Part 11
A fine healthy lad with long flaxen curls approached, and took hold of my hand; but this did not altogether agree with the old soldier’s ideas of etiquette, and he continued addressing the youth, “Run off, you ragged rascal, and let his honour alone. Don’t stand grubbing with your ten toes, like a pig in a pratee garden. Faith, but he’s off; and now perhaps your honour would like to know a little more of my history? But first I’ll go back to the end, and tell you straight forward in a circuitous manner, that we mayn’t set out in a round about way.
“Sure and wasn’t it at Monte Video that you left me last? And faith, I might have staid there till death, and longer, but they ordered me up for Boney’s Airs; and och, hone, but we suffered severely at that place, marching up to our middles in water without rations and without rest for three days. And then the assault,--bad luck to the divil!--didn’t we charge into the town with our bagnets, and nothing but our hammers in the locks? and that, too, where every house was a battery in itself, and we had no enemy to meet on plain ground? By the powers of Moll Kelly, but they knocked us down like bastes in a slaughter-house, and divil a rap could we give ’em again. Only think, your honour, of straight streets crossing each other at right angles, so that a nine-pounder at the end of one street was a defence for the whole; and then they pulled down a part of the cathedral, so that nothing might stop the shot.
“Oh, that was a terrible consarn, so it was, and many brave fellows lost their billet; for these Spaniards had an ugly knack of knocking the wounded on the head after they were kilt. Sure, wasn’t I one of the party that stormed the Pizzelaro del Tow-row, where the bulls fight? and didn’t we make a big bull of it? for how could we get at ’em, your honour, seeing there was not even the spoke of a ladder by way of staircase? Ah, then poor Pat tumbled down with a wound I got in the breast, and then I thought of dare little Ireland and Norah; and so I struggled to get up again, but all was of no use; so I fainted with the loss of blood, and there I lay, spachless and comical entirely.
“Well, when I woke, I heard a soft swate voice spaking to me in broken English--it was just like Norah’s, your honour; and so I opened my daylights to take a peep at the angel, for I thought it was her own dare self come in a phantomical manner to cheer my weary spirit, about to quit this world of trouble, only I couldn’t make out the brogue; but not a soul did I see, saving and except a young officer in the uniform of a Spanish hussar kneeling by my side and feeling my pulse, which was now bateing the dead march. The creature started when I showed my peepers, and the cap flew from its head. Oh, I shall never forget to remember that same, for it was a woman, your honour, and her long auburn locks came clustering down her forehead, and she looked like the commander-in-chief of the cherry-bums. Oh, she was beauty’s queen, and a countryman of my own; for though French by birth, she was married to a son of the sod. Long life to her, whether she’s dead or alive, for her kindness to poor Pat! for didn’t she have me carried by the viceroy’s sarvants to snug quarters, where my wound was dressed and the ball distracted? Faith, and she did, your honour, and many more besides me; for after the battle--having a regard for the brave sodger, and knowing that many lay bleeding on the ground--she put on the regimentals of a captain of hussars, as one of General Liniers’ aids-de-camp, and rode through the scenes of carnage to stop the murderers’ hands.[11] Oh, wasn’t she a darling of a soul? Ax General Beresford, your honour, for he knew her very well, by token--but that’s none of my business to notice; only ’twas whispered as soft as a peal of bells, that they found his image in wax-work, all alive and kicking, your honour.
“But the worst of it was the loss of our colours, that hung dangling in the church of San Nicholas, where the brave Sir Samuel Auchmuty had suffered so much, and was compelled to surrender; but that was a sad job to make the most of it, and all through the treachery and cowardice of Whitelocke, bad luck to his powthered fiz-hog. But the colours, your honour, oh, didn’t they stick in my gizzard, sure? and so I spoke a word or two about it to my ould comrade, Corporal Blacketer. ‘What’s to be done,’ says he. ‘Arrah, dacently walk off with them,’ says I. ‘How’s that?’ says he. So seeing he had no liking to the matter, I was obliged to close my chather-box, and soon after we sailed down the river.
“Well, about two years afterwards, an ill wind blow’d me there again, and I couldn’t help going to take a sly peep. Oh, didn’t I get into a big rage, sure, when they struck like a blight upon my eyes? ‘Oh Paddy, (says I) twig ’em, and take shame to yourself for not dislodging them from their height;’ and so it bothered me night and day, your honour, that I couldn’t slape a wink, nor ever cease to think of it while waking.
“Well, one evening Jerry Driscoll and meself were ashore, taking a sup of the cratur. Jerry was a broth of a boy, and knew that two and two made five when his own ugly mug was shoved in to balance the account. He was a blue jacket, your honour, belonging to a sloop of war. ‘Arrah Jerry, (says I) shall we do the thing?’--‘Faith and we will, (says he) and the more by token that they have stuck the bunting up!’ as indeed they had, your honour, with R. M. B. on it, for Royal Marine Battalion. So when night came, off we set with a long rope and got safe into the middle of the centre of the church, and clapped ourselves in ambush clane out of sight where nobody could see us.
“About midnight, ‘Now Jerry, (says I) you must mount a reev-o; only take care the rope does not get round your neck.’ Well, just as we were going to begin, we heard the most terriblest noise; and what should it be but one of the padres, who had been sipping the supernaculum and fallen asleep in the sentry-box--arrah, the confessional-box, I mane. Bad manners to him for stretching his daylights and prying into honest men’s affairs. Oh! your honour, he roared like a pope’s bull, and out he came as big as three moderate sized aldermen. ‘Arrah, be aisey,’ says Jerry, giving him a thump in his rotunda, which would have held a cathedral, ‘can’t you behave yourself, jewel?’ Thump went Jerry again, till his coporation sounded like a big drum, or a Chinese gong. The sentry peeped in at the church-door; Jerry twigged him and cotched the friar round the neck, and down they rolled together, both roaring with all their might.--‘Arrah, Jerry, (says I) don’t you mane to get up?’ ‘Oh, the murthering rascal, (says he) don’t you see how he’s using me;’ and indeed, your honour, the padre was belaboring him entirely with both his fists. I ran to assist, but a sarjent entered with the guard.
“‘What’s the matter here?’ says the sarjent,--for he was a countryman, your honour, that had deserted from Whitelocke’s army.--‘Oh, by my conscience, (says Jerry) but that same fellow is a thumping rogue, so he is.’--‘Be aisey,’ says the sarjent; and so he speaks to the padre in broken Spanish, and tells him to get up; but he couldn’t do that thing till the sodgers lever’d him up with their firelocks. And then he tells them a long story about his being asleep, and dreaming that somebody was trying to steal the Virgin Mary, and that San Nicholas tweaked his noise, and that he woke and cotched us at it. ‘Do you hear that?’ says the sarjent. ‘Faith and I do,’ says Jerry; ‘but sorrow the silly-bull do I understand at all, at all. All I know of the matter is, that we were passing by and heard the poor jontleman hollaing; so we ran in, and thinking he’d got the cramp in the stomach, I rubbed his _eminence_ a little; when the ungrateful fellow knocked me down, and threw himself on the top of the outside of me, and I’m almost mumm’d to a jammy--arrah, no, jumm’d to a mammy--och, botheration, it’s jamm’d to a mummy I mane.’--‘But what’s that rope?’ said the sarjent, pointing to it. ‘Oh, the sinner,’ says Jerry, ‘and sure he was going to hang himself, but didn’t like it; faith, but it’s all plain enough now, Mr. Sarjent, and by the powers we’ve saved his life.’
“However, your honour, they marched us off to the guard-house, Jerry and I; and there we staid till morning light, like the babes in the wood, our hearts bateing the tattoo all the time, fer we’d no great relish to the mines for life. But, joy betide the friar; he made it all out to be a miracle, and so we were released for the honour of San Nicholas, in spite of the thwacks he got in his corporation, that would have held a whole bench of bishops; and so the colours hang there till this time, your honour, unless they’ve taken them down since.[12] Happy enough were we to get out of that, and they said the friar would be _cannonized_; but Jerry swore they should ram him into a _mortar_, or marry him to the gunner’s daughter, before he would go colour-staleing again, with a vengeance to it.”
I left the old man with a promise of visiting him again; and in a few months afterwards, being in the same part of the country, I strolled towards his usual resort--the village green. There was no busy hum of voices--no cheering laugh, or infantile prattle; the grass grew as luxuriant as ever, but the children were listlessly scattered about, as if they had lost the common tie which once had bound them together:--the veteran was no more. In a corner of the churchyard, below a time-shattered elm, was a turf-raised mound, and beneath it lay the mouldering remains of poor Pat. It was a lonely spot, and the villagers took delight in keeping it clear from weeds. A few wild flowers blossomed around, and some rustic had carved a rude memorial on a slab of wood. There were guns and swords neatly cut at the top, and underneath was cyphered a plain P. M. Below these letters appeared this simple elegy,--
A Soldier’s Grave.
It was enough, and its language spoke more closely to the heart than all the pompous eulogies which deck the monumental urn, or sculptured tomb. It was indeed a soldier’s grave, and a sailor’s tear was shed upon it.
FOOTNOTES
[9] Six men upon four men’s allowance of provision.
[10] This anecdote of Taylor, I have since found to be correct. He commanded a small brig, and was commissioned by the Spaniards; so that when the English fleet first anchored off Monte Video, he was under Spanish colours, having brought in the most daring manner a cargo of cattle for the city, which, being closely invested, was short of provisions. These cattle he landed in a small sandy bay, but payment for them was refused. That night he came out in his boat (a beautiful Deal galley) clandestinely to the English admiral, and offered his services as a pilot, and also to bring off the cattle that was landed, provided he had a strong party from the ships to assist him. His offer was accepted, and he accomplished the undertaking. After the cessation of hostilities, he settled at Buenos Ayres, and acted as a pilot for the River Plate; but on the declaration of independence and the war between Buenos Ayres and Monte Video, he was appointed to command the squadron of the former. Since then, he joined Lord Cochrane, when admiral of the Brazilian navy, and commanded a Brazilian frigate. He is, I believe, still in existence, and holds high rank at Rio Janeiro.
[11] I have since ascertained the accuracy of poor Pat’s statement. The lady was Madame O’Gorman, a native of the Mauritius, and married to Captain O’Gorman, brother to the great counsellor of that name. She was a remarkably fine woman, and possessed great influence over Liniers, the viceroy. Bold and daring in her manners, and of an intrepid disposition, she attended the viceroy during the battle habited in the dress of an officer of hussars; and after the failure of the attack, she rode through the town, at the imminent risk of her life, to protect the wounded. Her brother was in the Spanish service, and was one of the officers present when Sir Samuel Auchmuty surrendered his sword.
[12] This too I have found to be correct. They had not been taken down a short time since, and the Spaniards were extremely proud of the trophies. The damage done by the British artillery to the churches and steeples was promptly repaired; but the spots where the shot struck were painted black, and in some instances the shot themselves were left remaining in the walls. The Spaniards execrated the name of Whitelocke, and expressed great disgust whenever it was mentioned. As a set-off against this, a friend informs me that, in several houses at Buenos Ayres, he saw framed upon the walls the series of British engravings of the Battle of Trafalgar, Death of Nelson, &c.
THE END.
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