CHAPTER II
THE FIGHTING FIFTY-SIXTH
When I was nineteen years old my father sold the Chateau d’ Enville, and purchased my commission in the “Fifty-sixth” with the proceeds. “I say, Denville,” said young McSpadden, a boy-faced ensign, who had just joined, “you’ll represent the estate in the Army, if you won’t in the House.” Poor fellow, he paid for his meaningless joke with his life, for I shot him through the heart the next morning. “You’re a good fellow, Denville,” said the poor boy faintly, as I knelt beside him; “good-by!” For the first time since my grandfather’s death I wept. I could not help thinking that I would have been a better man if Blanche—But why proceed? Was she not now in Florence—the belle of the English embassy?
But Napoleon had returned from Elba. Europe was in a blaze of excitement. The Allies were preparing to resist the Man of Destiny. We were ordered from Gibraltar home, and were soon again en route for Brussels. I did not regret that I was to be placed in active service. I was ambitious, and longed for an opportunity to distinguish myself. My garrison life in Gibraltar had been monotonous and dull. I had killed five men in duel, and had an affair with the colonel of my regiment, who handsomely apologized before the matter assumed a serious aspect. I had been twice in love. Yet these were but boyish freaks and follies. I wished to be a man.
The time soon came,—the morning of Waterloo. But why describe that momentous battle, on which the fate of the entire world was hanging? Twice were the Fifty-sixth surrounded by French cuirassiers, and twice did we mow them down by our fire. I had seven horses shot under me, and was mounting the eighth, when an orderly rode up hastily, touched his cap, and, handing me a dispatch, galloped rapidly away.
I opened it hurriedly and read:—
“LET PICTON ADVANCE IMMEDIATELY ON THE RIGHT.”
I saw it all at a glance. I had been mistaken for a general officer. But what was to be done? Picton’s division was two miles away, only accessible through a heavy cross-fire of artillery and musketry. But my mind was made up.
In an instant I was engaged with an entire squadron of cavalry, who endeavored to surround me. Cutting my way through them, I advanced boldly upon a battery and sabred the gunners before they could bring their pieces to bear. Looking around, I saw that I had in fact penetrated the French centre. Before I was well aware of the locality, I was hailed by a sharp voice in French,—
“Come here, sir!”
I obeyed, and advanced to the side of a little man in a cocked hat.
“Has Grouchy come?”
“Not yet, sire,” I replied,—for it was the Emperor.
“Ha!” he said suddenly, bending his piercing eyes on my uniform; “a prisoner?”
“No, sire,” I said proudly.
“A spy?”
I placed my hand upon my sword, but a gesture from the Emperor bade me forbear.
“You are a brave man,” he said.
I took my snuff-box from my pocket, and, taking a pinch, replied by handing it, with a bow, to the Emperor.
His quick eye caught the cipher on the lid.
“What! a D’Enville? Ha! this accounts for the purity of your accent. Any relation to Roderick d’Enville?”
“My father, sire.”
“He was my schoolfellow at the Ecole Polytechnique. Embrace me!” And the Emperor fell upon my neck in the presence of his entire staff. Then, recovering himself, he gently placed in my hand his own magnificent snuff-box, in exchange for mine, and hanging upon my breast the cross of the Legion of Honor which he took from his own, he bade one of his marshals conduct me back to my regiment.
I was so intoxicated with the honor of which I had been the recipient, that on reaching our lines I uttered a shout of joy and put spurs to my horse. The intelligent animal seemed to sympathize with my feelings, and fairly flew over the ground. On a rising eminence a few yards before me stood a gray-haired officer, surrounded by his staff. I don’t know what possessed me, but putting spurs to my horse, I rode at him boldly, and with one bound cleared him, horse and all. A shout of indignation arose from the assembled staff. I wheeled suddenly, with the intention of apologizing, but my mare misunderstood me, and, again dashing forward, once more vaulted over the head of the officer, this time unfortunately uncovering him by a vicious kick of her hoof. “Seize him!” roared the entire army. I was seized. As the soldiers led me away, I asked the name of the gray-haired officer. “That—why, that’s the DUKE OF WELLINGTON!”
I fainted.
* * * * *
For six months I had brain fever. During my illness ten grapeshot were extracted from my body which I had unconsciously received during the battle. When I opened my eyes I met the sweet glance of a Sister of Charity.
“Blanche!” I stammered feebly.
“The same,” she replied.
“You here?”
“Yes, dear; but hush! It’s a long story. You see, dear Terence, your grandfather married my great-aunt’s sister, and your father again married my grandmother’s niece, who, dying without a will, was, according to the French law”—
“But I do not comprehend,” I said.
“Of course not,” said Blanche, with her old sweet smile; “you’ve had brain fever; so go to sleep.”
I understood, however, that Blanche loved me; and I am now, dear reader, Sir Terence Sackville, K. C. B., and Lady Blanche is Lady Sackville.
MARY McGILLUP
A SOUTHERN NOVEL
AFTER BELLE BOYD
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY G. A. S-LA
INTRODUCTION
“Will you write me up?”
The scene was near Temple Bar. The speaker was the famous rebel Mary McGillup,—a young girl of fragile frame, and long, lustrous black hair. I must confess that the question was a peculiar one, and, under the circumstances, somewhat puzzling. It was true I had been kindly treated by the Northerners, and, though prejudiced against them, was to some extent under obligations to them. It was true that I knew little or nothing of American politics, history, or geography. But when did an English writer ever weigh such trifles? Turning to the speaker, I inquired with some caution the amount of pecuniary compensation offered for the work.
“Sir!” she said, drawing her fragile form to its full height, “you insult me,—you insult the South.”
“But look ye here, d’ye see—the tin—the blunt—the ready—the stiff, you know. Don’t ye see, we can’t do without that, you know!”
“It shall be contingent on the success of the story,” she answered haughtily. “In the mean time take this precious gem.” And drawing a diamond ring from her finger, she placed it with a roll of MSS. in my hands, and vanished.
Although unable to procure more than 1 pound 2s. 6d. from an intelligent pawnbroker to whom I stated the circumstances and with whom I pledged the ring, my sympathies with the cause of a downtrodden and chivalrous people were at once enlisted. I could not help wondering that in rich England, the home of the oppressed and the free, a young and lovely woman like the fair author of those pages should be obliged to thus pawn her jewels—her marriage gift—for the means to procure her bread! With the exception of the English aristocracy,—who much resemble them,—I do not know of a class of people that I so much admire as the Southern planters. May I become better acquainted with both!
Since writing the above, the news of Mr. Lincoln’s assassination has reached me. It is enough for me to say that I am dissatisfied with the result. I do not attempt to excuse the assassin. Yet there will be men who will charge this act upon the chivalrous South. This leads me to repeat a remark once before made by me in this connection, which has become justly celebrated. It is this:—
“It is usual, in cases of murder, to look for the criminal among those who expect to be benefited by the crime. In the death of Lincoln, his immediate successor in office alone receives the benefit of his dying.”
If her Majesty Queen Victoria were assassinated, which Heaven forbid, the one most benefited by her decease would, of course, be his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, her immediate successor. It would be unnecessary to state that suspicion would at once point to the real culprit, which would of course be his Royal Highness. This is logic.
But I have done. After having thus stated my opinion in favor of the South, I would merely remark that there is One who judgeth all things,—who weigheth the cause between brother and brother,—and awardeth the perfect retribution; and whose ultimate decision I, as a British subject, have only anticipated.
G. A. S.
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