Charles O'Malley, The Irish Dragoon, Volume 2

“That must have been the same fellow that took my father,” cried O’Shaughnessy, with energy.

“Let us hear the story, Dennis,” said I.

“Yes,” said Maurice, “for the benefit of self and fellows, let us hear the stratagem!”

“The way of it was this,” resumed O’Shaughnessy. “My father, who for reasons registered in the King’s Bench spent a great many years of his life in that part of Ireland geographically known as lying west of the law, was obliged, for certain reasons of family, to come up to Dublin. This he proceeded to do with due caution. Two trusty servants formed an advance guard, and patrolled the country for at least five miles in advance; after them came a skirmishing body of a few tenants, who, for the consideration of never paying rent, would have charged the whole Court of Chancery, if needful. My father himself, in an old chaise victualled like a fortress, brought up the rear; and as I said before, he were a bold man who would have attempted to have laid siege to him. As the column advanced into the enemy’s country, they assumed a closer order, the patrol and the picket falling back upon the main body; and in this way they reached that most interesting city called Kilbeggan. What a fortunate thing it is for us in Ireland that we can see so much of the world without foreign travel, and that any gentleman for six-and-eightpence can leave Dublin in the morning, and visit Timbuctoo against dinner-time. Don’t stare! it’s truth I’m telling; for dirt, misery, smoke, unaffected behavior, and black faces, I’ll back Kilbeggan against all Africa. Free-and-easy, pleasant people ye are, with a skin, as begrimed and as rugged as your own potatoes! But, to resume. The sun was just rising in a delicious morning of June, when my father, – whose loyal antipathies I have mentioned made him also an early riser, – was preparing for the road. A stout escort of his followers were as usual under arms to see him safe in the chaise, the passage to and from which every day being the critical moment of my father’s life.

“‘It’s all right, your honor,’ said his own man, as, armed with a blunderbuss, he opened the bed-room door.

“‘Time enough, Tim,’ said my father; ‘close the door, for I haven’t finished my breakfast.’

“Now, the real truth was, that my father’s attention was at that moment withdrawn from his own concerns by a scene which was taking place in a field beneath his window.

“But a few minutes before, a hack-chaise had stopped upon the roadside, out of which sprang three gentlemen, who, proceeding into the field, seemed bent upon something, which, whether a survey or a duel, my father could not make out. He was not long, however, to remain in ignorance. One, with an easy, lounging gait, strode towards a distant corner; another took an opposite direction; while a third, a short, pursy gentleman, in a red handkerchief and rabbit-skin waistcoat, proceeded to open a mahogany box, which, to the critical eyes of my respected father, was agreeably suggestive of bloodshed and murder.

“‘A duel, by Jupiter!’ said my father, rubbing his hands. ‘What a heavenly morning the scoundrels have, – not a leaf stirring, and a sod like a billiard-table!’

“Meanwhile the little man who officiated as second, it would appear to both parties, bustled about with an activity little congenial to his shape; and what between snapping the pistols, examining the flints, and ramming down the charges, had got himself into a sufficient perspiration before he commenced to measure the ground.

“‘Short distance and no quarter!’ shouted one of the combatants, from the corner of the field.

“‘Across a handkerchief, if you like!’ roared the other.

“‘Gentlemen, every inch of them!’ responded my father.

“‘Twelve paces!’ cried the little man. ‘No more and no less. Don’t forget that I am alone in this business!’

“‘A very true remark!’ observed my father; ‘and an awkward predicament yours will be if they are not both shot!’

“By this time the combatants had taken their places, and the little man, having delivered the pistols, was leisurely retiring to give the word. My father, however, whose critical eye was never at fault, detected a circumstance which promised an immense advantage to one at the expense of the other; in fact, one of the parties was so placed with his back to the sun, that his shadow extended in a straight line to the very foot of his antagonist.

“‘Unfair, unfair!’ cried my father, opening the window as he spoke, and addressing himself to him of the rabbit-skin. ‘I crave your pardon for the interruption,’ said he; ‘but I feel bound to observe that that gentleman’s shadow is likely to make a shade of him.’

“‘And so it is,’ observed the short man; ‘a thousand thanks for your kindness, but the truth is, I am totally unaccustomed to this kind of thing, and the affair will not admit of delay.’

“‘Not an hour!’ said one.

“‘No, not five minutes!’ growled the other of the combatants.

“‘Put them up north and south,’ said my father.

“‘Is it thus?’

“‘Exactly so. But now, again, the gentleman in the brown coat is covered with the ash-tree.’

“‘And so he is!’ said rabbit-skin, wiping his forehead with agitation.

“‘Move them a little to the left,’ said he.

“‘That brings me upon an eminence,’ said the gentleman in blue. ‘I’ll be d – d if I be made a cock shot of!’

“‘What an awkward little thief it is in the hairy waistcoat!’ said my father; ‘he’s lucky if he don’t get shot himself!’

“‘May I never, if I’m not sick of you both!’ ejaculated rabbit-skin, in a passion. ‘I’ve moved you round every point of the compass, and the devil a nearer we are than ever!’

“‘Give us the word,’ said one.

“‘The word!’

“‘Downright murder,’ said my father.

“‘I don’t care,’ said the little man; ‘we shall be here till doomsday.’

“‘I can’t permit this,’ said my father; ‘allow me.’ So saying, he stepped upon the window-sill, and leaped down into the field.

“‘Before I can accept of your politeness,’ said he of the rabbit-skin, ‘may I beg to know your name and position in society?’

“‘Nothing more reasonable,’ said my father. ‘I’m Miles O’Shaughnessy, Colonel of the Royal Raspers, – here is my card.’

“The piece of pasteboard was complacently handed from one to the other of the party, who saluted my father with a smile of most courteous benignity.

“‘Colonel O’Shaughnessy,’ said one.

“‘Miles O’Shaughnessy,’ said the other.

“‘Of Killinahoula Castle,’ said the third.

“‘At your service,’ said my father, bowing, as he presented his snuff-box; ‘and now to business, if you please, for my time also is limited.’

“‘Very true,’ observed he of the rabbit-skin; ‘and, as you observe, now to business; in virtue of which, Colonel Miles O’Shaughnessy, I hereby arrest you in the King’s name. Here is the writ; it’s at the suit of Barnaby Kelly, of Loughrea, for the sum of £1,482 19s. 7-1/2d., which – ’

“Before he could conclude the sentence, my father discharged one obligation by implanting his closed knuckles in his face. The blow, well aimed and well intentioned, sent the little fellow summersetting like a sugar hogshead. But, alas! it was of no use; the others, strong and able-bodied, fell both upon him, and after a desperate struggle succeeded in getting him down. To tie his hands, and convey him to the chaise, was the work of a few moments; and as my father drove by the inn, the last object which caught his view was a bloody encounter between his own people and the myrmidons of the law, who, in great numbers, had laid siege to the house during his capture. Thus was my father taken; and thus, in reward for yielding to a virtuous weakness in his character, was he consigned to the ignominious durance of a prison. Was I not right, then, in saying that such is the melancholy position of our country, the most beautiful traits in our character are converted into the elements of our ruin?”

“I dinna think ye ha’e made out your case, Major?” said the Scotch doctor, who felt sorely puzzled at my friend’s logic. “If your faether had na gi’en the bond – ”

“There is no saying what he wouldn’t have done to the bailiffs,” interrupted Dennis, who was following up a very different train of reasoning.

“I fear me, Doctor,” observed Quill, “you are much behind us in Scotland. Not but that some of your chieftains are respectable men, and wouldn’t get on badly even in Galway.”

“I thank ye muckle for the compliment,” said the doctor, dryly; “but I ha’e my doubts they’d think it ane, and they’re crusty carls that’s no’ ower safe to meddle wi’.”

“I’d as soon propose a hand of ‘spoiled five’ to the Pope of Rome, as a joke to one of them,” returned Maurice.

“May be ye are na wrang there, Maister Quell.”

“Well,” cried Hampden, “if I may be allowed an opinion, I can safely aver I know no quarters like Scotland. Edinburgh beyond anything or anywhere I was ever placed in.”

“Always after Dublin,” interposed Maurice; while a general chorus of voices re-echoed the sentiment.

“You are certainly a strong majority,” said my friend, “against me; but still I recant not my original opinion. Edinburgh before the world. For a hospitality that never tires; for pleasant fellows that improve every day of your acquaintance; for pretty girls that make you long for a repeal of the canon about being only singly blessed, and lead you to long for a score of them, Edinburgh, – I say again, before the world.”

“Their ankles are devilish thick,” whispered Maurice.

“A calumny, a base calumny!”

“And then they drink – ”

“Oh – ”

“Yes; they drink very strong tea.”

“Shall we ha’e a glass o’ sherry together, Hampden?” said the Scotch doctor, willing to acknowledge his defence of auld Reekie.

“And we’ll take O’Malley in,” said Hampden; “he looks imploringly.”

“And now to return to the charge,” quoth Maurice. “In what particular dare ye contend the palm with Dublin? We’ll not speak of beauty. I can’t suffer any such profane turn in the conversation as to dispute the superiority of Irishwomen’s lips, eyes, noses, and eyebrows, to anything under heaven. We’ll not talk of gay fellows; egad, we needn’t. I’ll give you the garrison, – a decent present, – and I’ll back the Irish bar for more genuine drollery, more wit, more epigram, more ready sparkling fun, than the whole rest of the empire – ay, and all her colonies – can boast of.”

“They are nae remarkable for passing the bottle, if they resemble their very gifted advocate,” observed the Scotchman.

“But they are for filling and emptying both, making its current, as it glides by, like a rich stream glittering in the sunbeams with the sparkling lustre of their wit. Lord, how I’m blown! Fill my pannikin, Charley. There’s no subduing a Scot. Talk with him, drink with him, fight with him, and he’ll always have the last of it; there’s only one way of concluding the treaty – ”

“And that is – ”

“Blarney him. Lord bless you, he can’t stand it! Tell him Holyrood’s like Versailles, and the Trossach’s finer than Mont Blanc; that Geordie Buchanan was Homer, and the Canongate, Herculaneum, – then ye have him on the hip. Now, ye never can humbug an Irishman that way; he’ll know you’re quizzing him when you praise his country.”

“Ye are right, Hampden,” said the Scotch doctor, in reply to some observation. “We are vara primitive in the Hielands, and we keep to our ain national customs in dress and everything; and we are vara slow to learn, and even when we try we are nae ower successfu’ in our imitations, which sometimes cost us dearly enough. Ye may have heard, may be, of the M’Nab o’ that ilk, and what happened him with the king’s equerry?”

“I’m not quite certain,” said Hampden, “if I ever heard the story.”

“It’s nae muckle of a story; but the way of it was this. When Montrose came back from London, he brought with him a few Englishers to show them the Highlands, and let them see something of deer-stalking, – among the rest, a certain Sir George Sowerby, an aide-de-camp or an equerry of the prince. He was a vara fine gentleman, that never loaded his ain gun, and a’most thought it too much trouble to pull the trigger. He went out every morning to shoot with his hair curled like a woman, and dressed like a dancing-master. Now, there happened to be at the same time at the castle the Laird o’ M’Nab; he was a kind of cousin of the Montrose, and a rough old tyke of the true Hieland breed, wha’ thought that the head of a clan was fully equal to any king or prince. He sat opposite to Sir George at dinner the day of his arrival, and could not conceal his surprise at the many new-fangled ways of feeding himself the Englisher adopted. He ate his saumon wi’ his fork in ae hand, and a bittock of bread in the other. He would na touch the whiskey; helped himself to a cutlet wi’ his fingers. But what was maist extraordinary of all, he wore a pair o’ braw white gloves during the whole time o’ dinner and when they came to tak’ away the cloth, he drew them off with a great air, and threw them into the middle of it, and then, leisurely taking anither pair off a silver salver which his ain man presented, he pat them on for dessert. The M’Nab, who, although an auld-fashioned carl, was aye fond of bringing something new hame to his friends, remarked the Englisher’s proceeding with great care, and the next day he appeared at dinner wi’ a huge pair of Hieland mittens, which he wore, to the astonishment of all and the amusement of most, through the whole three courses; and exactly as the Englishman changed his gloves, the M’Nab produced a fresh pair of goats’ wool, four times as large as the first, which, drawing on with prodigious gravity, he threw the others into the middle of the cloth, remarking, as he did so, —

“‘Ye see, Captain, we are never ower auld to learn.’

“All propriety was now at an end, and a hearty burst of laughter from one end of the table to the other convulsed the whole company, – the M’Nab and the Englishman being the only persons who did not join in it, but sat glowering at each other like twa tigers; and, indeed, it needed, a’ the Montrose’s interference that they had na quarrelled upon it in the morning.”

“The M’Nab was a man after my own heart,” said Maurice; “there was something very Irish in the lesson he gave the Englishman.”

“I’d rather ye’d told him that than me,” said the doctor, dryly; “he would na hae thanked ye for mistaking him for ane of your countrymen.”

“Come, Doctor,” said Dennis, “could not ye give us a stave? Have ye nothing that smacks of the brown fern and the blue lakes in your memory?”

“I have na a sang in my mind just noo except ‘Johnny Cope,’ which may be might na be ower pleasant for the Englishers to listen to.”

“I never heard a Scotch song worth sixpence,” quoth Maurice, who seemed bent on provoking the doctor’s ire. “They contain nothing save some puling sentimentality about lasses with lint-white locks, or some absurd laudations of the Barley Bree.”

“Hear till him, hear till him!” said the doctor, reddening with impatience.

“Show me anything,” said Maurice, “like the ‘Cruiskeen Lawn’ or the ‘Jug of Punch;’ but who can blame them, after all? You can’t expect much from a people with an imagination as naked as their own knees.”

“Maurice! Maurice!” cried O’Shaughnessy, reprovingly, who saw that he was pushing the other’s endurance beyond all bounds.

“I mind weel,” said the Scotchman, “what happened to ane o’ your countrymen wha took upon him to jest as you are doing now. It was to Laurie Cameron he did it.”

“And what said the redoubted Laurie in reply?”

“He did na say muckle, but he did something.”

“And what might it be?” inquired Maurice.

“He threw him ower the brig of Ayr into the water, and he was drowned.”

“And did Laurie come to no harm about the matter?”

“Ay, they tried him for it, and found him guilty; but when they asked him what he had to say in his defence, he merely replied, ‘When the carl sneered about Scotland, I did na suspect that he did na ken how to swim;’ and so the end of it was, they did naething to Laurie.”

“Cool that, certainly,” said I.

“I prefer your friend with the mittens, I confess,” said Maurice, “though I’m sure both were most agreeable companion. But come, Doctor, couldn’t you give us, —

Sit ye down, my heartie, and gie us a crack,Let the wind tak’ the care o’ the world on his back.’”

“You maunna attempt English poethry, my freend Quell; for it must be confessed ye’e a damnable accent of your ain.”

“Milesian-Phoenician-Corkacian; nothing more, my boy, and a coaxing kind of recitative it is, after all. Don’t tell me of your soft Etruscan, your plethoric. Hoch-Deutsch, your flattering French. To woo and win the girl of your heart, give me a rich brogue and the least taste in life of blarney! There’s nothing like it, believe me, – every inflection of your voice suggesting some tender pressure of her soft hand or taper waist, every cadence falling on her gentle heart like a sea-breeze on a burning coast, or a soft sirocco over a rose-tree. And then, think, my boys, – and it is a fine thought after all, – what a glorious gift that is, out of the reach of kings to give or to take, what neither depends upon the act of Union nor the Habeas Corpus. No! they may starve us, laugh at us, tax us, transport us. They may take our mountains, our valleys, and our bogs; but, bad luck to them, they can’t steal our ‘blarney;’ that’s the privilege one and indivisible with our identity. And while an Englishman raves of his liberty, a Scotchman of his oaten meal, blarney’s our birthright, and a prettier portion I’d never ask to leave behind me to my sons. If I’d as large a family as the ould gentleman called Priam we used to hear of at school, it’s the only inheritance I’d give them, and one comfort there would be besides, the legacy duty would be only a trifle. Charley, my son, I see you’re listening to me, and nothing satisfies me more than to instruct inspiring youth; so never forget the old song, —

‘If at your ease, the girls you’d please,And win them, like Kate Kearney,There’s but one way, I’ve heard them say,Go kiss the Stone of Blarney.’”

“What do you say, Shaugh, if we drink it with all the honors?”

“But gently: do I hear a trumpet there?”

“Ah, there go the bugles. Can it be daybreak already?”

“How short the nights are at this season!” said Quill.

“What an infernal rumpus they’re making! It’s not possible the troops are to march so early.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” quoth Maurice; “there is no knowing what the commander-in-chief’s not capable of, – the reason’s clear enough.”

“And why, Maurice?”

“There’s not a bit of blarney about him.”

The réveil sang out from every brigade, and the drums beat to fall in, while Mike came galloping up at full speed to say that the bridge of boats was completed, and that the Twelfth were already ordered to cross. Not a moment was therefore to be lost; one parting cup we drained to our next meeting, and amidst a hundred “good-bys” we mounted our horses. Poor Hampden’s brains, sadly confused by the wine and the laughing, he knew little of what was going on around him, and passed the entire time of our homeward ride in a vain endeavor to adapt “Mary Draper” to the air of “Rule Britannia.”

CHAPTER XXII

FUENTES D’ONORO

From this period the French continued their retreat, closely followed by the allied armies, and on the 5th of April, Massena once more crossed the frontier into Spain, leaving thirty thousand of his bravest troops behind him, fourteen thousand of whom had fallen or been taken prisoners. Reinforcements, however, came rapidly pouring in. Two divisions of the Ninth corps had already arrived, and Drouet, with eleven thousand infantry and cavalry, was preparing to march to his assistance. Thus strengthened, the French army marched towards the Portuguese frontier, and Lord Wellington, who had determined not to hazard much by his blockade of Ciudad Rodrigo, fell back upon the large table-land beyond the Turones and the Dos Casas, with his left at Fort Conception, and his right resting upon Fuentes d’Onoro. His position extended to about five miles; and here, although vastly inferior in numbers, yet relying upon the bravery of the troops, and the moral ascendency acquired by their pursuit of the enemy, he finally resolved upon giving them battle.

Being sent with despatches to Pack’s brigade, which formed the blockading force at Almeida, I did not reach Fuentes d’Onoro until the evening of the 3d. The thundering of the guns, which, even at the distance I was at, was plainly heard, announced that an attack had taken place, but it by no means prepared me for the scene which presented itself on my return.

The village of Fuentes d’Onoro, one of the most beautiful in Spain, is situated in a lovely valley, where all the charms of verdure so peculiar to the Peninsula seemed to have been scattered with a lavish hand. The citron and the arbutus, growing wild, sheltered every cottage door, and the olive and the laurel threw their shadows across the little rivulet which traversed the village. The houses, observing no uniform arrangement, stood wherever the caprice or the inclination of the builder suggested, surrounded with little gardens, the inequality of the ground imparting a picturesque feature to even the lowliest hut, while upon a craggy eminence above the rest, an ancient convent and a ruined chapel looked down upon the little peaceful hamlet with an air of tender protection.

Hitherto this lovely spot had escaped all the ravages of war. The light division of our army had occupied it for months long; and every family was gratefully remembered by some one or other of our officers, and more than one of our wounded found in the kind and affectionate watching of these poor peasants the solace which sickness rarely meets with when far from home and country.

It was, then, with an anxious heart I pressed my horse forward into a gallop as the night drew near. The artillery had been distinctly heard during the day, and while I burned with eagerness to know the result, I felt scarcely less anxious for the fate of that little hamlet whose name many a kind story had implanted in my memory. The moon was shining brightly as I passed the outpost, and leading my horse by the bridle, descended the steep and rugged causeway to the village beneath me. The lanterns were moving rapidly to and fro; the measured tread of infantry at night – that ominous sound, which falls upon the heart so sadly – told me that they were burying the dead. The air was still and breathless; not a sound was stirring save the step of the soldiery, and the harsh clash of the shovel as it struck the earth. I felt sad and sick at heart, and leaned against a tree; a nightingale concealed in the leaves was pouring forth its plaintive notes to the night air, and its low warble sounded like the dirge of the departed. Far beyond, in the plain, the French watch-fires were burning, and I could see from time to time the fatigue-parties moving in search of their wounded. At this moment the clock of the convent struck eleven, and a merry chime rang out, and was taken up by the echoes till it melted away in the distance. Alas, where were those whose hearts were wont to feel cheered at that happy peal; whose infancy it had gladdened; whose old age it has hallowed? The fallen walls, the broken roof-trees, the ruin and desolation on every side, told too plainly that they had passed away forever! The smoking embers, the torn-up pathway, denoted the hard-fought struggle; and as I passed along, I could see that every garden, where the cherry and the apple-blossom were even still perfuming the air, had now its sepulchre.

“Halt, there!” cried a hoarse voice in front. “You cannot pass this way, – the commander-in-chief’s quarters.”

I looked up and beheld a small but neat-looking cottage, which seemed to have suffered less than the others around. Lights were shining brightly from the windows, and I could even detect from time to time a figure muffled up in a cloak passing to and fro across the window; while another, seated at a table, was occupied in writing. I turned into a narrow path which led into the little square of the village, and here, as I approached, the hum and murmur of voices announced a bivouac party. Stopping to ask what had been the result of the day, I learned that a tremendous attack had been made by the French in column upon the village, which was at first successful; but that afterwards the Seventy-first and Seventy-ninth, marching down from the heights, had repulsed the enemy, and driven them beyond the Dos Casas. Five hundred had fallen in that fierce encounter, which was continued through every street and alley of the little hamlet. The gallant Highlanders now occupied the battle-field; and hearing that the cavalry brigade was some miles distant, I willingly accepted their offer to share their bivouac, and passed the remainder of the night among them.