Charles O'Malley, The Irish Dragoon, Volume 2

CHAPTER XXXII

“Not badly wounded, O’Malley, I hope?” said General Crawfurd, as I waited upon him soon after the action.

I could not help starting at the question, while he repeated it, pointing at the same time to my left shoulder, from which a stream of blood was now flowing down my coat-sleeve.

“I never noticed it, sir, till this moment. It can’t be of much consequence, for I have been on horseback the entire day, and never felt it.”

“Look to it at once, boy; a man wants all his blood for this campaign. Go to your quarters. I shall not need you for the present; so pray see the doctor at once.”

As I left the general’s quarters, I began to feel sensible of pain, and before a quarter of an hour had elapsed, had quite convinced myself that my wound was a severe one. The hand and arm were swollen, heavy, and distended with hemorrhage beneath the skin, my thirst became great, and a cold, shuddering sensation passed over me from time to time.

I sat down for a moment upon the grass, and was just reflecting within myself what course I should pursue, when I heard the tramp of feet approaching. I looked up, and perceived some soldiers in fatigue dresses, followed by a few others who, from their noiseless gestures and sad countenances, I guessed were carrying some wounded comrade to the rear.

“Who is it, boys?” cried I.

“It’s the major, sir, the Lord be good to him!” said a hardy-looking Eighty-eighth man, wiping his eye with the cuff of his coat as he spoke.

“Not your major? Not Major O’Shaughnessy?” said I, jumping up and rushing forward towards the litter. Alas, too true, it was the gallant fellow himself! There he lay, pale and cold; his bloodless cheek and parted lips looking like death itself. A thin blue rivulet trickled from his forehead, but his most serious wound appeared to be in the side; his coat was open, and showed a mass of congealed and clotted blood, from the midst of which, with every motion of the way, a fresh stream kept welling upward. Whether from the shock or my loss of blood or from both together, I know not, but I sank fainting to the ground.

It would have needed a clearer brain and a cooler judgment than I possessed to have conjectured where I was, and what had occurred to me, when next I recovered my senses. Weak, fevered, and with a burning thirst, I lay, unable to move, and could merely perceive the objects which lay within the immediate reach of my vision. The place was cold, calm, and still as the grave. A lamp, which hung high above my head, threw a faint light around, and showed me, within a niche of the opposite wall, the figure of a gorgeously dressed female; she appeared to be standing motionless, but as the pale light flickered upon her features, I thought I could detect the semblance of a smile. The splendor of her costume and the glittering gems which shone upon her spotless robe gleamed through the darkness with an almost supernatural brilliancy, and so beautiful did she look, so calm her pale features, that as I opened and shut my eyes and rubbed my lids, I scarcely dared to trust to my erring senses, and believe it could be real. What could it mean? Whence this silence; this cold sense of awe and reverence? Was it a dream; was it the fitful vision of a disordered intellect? Could it be death? My eyes were riveted upon that beautiful figure. I essayed to speak, but could not; I would have beckoned her towards me, but my hands refused their office. I felt I know not what charm she possessed to calm my throbbing brain and burning heart; but as I turned from the gloom and darkness around to gaze upon her fair brow and unmoved features, I felt like the prisoner who turns from the cheerless desolation of his cell, and looks upon the fair world and the smiling valleys lying sunlit and shadowed before him.

Sleep at length came over me; and when I awoke, the day seemed breaking, for a faint gray tint stole through a stained-glass window, and fell in many colored patches upon the pavement. A low muttering sound attracted me; I listened, it was Mike’s voice. With difficulty raising myself upon one arm, I endeavored to see more around me. Scarcely had I assumed this position, when my eyes once more fell upon the white-clad figure of the preceding night. At her feet knelt Mike, his hands clasped, and his head bowed upon his bosom. Shall I confess my surprise, my disappointment! It was no other than an image of the blessed Virgin, decked out in all the gorgeous splendor which Catholic piety bestows upon her saints. The features, which the imperfect light and my more imperfect faculties had endowed with an expression of calm, angelic beauty, were, to my waking senses, but the cold and barren mockery of loveliness; the eyes, which my excited brain gifted with looks of tenderness and pity, stared with no speculation in them; yet contrasting my feelings of the night before, full as they were of, their deceptions, with my now waking thoughts, I longed once more for that delusion which threw a dreamy pleasure over me, and subdued the stormy passions of my soul into rest and repose.

“Who knows,” thought I, “but he who kneels yonder feels now as I did then? Who can tell how little the cold, unmeaning reality before him resembles the spiritualized creation the fervor of his love and the ardor of his devotion may have placed upon that altar? Who can limit or bound the depth of that adoration for an object whose attributes appeal not only to every sentiment of the heart, but also to every sense of the brain? I fancy that I can picture to myself how these tinselled relics, these tasteless waxworks, changed by the magic of devotion and of dread, become to the humble worshipper images of loveliness and beauty. The dim religious light; the reverberating footsteps echoed along those solemn aisles; the vaulted arches, into whose misty heights the sacred incense floats upward, while the deep organ is pealing its notes of praise or prayer, – these are no slight accessories to all the pomp and grandeur of a church whose forms and ceremonial, unchanged for ages and hallowed by a thousand associations, appeal to the mind of the humblest peasant or the proudest noble by all the weaknesses as by all the more favored features of our nature.”

How long I might have continued to meditate in this strain I know not, when a muttered observation from Mike turned the whole current of my thoughts. His devotion over, he had seated himself upon the steps of the altar, and appeared to be resolving some doubts within himself concerning his late pious duties.

“Masses is dearer here than in Galway. Father Rush would be well pleased at two-and-sixpence for what I paid three doubloons for, this morning. And sure it’s droll enough. How expensive an amusement it is to kill the French! Here’s half a dollar I gave for the soul of a cuirassier that I kilt yesterday, and nearly twice as much for an artilleryman I cut down at the guns; and because the villain swore like a heythen, Father Pedro told me he’d cost more nor if he died like a decent man.”

At these words he turned suddenly round towards the Virgin, and crossing himself devoutly, added, —

And sure it’s yourself knows if it’s fair to make me pay for devils that don’t know their duties; and after all, if you don’t understand English nor Irish, I’ve been wasting my time here this two hours.”

“I say, Mike, how’s my friend the major! How’s Major O’Shaughnessy?”

“Charmingly, sir. It was only loss of blood that ailed him. A thief with a pike – one of the chaps they call Poles, bekase of the long sticks they carry with them – stuck the major in the ribs; but Doctor Quill – God reward him! he’s a great doctor and a funny divil too – he cured him in no time.”

“And where is he now, Mike?”

“Just convanient, in a small chapel off the sacristy; and throuble enough we have to keep him quiet. He gave up the confusion of roses, and took to punch; and faith, it isn’t hymns nor paslams [psalms] he’s singing all night. And they had me there, mixing materials and singing songs, till I heard the bell for matins; and what between the punch and the prayers, I never closed my eyes.”

“What do they call this convent?”

“It is a hard word, I misremember. It’s something like saltpetre. But how’s your honor? It’s time to ask.”

“Much better, Mike, much better. But as I see that either your drink or your devotion seems to have affected your nerves, you’d better lie down for an hour or two. I shall not want you.”

“That’s just what I can’t; for you see I’m making a song for this evening. The Rangers has a little supper, and I’m to be there; and though I’ve made one, I’m not sure it’ll do. May be your honor would give me your opinion about it?”

“With all my heart, Mike; let’s hear it.”

“Arrah, is it here, before the Virgin and the two blessed saints that’s up there in the glass cases? But sure, when they make an hospital of the place, and after the major’s songs last night – ”

“Exactly so, Mike; out with it.”

“Well, Ma’am,” said he, turning towards the Virgin, “as I suspect you don’t know English, may be you’ll think it’s my offices I’m singing. So, saving your favor, here it is.”

“Arrah, Mickey, now can’t you be asy?” sang out a voice in chorus, and the next moment Dr. Quill himself made his appearance.

“Well, O’Malley, is it a penitential psalm you’re singing, or is my friend Mike endeavoring to raise your spirits with a Galway sonata?”

“A little bit of his own muse, Doctor, nothing more; but tell me, how goes it with the major, – is the poor fellow out of danger?”

“Except from the excess of his appetite, I know of no risk he runs. His servant is making gruel for him all day in a thing like the grog-tub of a frigate. But you’ve heard the news, – Sparks has been exchanged. He came here last night; but the moment he caught sight of me, he took his departure. Begad, I’m sure he’d rather pass a month in Verdun than a week in my company!”

“By-the-bye, Doctor, you never told me how this same antipathy of Sparks for you had its origin.”

“Sure I drove him out of the Tenth before he was three weeks with the regiment.”

“Ay, I remember; you began the story for me one night on the retreat from the Coa, but something broke it off in the middle.”

“Just so, I was sent for to the rear to take off some gentleman’s legs that weren’t in dancing condition; but as there’s no fear of interruption now, I’ll finish the story. But first, let us have a peep at the wounded. What beautiful anatomists they are in the French artillery! Do you feel the thing I have now in my forceps? There, – don’t jump, – that’s a bit of the brachial nerve most beautifully displayed. Faith, I think I’ll give Mike a demonstration.”

“Oh, Mister Quill, dear! Oh, Doctor, darling!”

“Arrah, Mickey, now can’t ye be asy?” sang out Maurice, with a perfect imitation of Mike’s voice and manner.

“A little lint here! Bend your arm, – that’s it – Don’t move your fingers. Now, Mickey, make me a cup of coffee with a glass of brandy in it. And now, Charley, for Sparks. I believe I told you what kind of fellows the Tenth were, – regular out-and-outers. We hadn’t three men in the regiment that were not from the south of Ireland, – the bocca Corkana on their lips, fun and devilment in their eyes, and more drollery and humbug in their hearts than in all the messes in the service put together. No man had any chance among them if he wasn’t a real droll one; every man wrote his own songs and sang them too. It was no small promotion could tempt a fellow to exchange out of the corps. You may think, then, what a prize your friend Sparks proved to us; we held a court-martial upon him the week after he joined. It was proved in evidence that he had never said a good thing in his life, and had about as much notion of a joke as a Cherokee has of the Court of Chancery; and as to singing, Lord bless you, he had a tune with wooden turns to it, – it was most cruel to hear; and then the look of him, those eyes, like dropsical oysters, and the hair standing every way, like a field of insane flax, and the mouth with a curl in it like the slit in the side of a fiddle. A pleasant fellow that for a mess that always boasted the best-looking chaps in the service.

“‘What’s to be done with him?’ said the major; ‘shall we tell him we are ordered to India, and terrify him about his liver?’

“‘Or drill him into a hectic fever?’

“‘Or drink him dry?’

“‘Or get him into a fight and wing him?’

“‘Oh, no,’ said I, ‘leave him to me; we’ll laugh him out of the corps.’

“‘Yes, we’ll leave him to you, Maurice,’ said the rest.

“And that day week you might read in the ‘Gazette,’ ‘Pierce Flynn O’Haygerty, to be Ensign, 10th Foot, vice Sparks, exchanged.’”

“But how was it done, Maurice; you haven’t told me that.”

“Nothing easier. I affected great intimacy with Sparks, bemoaned our hard fate, mutually, in being attached to such a regiment: ‘A damnable corps this, – low, vulgar fellows, practical jokes; not the kind of thing one expects in the army. But as for me, I’ve joined it partly from necessity. You, however, who might be in a crack regiment, I can’t conceive your remaining in it.’

“‘But why did you join, Doctor?’ said he; ‘what necessity could have induced you?’

“‘Ah, my friend,’ said I, ‘that is the secret, —that is the hidden grief that must lie buried in my own bosom.’

“I saw that his curiosity was excited, and took every means to increase it farther. At length, as if yielding to a sudden impulse of friendship, and having sworn him to secrecy, I took him aside, and began thus, —

“‘I may trust you, Sparks, I feel I may; and when I tell you that my honor, my reputation, my whole fortune is at stake, you will judge of the importance of the trust.’

“The goggle eyes rolled fearfully, and his features exhibited the most craving anxiety to hear my story.

“‘You wish to know why I left the Fifty-sixth. Now I’ll tell you; but mind, you’re pledged, you’re sworn, never to divulge it.’

“‘Honor bright.’

“‘There, that’s enough; I’m satisfied. It was a slight infraction of the articles of war; a little breach of the rules and regulations of the service; a trifling misconception of the mess code, – they caught me one evening leaving the mess with – What do you think in my pocket? But you’ll never tell! No, no, I know you’ll not; eight forks and a gravy-spoon, – silver forks every one of them. There now,’ said I, grasping his hand, ‘you have my secret; my fame and character are in your hands, for you see they made me quit the regiment, – a man can’t stay in a corps where he is laughed at.’

“Covering my face with my handkerchief, as if to conceal my shame, I turned away, and left Sparks to his meditations. That same evening we happened to have some strangers at mess; the bottle was passing freely round, and as usual the good spirits of the party at the top of their bent, when suddenly from the lower end of the table, a voice was heard demanding, in tones of the most pompous importance, permission to address the president upon a topic where the honor of the whole regiment was concerned.

“‘I rise, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Sparks, ‘with feelings the most painful; whatever may have been the laxity of habit and freedom of conversation habitual in this regiment, I never believed that so flagrant an instance as this morning came to my ears – ’

“‘Oh, murder!’ said I. ‘Oh, Sparks, darling, sure you’re not going to tell?’

“‘Doctor Quill,’ replied he, in an austere tone, ‘it is impossible for me to conceal it.’

“‘Oh, Sparks, dear, will you betray me?’

“I gave him here a look of the most imploring entreaty, to which he replied by one of unflinching sternness.

“‘I have made up my mind, sir,’ continued he; ‘it is possible the officers of this corps may look more leniently than I do upon this transaction; but know it they shall.’

“‘Out with it, Sparks; tell it by all means!’ cried a number of voices; for it was clear to every one, by this time, that he was involved in a hoax.

“Amidst, therefore, a confused volley of entreaty on one side, and my reiterated prayers for his silence, on the other, Sparks thus began: —

“‘Are you aware, gentlemen, why Dr. Quill left the Fifty-sixth?’

“‘No, no, no!’ rang from all sides; ‘let’s have it!’

“‘No, sir,’ said he, turning towards me, ‘concealment is impossible; an officer detected with the mess-plate in his pocket – ’

“They never let him finish, for a roar of laughter shook the table from one end to the other; while Sparks, horror-struck at the lack of feeling and propriety that could make men treat such a matter with ridicule, glared around him on every side.

“‘Oh, Maurice, Maurice!’ cried the major, wiping his eyes, ‘this is too bad; this is too bad!’

“‘Gracious Heaven!’ screamed Sparks, ‘can you laugh at it?’

“‘Laugh at it!’ re-echoed the paymaster, ‘God grant I only don’t burst a blood-vessel!’ And once more the sounds of merriment rang out anew, and lasted for several minutes.

“‘Oh, Maurice Quill,’ cried an old captain, ‘you’ve been too heavy on the lad. Why, Sparks, man, he’s been humbugging you.’

“Scarcely were the words spoken when he sprang from the room. The whole truth flashed at once upon his mind; in an instant he saw that he had exposed himself to the merciless ridicule of a mess-table and that all peace for him, in that regiment at least, was over.

“We got a glorious fellow in exchange for him; and Sparks descended into a cavalry regiment, – I ask your pardon, Charley, – where, as you are well aware, sharp wit and quick intellect are by no means indispensable. There now, don’t be angry or you’ll do yourself harm. So good-by, for an hour or two.”

CHAPTER XXXIII

O’Shaughnessy’s wound, like my own, was happily only formidable from the loss of blood. The sabre or the lance are rarely, indeed, so death-dealing as the musket or the bayonet; and the murderous fire from a square of infantry is far more terrific in its consequences than the heaviest charge of a cavalry column. In a few weeks, therefore, we were once more about and fit for duty; but for the present the campaign was ended. The rainy season with its attendant train of sickness and sorrow set in. The troops were cantoned along the line of the frontier, – the infantry occupying the villages, and the cavalry being stationed wherever forage could be obtained.

The Fourteenth were posted at Avintas, but I saw little of them. I was continually employed upon the staff; and as General Crawfurd’s activity suffered no diminution from the interruption of the campaign, rarely passed a day without eight or nine hours on horseback.

The preparations for the siege of Ciudad Rodrigo occupied our undivided attention. To the reduction of this fortress and of Badajos, Lord Wellington looked as the most important objects, and prosecuted his plans with unremitting zeal. To my staff appointment I owed the opportunity of witnessing that stupendous feature of war, a siege; and as many of my friends formed part of the blockading force, I spent more than one night in the trenches. Indeed, except for this, the tiresome monotony of life was most irksome at this period. Day after day the incessant rain poured down. The supplies were bad, scanty, and irregular; the hospitals crowded with sick; field-sports impracticable; books there were none; and a dulness and spiritless depression prevailed on every side. Those who were actively engaged around Ciudad Rodrigo had, of course, the excitement and interest which the enterprise involved: but even there the works made slow progress. The breaching artillery was defective in every way: the rain undermined the faces of the bastions; the clayey soil sank beneath the weight of the heavy guns; and the storms of one night frequently destroyed more than a whole week’s labor had effected.

Thus passed the dreary months along; the cheeriest and gayest among us broken in spirit, and subdued in heart by the tedium of our life. The very news which reached us partook of the gloomy features of our prospects. We heard only of strong reinforcements marching to the support of the French in Estramadura. We were told that the Emperor, whose successes in Germany enabled him to turn his entire attention to the Spanish campaign, would himself be present in the coming spring, with overwhelming odds and a firm determination to drive us from the Peninsula.

In that frame of mind which such gloomy and depressing prospects are well calculated to suggest, I was returning one night to my quarters at Mucia, when suddenly I beheld Mike galloping towards me with a large packet in his hand, which he held aloft to catch my attention. “Letters from England, sir,” said he, “just arrived with the general’s despatches.” I broke the envelope at once, which bore the war-office seal, and as I did so, a perfect avalanche of letters fell at my feet. The first which caught my eye was an official intimation from the Horse Guards that the Prince Regent had been graciously pleased to confirm my promotion to the troop, my commission to bear date from the appointment, etc., etc. I could not help feeling struck, as my eye ran rapidly across the lines, that although the letter came from Sir George Dashwood’s office, it contained not a word of congratulation nor remembrance on his part, but was couched in the usual cold and formal language of an official document. Impatient, however, to look over my other letters, I thought but little of this; so, throwing them hurriedly into my sabretasche, I cantered on to my quarters without delay. Once more alone in silence, I sat down to commune with my far-off friends, and yet with all my anxiety to hear of home, passed several minutes in turning over the letters, guessing from whom they might have come, and picturing to myself their probable contents. “Ah, Frank Webber, I recognize your slap-dash, bold hand without the aid of the initials in the corner; and this – what can this be? – this queer, misshapen thing, representing nothing save the forty-seventh proposition of Euclid, and the address seemingly put on with a cat’s-tail dipped in lampblack? Yes, true enough, it is from Mister Free himself. And what have we here? This queer, quaint hand is no new acquaintance; how many a time have I looked upon it as the ne plus ultra of caligraphy! But here is one I’m not so sure of. Who could have written this bolt-upright, old-fashioned superscription, not a letter of which seems on speaking terms with its neighbor? The very O absolutely turns its back upon the M in O’Malley, and the final Y wags his tail with a kind of independent shake, as if he did not care a curse for his predecessors! And the seal, too, – surely I know that griffin’s head, and that stern motto, Non rogo sed capio. To be sure, it is Billy Considine’s, the count himself. The very paper, yellow and time-stained, looks coeval with his youth; and I could even venture to wager that his sturdy pen was nibbed half a century since. I’ll not look farther among this confused mass of three-cornered billets, and long, treacherous-looking epistles, the very folding of which denote the dun. Here goes for the count!” So saying to myself, I drew closer to the fire, and began the following epistle: —