Charles O'Malley, The Irish Dragoon Volume I Part 52

"'Yes, sir,' said the sergeant, sorely puzzled at the meaning of what he spoke.

"'Bear him to the Shannon, and lave him there.' This he said in a kind of Coriola.n.u.s tone, with a toss of his head and a wave of his right arm,--signs, whenever he made them, incontestibly showing that further parley was out of the question, and that he had summed up and charged the jury for good and all.

"'_Lave_ him in the river?' said O'Toole, his eyes starting from the sockets, and his whole face working in strong anxiety; 'is it _lave_ him in the river yer honor means?'

"'I have spoken,' said the little man, bending an ominous frown upon the sergeant, which, whatever construction he may have put upon his words, there was no mistaking.

"'Well, well, av it's G.o.d's will he's drowned, it will not be on my head,'

says O'Toole, as he marched the fellow away between two rank and file.

"The parade was nearly over, when Mac happened to see the sergeant coming up all splashed with water and looking quite tired.

"'Have you obeyed my orders?' said he.

"'Yes, yer honor; and tough work we had of it, for he struggled hard.'

"'And where is he now?'

"'Oh, troth, he's there safe. Divil a fear he'll get out.'

"'Where?' said Mac.

"'In the river, yer honor.'

"'What have you done, you scoundrel?'

"'Didn't I do as you bid me?' says he; 'didn't I throw him in and _lave_ [leave] him there?'

"And faith so they did; and if he wasn't a good swimmer and got over to Moystown, there's little doubt but he'd have been drowned, and all because Peter McMa.n.u.s could not express himself like a Christian."

In the laughter which followed O'Shaughnessy's story I took the opportunity of making my escape from the party, and succeeded in gaining the street un.o.bserved. Though the note I had just read was not signed, I had no doubt from whom it came; so I hastened at once to my quarters, to make search for the lock of Ned Howard's hair to which the senhora alluded. What was my mortification, however, to discover that no such thing could be found anywhere. I searched all my drawers; I tossed about my papers and letters; I hunted every likely, every unlikely spot I could think of, but in vain,--now cursing my carelessness for having lost it, now swearing most solemnly to myself that I never could have received it. What was to be done? It was already late; my only thought was how to replace it. If I only knew the color, any other lock of hair would, doubtless, do just as well.

The chances were, as Howard was young and an Englishman, that his hair was light; light-brown, probably, something like my own. Of course it was; why didn't that thought occur to me before? How stupid I was. So saying, I seized a pair of scissors, and cut a long lock beside my temple; this in a calm moment I might have hesitated about. "Yes," thought I, "she'll never discover the cheat; and besides, I do feel,--I know not exactly why,--rather gratified to think that I shall have left this _souvenir_ behind me, even though it call up other recollections than of me." So thinking, I wrapped my cloak about me and hastened towards the Casino.

CHAPTER XLI.

THE ROUTE.

I had scarcely gone a hundred yards from my quarters when a great tramp of horses' feet attracted my attention. I stopped to listen, and soon heard the jingle of dragoon accoutrements, as the noise came near. The night was dark but perfectly still; and before I stood many minutes I heard the tones of a voice which I well knew could belong to but one, and that Fred Power.

"Fred Power!" said I, shouting at the same time at the top of my voice,--"Power!"

"Ah, Charley, is that you? Come along to the adjutant-general's quarters.

I'm charged with some important despatches, and can't stop till I've delivered them. Come along, I've glorious news for you!" So saying, he dashed spurs to his horse, and followed by two mounted dragoons, galloped past. Power's few and hurried words had so excited my curiosity that I turned at once to follow him, questioning myself, as I walked along, to what he could possibly allude. He knew of my attachment to Lucy Dashwood,--could he mean anything of her? But what could I expect there; by what flattery could I picture to myself any chance of success in that quarter; and yet, what other news could I care for or value than what bore upon her fate upon whom my own depended? Thus ruminating, I reached the door of the s.p.a.cious building in which the adjutant-general had taken up his abode, and soon found myself among a crowd of persons whom the rumor of some important event had a.s.sembled there, though no one could tell what had occurred. Before many minutes the door opened, and Power came out; bowing hurriedly to a few, and whispering a word or two as he pa.s.sed down the steps, he seized me by the arm and led me across the street. "Charley,"

said he, "the curtain's rising; the piece is about to begin; a new commander-in-chief is sent out,--Sir Arthur Wellesley, my boy, the finest fellow in England is to lead us on, and we march to-morrow. There's news for you!" A raw boy, unread, uninformed as I was, I knew but little of his career whose name had even then shed such l.u.s.tre upon our army; but the buoyant tone of Power as he spoke, the kindling energy of his voice roused me, and I felt every inch a soldier. As I grasped his hand in delightful enthusiasm I lost all memory of my disappointment, and in the beating throb that shook my head; I felt how deeply slept the ardor of military glory that first led me from my home to see a battle-field.

"There goes the news!" said Frederick, pointing as he spoke to a rocket that shot up into the sky, and as it broke into ten thousand stars, illuminated the broad stream where the s.h.i.+ps of war lay darkly resting. In another moment the whole air shone with similar fires, while the deep roll of the drum sounded along the silent streets, and the city so lately sunk in sleep became, as if by magic, thronged with crowds of people; the sharp clang of the cavalry trumpet blended with the gay carol of the light-infantry bugle, and the heavy tramp of the march was heard in the distance. All was excitement, all bustle; but in the joyous tone of every voice was spoken the longing anxiety to meet the enemy. The gay, reckless tone of an Irish song would occasionally reach us, as some Connaught Ranger or some 78th man pa.s.sed, his knapsack on his back; or the low monotonous pibroch of the Highlander, swelling into a war-cry, as some kilted corps drew up their ranks together. We turned to regain our quarters, when at the corner of a street we came suddenly upon a merry party seated around a table before a little inn; a large street lamp, unhung for the occasion, had been placed in the midst of them, and showed us the figures of several soldiers in undress; at the end, and raised a little above his compeers, sat one whom, by the unfair proportion he a.s.sumed of the conversation, not less than by the musical intonation of his voice, I soon recognized as my man, Mickey Free.

"I'll be hanged if that's not your fellow there, Charley," said Power, as he came to a dead stop a few yards off. "What an impertinent varlet he is; only to think of him there, presiding among a set of fellows that have fought all the battles in the Peninsular war. At this moment I'll be hanged if he is not going to sing."

Here a tremendous thumping upon the table announced the fact, and after a few preliminary observations from Mike, ill.u.s.trative of his respect to the service in which he had so often distinguished himself, he began, to the air of the "Young May Moon," a ditty of which I only recollect the following verses:--

"The pickets are fast retreating, boys, The last tattoo is beating, boys, So let every man Finish his can, And drink to our next merry meeting, boys.

The colonel so gayly prancing, boys, Has a wonderful trick of advancing, boys, When he sings out so large, 'Fix bayonets and charge!'

He sets all the Frenchmen a-dancing, boys.

Let Mounseer look ever so big, my boys, Who cares for fighting a fig, my boys?

When we play 'Garryowen,'

He'd rather go home; For somehow, he's no taste for a jig, my boys."

This admirable lyric seemed to have perfect success, if one were only to judge from the thundering of voices, hands, and drinking vessels which followed; while a venerable, gray-haired sergeant rose to propose Mr.

Free's health, and speedy promotion to him.

We stood for several minutes in admiration of the party, when the loud roll of the drums beating to arms awakened us to the thought that our moments were numbered.

"Good-night, Charley!" said Power, as he shook my hand warmly, "good-night!

It will be your last night under a curtain for some months to come; make the most of it. Adieu!"

So saying, we parted; he to his quarters, and I to all the confusion of my baggage, which lay in most admired disorder about my room.

CHAPTER XLII.

THE FAREWELL.

The preparations for the march occupied me till near morning; and, indeed, had I been disposed to sleep, the din and clamor of the world without would have totally prevented it. Before daybreak the advanced guard was already in motion, and some squadrons of heavy cavalry had begun their march.

I looked around my now dismantled room as one does usually for the last time ere leaving, and bethought me if I had not forgotten anything.

Apparently all was remembered; but stay,--what is this? To be sure, how forgetful I had become! It was the packet I destined for Donna Inez, and which, in the confusion of the night before, I had omitted to bring to the Casino.

I immediately despatched Mike to the commissary with my luggage and orders to ascertain when we were expected to march. He soon returned with the intelligence that our corps was not to move before noon, so that I had yet some hours to spare and make my adieux to the senhora.

I cannot exactly explain the reason, but I certainly did bestow a more than common attention upon my toilet that morning. The senhora was nothing to me. It is true she had, as she lately most candidly informed me, a score of admirers, among whom I was not even reckoned; she was evidently a coquette whose greatest pleasure was to sport and amuse herself with the pa.s.sions she excited in others. And even if she were not,--if her heart were to be won to-morrow,--what claim, what right, had I to seek it? My affections were already pledged; promised, it is true, to one who gave nothing in return, and who, perhaps, even loved another. Ah, there was the rub; that one confounded suspicion, lurking in the rear, chilled my courage and wounded my spirit.

If there be anything more disheartening to an Irishman, in his little _affaires de coeur_, than another, it is the sense of rivalry. The obstinacy of fathers, the ill-will of mothers, the coldness, the indifference of the lovely object herself,--obstacles though they be,--he has tact, spirit, and perseverance to overcome them. But when a more successful candidate for the fair presents himself; when the eye that remains downcast at _his_ suit, lights up with animation at _another's_ coming; when the features whose cold and chilling apathy to him have blended in one smile of welcome to another,--it is all up with him; he sees the game lost, and throws his cards upon the table. And yet, why is this?

Why is it that he whose birthright it would seem to be sanguine when others despond, to be confident when all else are hopeless,--should find his courage fail him here? The reason is simply--But, in good sooth, I am ashamed to confess it!

Having jogged on so far with my reader, in all the sober seriousness which the matter-of-fact material of these memoirs demands, I fear lest a seeming paradox may cause me to lose my good name for veracity; and that while merely maintaining a national trait of my country, I may appear to be a.s.serting some unheard-of and absurd proposition,--so far have mere vulgar prejudices gone to sap our character as a people.

The reason, then, is this,--for I have gone too far to retreat,--the Irishman is essentially bashful. Well, laugh if you wish, for I conclude that, by this time, you have given way to a most immoderate excess of risibility; but still, when you have perfectly recovered your composure, I beg to repeat,--the Irishman is essentially a bashful man!