said the skipper to me, ‘we shall be here for a couple of days to refit; had you not better go ashore and see the country?’

“I sprang to my legs with delight; visions of cowslips, larks, daisies, and mutton-chops floated before my excited imagination, and in ten minutes I found myself standing at that pleasant little inn at Cove which, opposite Spike Island, rejoices in the name of the ‘Goat and Garters.’

“‘Breakfast, waiter,’ said I; ‘a beefsteak, – fresh beef, mark ye, – fresh eggs, bread, milk, and butter, all fresh. No more hard tack,’ thought I; ‘no salt butter, but a genuine land breakfast.’

“Up-stairs, No. 4, sir,’ said the waiter, as he flourished a dirty napkin, indicating the way.

“Up-stairs I went, and in due time the appetizing little meal made its appearance. Never did a minor’s eye revel over his broad acres with more complacent enjoyment than did mine skim over the mutton and the muffin, the tea-pot, the trout, and the devilled kidney, so invitingly spread out before me. ‘Yes,’ thought I, as I smacked my lips, ‘this is the reward of virtue; pickled pork is a probationary state that admirably fits us for future enjoyments.’ I arranged my napkin upon my knee, seized my knife and fork, and proceeded with most critical acumen to bisect a beefsteak. Scarcely, however, had I touched it, when, with a loud crash, the plate smashed beneath it, and the gravy ran piteously across the cloth. Before I had time to account for the phenomenon, the door opened hastily, and the waiter rushed into the room, his face beaming with smiles, while he rubbed his hands in an ecstasy of delight.

“‘It’s all over, sir,’ said he; ‘glory be to God! it’s all done.’

“‘What’s over? What’s done?’ inquired I, with impatience.

“‘Mr. M’Mahon is satisfied,’ replied he, ‘and so is the other gentleman.’

“‘Who and what the devil do you mean?’

“‘It’s over, sir, I say,’ replied the waiter again; ‘he fired in the air.’

“‘Fired in the air! Was there a duel in the room below stairs?’

“‘Yes, sir,’ said the waiter, with a benign smile.

“‘That will do,’ said I, as seizing my hat, I rushed out of the house, and hurrying to the beach, took a boat for the ship. Exactly half an hour had elapsed since my landing, but even those short thirty minutes had fully as many reasons that although there may be few more amusing, there are some safer places to live in than the Green Isle.”

A general burst of laughter followed the cornet’s story, which was heightened in its effect by the gravity with which he told it.

“And after all,” said Maurice Quill, “now that people have given up making fortunes for the insurance companies by living to the age of Methuselah, there’s nothing like being an Irishman. In what other part of the habitable globe can you cram so much adventure into one year? Where can you be so often in love, in liquor, or in debt; and where can you get so merrily out of the three? Where are promises to marry and promises to pay treated with the same gentleman-like forbearance; and where, when you have lost your heart and your fortune, are people found so ready to comfort you in your reverses? Yes,” said Maurice, as he filled his glass up to the brim, and eyed it lusciously for a moment, – “yes, darling, here’s your health; the only girl I ever loved – in that part of the country, I mean. Give her a bumper, lads, and I’ll give you a chant.”

“Name! name! name!” shouted several voices from different parts of the table.

“Mary Draper!” said Maurice, filling his glass once more, while the name was re-echoed by every lip at table.

“The song! the song!”

“Faith, I hope I haven’t forgotten it,” quoth Maurice. “No; here it is.”

So saying, after a couple of efforts to assure the pitch of his voice, the worthy doctor began the following words to that very popular melody, “Nancy Dawson:” —

MARY DRAPERAIR, —Nancy DawsonDon’t talk to me of London dames,Nor rave about your foreign flames,That never lived, except in drames,Nor shone, except on paper;I’ll sing you ‘bout a girl I knew,Who lived in Ballywhacmacrew,And let me tell you, mighty fewCould equal Mary Draper.Her cheeks were red, her eyes were blue,Her hair was brown of deepest hue,Her foot was small, and neat to view,Her waist was slight and taper;Her voice was music to your ear,A lovely brogue, so rich and clear,Oh, the like I ne’er again shall hear,As from sweet Mary Draper.She’d ride a wall, she’d drive a team,Or with a fly she’d whip a stream,Or may be sing you “Rousseau’s Dream,”For nothing could escape her;I’ve seen her, too, – upon my word, —At sixty yards bring down her bird,Oh, she charmed all the Forty-third,Did lovely Mary Draper.And at the spring assizes’ ball,The junior bar would one and allFor all her fav’rite dances call,And Harry Dean would caper;Lord Clare would then forget his lore;King’s Counsel, voting law a bore,Were proud to figure on the floor,For love of Mary Draper.The parson, priest, sub-sheriff too,Were all her slaves, and so would you,If you had only but one view,Of such a face and shape, orHer pretty ankles – But, ohone,It’s only west of old AthloneSuch girls were found – and now they’re gone —So here’s to Mary Draper!

“So here’s to Mary Draper!” sang out every voice, in such efforts to catch the tune as pleased the taste of the motley assembly.

“For Mary Draper and Co., I thank you,” said Maurice. “Quill drinks to Dennis,” added he, in a grave tone, as he nodded to O’Shaughnessy. “Yes, Shaugh, few men better than ourselves know these matters; and few have had more experience of the three perils of Irishmen, – love, liquor, and the law of arrest.”

“It’s little the latter has ever troubled my father’s son,” replied O’Shaughnessy. “Our family have been writ proof for centuries, and he’d have been a bold man who would have ventured with an original or a true copy within the precincts of Killinahoula.”

“Your father had a touch of Larry M’Hale in him,” said I, “apparently.”

“Exactly so,” replied Dennis; “not but they caught him at last, and a scurvy trick it was and well worthy of him who did it! Yes,” said he, with a sigh, “it is only another among the many instances where the better features of our nationality have been used by our enemies as instruments for our destruction; and should we seek for the causes of unhappiness in our wretched country, we should find them rather in our virtues than in our vices, and in the bright rather than in the darker phases of our character.”

“Metaphysics, by Jove!” cried Quill; “but all true at the same time. There was a mess-mate of mine in the ‘Roscommon’ who never paid car-hire in his life. ‘Head or harp, Paddy!’ he would cry. ‘Two tenpennies or nothing.’ ‘Harp, for the honor of ould Ireland!’ was the invariable response, and my friend was equally sure to make head come uppermost; and, upon my soul, they seem to know the trick at the Home Office.”