The Coat of Mail.
“The affair is then ended,” said Baker, “and most happily so. You are, I hope, not dangerously wounded.”
As he spoke, Trevyllian’s features grew deadly livid; his half-open mouth quivered slightly, his eyes became fixed, and his arm dropped heavily beside him, and with a low moan he fell fainting to the ground.
As we bent over him I now perceived that another person had joined our party; he was a short, determined-looking man of about forty, with black eyes and aquiline features. Before I had time to guess who it might be, I heard O’Shaughnessy address him as Colonel Conyers.
“He is dying!” said Beaufort, still stooping over his friend, whose cold hand he grasped within his own. “Poor, poor fellow!”
“He fired in the air,” said Baker, as he spoke in reply to a question from Conyers.
What he answered I heard not, but Baker rejoined,—
“Yes, I am certain of it. We all saw it.”
“Had you not better examine his wounds?” said Conyers, in a tone of sarcastic irony I could almost have struck him for. “Is your friend not hit? Perhaps he is bleeding?”
“Yes,” said O’Shaughnessy, “let us look to the poor fellow now.” So saying, with Beaufort’s aid he unbuttoned his frock and succeeded in opening his waistcoat. There was no trace of blood anywhere, and the idea of internal hemorrhage at once occurred to us, when Conyers, stooping down, pushed me aside, saying at the same time,—
“Your fears for his safety need not distress you much,—look here!” As he spoke he tore open his shirt, and disclosed to our almost doubting senses a vest of chain-mail armor fitting close next the skin and completely pistol-proof.
I cannot describe the effect this sight produced upon us. Beaufort sprang to his feet with a bound as he screamed out, rather than spoke, “No man believes me to have been aware—”
“No, no, Beaufort, your reputation is very far removed from such a stain,” said Conyers.
O’Shaughnessy was perfectly speechless. He looked from one to the other, as though some unexplained mystery still remained, and only seemed restored to any sense of consciousness as Baker said, “I can feel no pulse at his wrist,—his heart, too, does not beat.”
Conyers placed his hand upon his bosom, then felt along his throat, lifted up an arm, and letting it fall heavily upon the ground, he muttered, “He is dead!”
It was true. No wound had pierced him,—the pistol bullet was found within his clothes. Some tremendous conflict of the spirit within had snapped the cords of life, and the strong man had perished in his agony.
NEWS FROM GALWAY.
I have but a vague and most imperfect recollection of the events which followed this dreadful scene; for some days my faculties seemed stunned and paralyzed, and my thoughts clung to the minute detail of the ground,—the persons about, the mountain path, and most of all the half-stifled cry that spoke the broken heart,—with a tenacity that verged upon madness.
A court-martial was appointed to inquire into the affair; and although I have been since told that my deportment was calm, and my answers were firm and collected, yet I remember nothing of the proceedings.
The inquiry, through a feeling of delicacy for the friends of him who was no more, was made as brief and as private as possible. Beaufort proved the facts which exonerated me from any imputation in the matter; and upon the same day the court delivered the decision: “That Lieutenant O’Malley was not guilty of the charges preferred against him, and that he should be released from arrest, and join his regiment.”
Nothing could be more kind and considerate than the conduct of my brother officers,—a hundred little plans and devices for making me forget the late unhappy event were suggested and practised,—and I look back to that melancholy period, marked as it was by the saddest circumstance of my life, as one in which I received more of truly friendly companionship than even my palmiest days of prosperity boasted.
While, therefore, I deeply felt the good part my friends were performing towards me, I was still totally unsuited to join in the happy current of their daily pleasures and amusements. The gay and unreflecting character of O’Shaughnessy, the careless merriment of my brother officers, jarred upon my nerves, and rendered me irritable and excited; and I sought in lonely rides and unfrequented walks, the peace of spirit that calm reflection and a firm purpose for the future rarely fail to lead to.
There is in deep sorrow a touch of the prophetic. It is at seasons when the heart is bowed down with grief, and the spirit wasted with suffering, that the veil which conceals the future seems to be removed, and a glance, short and fleeting as the lightning flash, is permitted us into the gloomy valley before us.
Misfortunes, too, come not singly,—the seared heart is not suffered to heal from one affliction ere another succeeds it; and this anticipation of the coming evil is, perhaps, one of the most poignant features of grief,—the ever-watchful apprehension, the ever-rising question, “What next?” is a torture that never sleeps.
This was the frame of my mind for several days after I returned to my duty,—a morbid sense of some threatened danger being my last thought at night and my first on awakening. I had not heard from home since my arrival in the Peninsula; a thousand vague fancies haunted me now that some brooding misfortune awaited me. My poor uncle never left my thoughts. Was he well; was he happy? Was he, as he ever used to be, surrounded by the friends he loved,—the old familiar faces around the hospitable hearth his kindliness had hallowed in my memory as something sacred? Oh, could I but see his manly smile, or hear his voice! Could I but feel his hand upon my head, as he was wont to press it, while words of comfort fell from his lips, and sunk into my heart!
Such were my thoughts one morning as I sauntered, unaccompanied, from my quarters. I had not gone far, when my attention was aroused by the noise of a mule-cart, whose jingling bells and clattering timbers announced its approach by the road I was walking. Another turn of the way brought it into view; and I saw from the gay costume of the driver, as well as a small orange flag which decorated the conveyance, that it was the mail-cart with letters from Lisbon.
Full as my mind was with thoughts of home, I turned hastily back, and retraced my steps towards the camp. When I reached the adjutant-general’s quarters, I found a considerable number of officers assembled; the report that the post had come was a rumor of interest to all, and accordingly, every moment brought fresh arrivals, pouring in from all sides, and eagerly inquiring, “If the bags had been opened?” The scene of riot, confusion, and excitement, when that event did take place, exceeded all belief, each man reading his letter half aloud, as if his private affairs and domestic concerns must interest his neighbors, amidst a volley of exclamations of surprise, pleasure, or occasional anger, as the intelligence severally suggested,—the disappointed expectants cursing their idle correspondents, bemoaning their fate about remittances that never arrived, or drafts never honored; while here and there some public benefactor, with an outspread “Times” or “Chronicle,” was retailing the narrative of our own exploits in the Peninsula or the more novel changes in the world of politics since we left England. A cross-fire of news and London gossip ringing on every side made up a perfect Babel most difficult to form an idea of. The jargon partook of every accent and intonation the empire boasts of; and from the sharp precision of the North Tweeder to the broad doric of Kerry, every portion, almost every county, of Great Britain had its representative. Here was a Scotch paymaster, in a lugubrious tone, detailing to his friend the apparently not over-welcome news that Mistress M’Elwain had just been safely delivered of twins, which, with their mother, were doing as well as possible. Here an eager Irishman, turning over the pages rather than reading his letter, while he exclaimed to his friend,—
“Oh, the devil a rap she’s sent me. The old story about runaway tenants and distress notices,—sorrow else tenants seem to do in Ireland than run away every half-year.”
A little apart some sentimental-looking cockney was devouring a very crossed epistle which he pressed to his lips whenever any one looked at him; while a host of others satisfied themselves by reading in a kind of buzzing undertone, every now and then interrupting themselves with some broken exclamation as commentary,—such as, “Of course she will!” “Never knew him better!” “That’s the girl for my money!” “Fifty per cent, the devil!” and so on. At last I was beginning to weary of the scene, and finding that there appeared to be nothing for me, was turning to leave the place, when I saw a group of two or three endeavoring to spell out the address of a letter.
“That’s an Irish post-mark, I’ll swear,” said one; “but who can make anything of the name? It’s devilish like Otaheite, isn’t it?”
“I wish my tailor wrote as illegibly,” said another; “I’d keep up a most animated correspondence with him.”
“Here, O’Shaughnessy, you know something of savage life,—spell us this word here.”
“Show it here. What nonsense, it’s as plain as the nose on my face: ‘Master Charles O’Malley, in foreign parts!’”
A roar of laughter followed this announcement, which, at any other time, perhaps, I should have joined in, but which now grated sadly on my ruffled feelings.
“Here, Charley, this is for you,” said the major; and added in a whisper,—“and upon my conscience, between ourselves, your friend, whoever he is, has a strong action against his writing-master,—devil such a fist ever I looked at!”
One glance satisfied me as to my correspondent. It was from Father Rush, my old tutor. I hurried eagerly from the spot, and regaining my quarters, locked the door, and with a beating heart broke the seal and began, as well as I was able, to decipher his letter. The hand was cramped and stiffened with age, and the bold, upright letters were gnarled and twisted like a rustic fence, and demanded great patience and much time in unravelling. It ran thus:—
THE PRIORY, Lady-day, 1809.MY DEAR MASTER CHARLES,—Your uncle’s feet are so big andso uneasy that he can’t write, and I am obliged to take up the penmyself, to tell you how we are doing here since you left us. And,first of all, the master lost the lawsuit in Dublin, all for the wantof a Galway jury,—but they don’t go up to town for strong reasonsthey had; and the Curranolick property is gone to Ned M’Manus,and may the devil do him good with it! Peggy Maher left this onTuesday; she was complaining of a weakness; she’s gone to consultthe doctors. I’m sorry for poor Peggy.Owen M’Neil beat the Slatterys out of Portunma on Saturday,and Jem, they say, is fractured. I trust it’s true, for he never wasgood, root nor branch, and we’ve strong reasons to suspect him fordrawing the river with a net at night. Sir Harry Boyle sprained hiswrist, breaking open his bed-room, that he locked when he was inside.The count and the master were laughing all the evening athim. Matters are going very hard in the country,—the people payingtheir rents regularly, and not caring half as much as they usedabout the real gentry and the old families.We kept your birthday at the Castle in great style,—had themilitia band from the town, and all the tenants. Mr. James Dalydanced with your old friend Mary Green, and sang a beautiful song,and was going to raise the devil, but I interfered; he burned downhalf the blue drawing-room the last night with his tricks,—not thatyour uncle cares, God preserve him to us! it’s little anything likethat would fret him. The count quarrelled with a young gentlemanin the course of the evening, but found out he was only an attorneyfrom Dublin, so he didn’t shoot him; but he was ducked in the pondby the people, and your uncle says he hopes they have a true copy ofhim at home, as they’ll never know the original.Peter died soon after you went away, but Tim hunts the dogsjust as well. They had a beautiful run last Wednesday, and theLord [2] sent for him and gave him a five-pound note; but he sayshe’d rather see yourself back again than twice as much. Theykilled near the big turnip-field, and all went down to see where youleaped Badger over the sunk fence,—they call it “Hammersley’sNose” ever since. Bodkin was at Ballinasloe the last fair, limpingabout with a stick; he’s twice as quiet as he used to be, and neverbeat any one since that morning.Nellie Guire, at the cross-roads, wants to send you four pair ofstockings she knitted for you, and I have a keg of potteen of Barney’sown making this two months, not knowing how to send it. May beSir Arthur himself would like a taste,—he’s an Irishman himself,and one we’re proud of, too! The Maynooth chaps are flying allabout the country, and making us all uncomfortable,—God’s will bedone, but we used to think ourselves good enough! Your foster-sister,Kitty Doolan, had a fine boy; it’s to be called after you, andyour uncle’s to give a christening. He bids me tell you to drawon him when you want money, and that there’s £400 ready for younow somewhere in Dublin,—I forget the name, and as he’s asleep, Idon’t like asking him. There was a droll devil down here in thesummer that knew you well,—a Mr. Webber. The master treatedhim like the Lord Lieutenant, had dinner parties for him, andgave him Oliver Cromwell to ride over to Meelish. He is expectedagain for the cock-shooting, for the master likes him greatly. I’mdone at last, for my paper is finished and the candle just out; so withevery good wish and every good thought, remember your own oldfriend,—PETER RUSH.P.S. It’s Smart and Sykes, Fleet Street, has the money.Father O’Shaughnessey, of Ennis, bids me ask if you ever met hisnephew. If you do, make him sing “Larry M’Hale.” I hear it’s atreat.How is Mickey Free going on? There are three decent youngwomen in the parish he promised to marry, and I suppose he’s pursuingthe same game with the Portuguese. But he was neverremarkable for minding his duties. Tell him I am keeping my eyeon him.P. R.
[Footnote:2 To excuse Father Rush for any apparent impiety, I must add that, by “the Lord,” he means “Lord Clanricarde.”]
Here concluded this long epistle; and though there were many parts I could not help smiling at, yet upon the whole I felt sad and dispirited. What I had long foreseen and anticipated was gradually accomplishing,—the wreck of an old and honored house, the fall of a name once the watch-word for all that was benevolent and hospitable in the land. The termination of the lawsuit I knew must have been a heavy blow to my poor uncle, who, every consideration of money apart, felt in a legal combat all the enthusiasm and excitement of a personal conflict. With him there was less a question of to whom the broad acres reverted, so much as whether that “scoundrel Tom Basset, the attorney at Athlone, should triumph over us;” or “M’Manus live in the house as master where his father had officiated as butler.” It was at this his Irish pride took offence; and straitened circumstances and narrowed fortunes bore little upon him in comparison with this feeling.
I could see, too, that with breaking fortunes, bad health was making heavy inroads upon him; and while, with the reckless desperation of ruin, he still kept open house, I could picture to myself his cheerful eye and handsome smile but ill concealing the slow but certain march of a broken heart.
My position was doubly painful: for any advice, had I been calculated to give it, would have seemed an act of indelicate interference from one who was to benefit by his own counsel; and although I had been reared and educated as my uncle’s heir, I had no title nor pretension to succeed him other than his kind feelings respecting me. I could, therefore, only look on in silence, and watch the painful progress of our downfall without power to arrest it.
These were sad thoughts, and came when my heart was already bowed down with its affliction. That my poor uncle might be spared the misery which sooner or later seemed inevitable, was now my only wish; that he might go down to the grave without the embittering feelings which a ruined fortune and a fallen house bring home to the heart, was all my prayer. Let him but close his eyes in the old wainscoted bed-room, beneath the old roof where his fathers and grand-fathers have done so for centuries. Let the faithful followers he has known since his childhood stand round his bed; while his fast-failing sight recognizes each old and well-remembered object, and the same bell which rang its farewell to the spirit of his ancestors toll for him, the last of his race. And as for me, there was the wide world before me, and a narrow resting-place would suffice for a soldier’s sepulchre.
As the mail-cart was returning the next day to Lisbon, I immediately sat down and replied to the worthy Father’s letter, speaking as encouragingly as I could of my own prospects. I dwelt much upon what was nearest my heart, and begged of the good priest to watch over my uncle’s health, to cheer his spirits and support his courage; and that I trusted the day was not far distant when I should be once more among them, with many a story of fray and battle-field to enliven their firesides. Pressing him to write frequently to me, I closed my hurried letter; and having despatched it, sat sorrowfully down to muse over my fortunes.
AN ADVENTURE WITH SIR ARTHUR.
The events of the last few days had impressed me with a weight of years. The awful circumstances of that evening lay heavily at my heart; and though guiltless of Trevyllian’s blood, the reproach that conscience ever carries when one has been involved in a death-scene never left my thoughts.
For some time previously I had been depressed and disspirited, and the awful shock I had sustained broke my nerve and unmanned me greatly.
There are times when our sorrows tinge all the colorings of our thoughts, and one pervading hue of melancholy spreads like a pall upon what we have of fairest and brightest on earth. So was it now: I had lost hope and ambition; a sad feeling that my career was destined to misfortune and mishap gained hourly upon me; and all the bright aspirations of a soldier’s glory, all my enthusiasm for the pomp and circumstance of glorious war, fell coldly upon my heart, and I looked upon the chivalry of a soldier’s life as the empty pageant of a dream.
In this sad frame of mind, I avoided all intercourse with my brother officers; their gay and joyous spirits only jarred upon my brooding thoughts, and feigning illness, I kept almost entirely to my quarters.
The inactivity of our present life weighed also heavily upon me. The stirring events of a campaign—the march, the bivouac, the picket—call forth a certain physical exertion that never fails to react upon the torpid mind.
Forgetting all around me, I thought of home; I thought of those whose hearts I felt were now turning towards me, and considered within myself how I could have exchanged the home, the days of peaceful happiness there, for the life of misery and disappointment I now endured.
A brooding melancholy gained daily more and more upon me. A wish, to return to Ireland, a vague and indistinct feeling that my career was not destined for aught of great and good crept upon me, and I longed to sink into oblivion, forgotten and forgot.
I record this painful feeling here, while it is still a painful memory, as one of the dark shadows that cross the bright sky of our happiest days.
Happy, indeed, are they, as we look back to them and remember the times we have pronounced ourselves “the most miserable of mankind.” This, somehow, is a confession we never make later on in life, when real troubles and true afflictions assail us. Whether we call in more philosophy to our aid, or that our senses become less acute and discerning, I’m sure I know not.
As for me, I confess by far the greater portion of my sorrows seemed to come in that budding period of existence when life is ever fairest and most captivating. Not, perhaps, that the fact was really so, but the spoiled and humored child, whose caprices were a law, felt heavily the threatening difficulties of his first voyage; while as he continued to sail over the ocean of life, he braved the storm and the squall, and felt only gratitude for the favoring breeze that wafted him upon his course.
What an admirable remedy for misanthropy is the being placed in a subordinate condition in life! Had I, at the period that I write, been Sir Arthur Wellesley; had I even been Marshal Beresford,—to all certainty I’d have played the very devil with his Majesty’s forces; I’d have brought my rascals to where they’d have been well-peppered, that’s certain.
But as, luckily for the sake of humanity in general and the well-being of the service in particular, I was merely Lieutenant O’Malley, 14th Light Dragoons, the case was very different. With what heavy censure did I condemn the commander of the forces in my own mind for his want of daring and enterprise! Whole nights did I pass in endeavoring to account for his inactivity and lethargy. Why he did notseriatimfall upon Soult, Ney, and Victor, annihilate the French forces, and sack Madrid, I looked upon as little less than a riddle; and yet there he waited, drilling, exercising, and foraging, as if he were at Hounslow. Now most fortunately here again I was not Sir Arthur.
Something in this frame of mind, I was taking one evening a solitary ride some miles from the camp. Without noticing the circumstance, I had entered a little mountain tract, when, the ground being broken and uneven, I dismounted and proceeded a-foot, with the bridle within my arm. I had not gone far when the clatter of a horse’s hoofs came rapidly towards me, and though there was something startling in the pace over such a piece of road, I never lifted my eyes as the horseman came up, but continued my slow progress onwards, my head sunk upon my bosom.
“Hallo, sir!” cried a sharp voice, whose tones seemed, somehow, not heard for the first time. I looked up, saw a slight figure closely buttoned up in a blue horseman’s cloak, the collar of which almost entirely hid his features; he wore a plain, cocked hat without a feather, and was mounted upon a sharp, wiry-looking hack.
“Hallo, sir! What regiment do you belong to?”
As I had nothing of the soldier about me, save a blue foraging cap, to denote my corps, the tone of the demand was little calculated to elicit a very polished reply; but preferring, as most impertinent, to make no answer, I passed on without speaking.
“Did you hear, sir?” cried the same voice, in a still louder key. “What’s your regiment?”
I now turned round, resolved to question the other in turn; when, to my inexpressible shame and confusion, he had lowered the collar of his cloak, and I saw the features of Sir Arthur Wellesley.
“Fourteenth Light Dragoons, sir,” said I, blushing as I spoke.
“Have you not read the general order, sir? Why have you left the camp?”
Now, I had not read a general order nor even heard one for above a fortnight. So I stammered out some bungling answer.
“To your quarters, sir, and report yourself under arrest. What’s your name?”
“Lieutenant O’Malley, sir.”
“Well, sir, your passion for rambling shall be indulged. You shall be sent to the rear with despatches; and as the army is in advance, probably the lesson may be serviceable.” So saying, he pressed spurs to his horse, and was out of sight in a moment.
TALAVERA.
Having been despatched to the rear with orders for General Crawfurd, I did not reach Talavera till the morning of the 28th. Two days’ hard fighting had left the contending armies still face to face, and without any decided advantage on either side.
When I arrived upon the battle-field, the combat of the morning was over. It was then ten o’clock, and the troops were at breakfast, if the few ounces of wheat sparingly dealt out among them could be dignified by that name. All was, however, life and animation on every side; the merry laugh, the passing jest, the careless look, bespoke the free and daring character of the soldiery, as they sat in groups upon the grass; and except when a fatigue party passed by, bearing some wounded comrade to the rear, no touch of seriousness rested upon their hardy features. The morning was indeed a glorious one; a sky of unclouded blue stretched above a landscape unsurpassed in loveliness. Far to the right rolled on in placid stream the broad Tagus, bathing in its eddies the very walls of Talavera, the ground from which, to our position, gently undulated across a plain of most fertile richness and terminated on our extreme left in a bold height, protected in front by a ravine, and flanked by a deep and rugged valley.
The Spaniards occupied the right of the line, connecting with our troops at a rising ground, upon which a strong redoubt had been hastily thrown up. The fourth division and the Guards were stationed here, next to whom came Cameron’s brigade and the Germans, Mackenzie and Hill holding the extreme left of all, which might be called the key of our position. In the valley beneath the latter were picketed three cavalry regiments, among which I was not long in detecting my gallant friends of the Twenty-third.
As I rode rapidly past, saluting some old familiar face at each moment, I could not help feeling struck at the evidence of the desperate battle that so lately had raged there. The whole surface of the hill was one mass of dead and dying, the bearskin of the French grenadier lying side by side with the tartan of the Highlander. Deep furrows in the soil showed the track of the furious cannonade, and the terrible evidences of a bayonet charge were written in the mangled corpses around.
The fight had been maintained without any intermission from daybreak till near nine o’clock that morning, and the slaughter on both sides was dreadful. The mounds of fresh earth on every side told of the soldier’s sepulchre; and the unceasing tramp of the pioneers struck sadly upon the ear, as the groans of the wounded blended with the funeral sounds around them.
In front were drawn up the dark legions of France,—massive columns of infantry, with dense bodies of artillery alternating along the line. They, too, occupied a gently rising ground, the valley between the two armies being crossed half way by a little rivulet; and here, during the sultry heat of the morning, the troops on both sides met and mingled to quench their thirst ere the trumpet again called them to the slaughter.
In a small ravine near the centre of our line were drawn up Cotton’s brigade, of whom the Fusiliers formed a part. Directly in front of this were Campbell’s brigade, to the left of which, upon a gentle slope, the staff were now assembled. Thither, accordingly, I bent my steps, and as I came up the little scarp, found myself among the generals of division, hastily summoned by Sir Arthur to deliberate upon a forward movement. The council lasted scarcely a quarter of an hour, and when I presented myself to deliver my report, all the dispositions for the battle had been decided upon, and the commander of the forces, seated upon the grass at his breakfast, looked by far the most unconcerned and uninterested man I had seen that morning.
He turned his head rapidly as I came up, and before the aide-de-camp could announce me, called out:—
“Well, sir, what news of the reinforcements?”
“They cannot reach Talavera before to-morrow, sir.”
“Then, before that, we shall not want them. That will do, sir.”
So saying, he resumed his breakfast, and I retired, more than ever struck with the surprising coolness of the man upon whom no disappointment seemed to have the slightest influence.
I had scarcely rejoined my regiment, and was giving an account to my brother officers of my journey, when an aide-de-camp came galloping at full speed down the line, and communicating with the several commanding officers as he passed.
What might be the nature of the orders we could not guess at; for no word to fall in followed, and yet it was evident something of importance was at hand. Upon the hill where the staff were assembled no unusual bustle appeared; and we could see the bay cob of Sir Arthur still being led up and down by the groom, with a dragoon’s mantle thrown over him. The soldiers, overcome by the heat and fatigue of the morning, lay stretched around upon the grass, and everything bespoke a period of rest and refreshment.
“We are going to advance, depend upon it!” said a young officer beside me; “the repulse of this morning has been a smart lesson to the French, and Sir Arthur won’t leave them without impressing it upon them.”
“Hark, what’s that?” cried Baker; “listen!”
As he spoke, a strain of most delicious music came wafted across the plain. It was from the band of a French regiment, and mellowed by the distance, it seemed in the calm stillness of the morning air like something less of earth than heaven. As we listened, the notes swelled upwards yet fuller; and one by one the different bands seemed to join, till at last the whole air seemed full of the rich flood of melody.
We could now perceive the stragglers were rapidly falling back, while high above all other sounds the clanging notes of the trumpet were heard along the line. The hoarse drum now beat to arms; and soon after a brilliant staff rode slowly from between two dense bodies of infantry, and advancing some distance into the plain, seemed to reconnoitre us. A cloud of Polish cavalry, distinguished by their long lances and floating banners, loitered in their rear.
We had not time for further observation, when the drums on our side beat to arms, and the hoarse cry, “Fall in,—fall in there, lads!” resounded along the line.
It was now one o’clock, and before half an hour the troops had resumed the position of the morning, and stood silent and anxious spectators of the scene before them.
Upon the table-land to the rear of the French position, we could descry the gorgeous tent of King Joseph, around which a large and splendidly-accoutred staff were seen standing. Here, too, the bustle and excitement seemed considerable, for to this point the dark masses of the infantry seemed converging from the extreme right; and here we could perceive the royal guards and the reserve now forming in column of attack.
From the crest of the hill down to the very valley, the dark, dense ranks extended, the flanks protected by a powerful artillery and deep masses of heavy cavalry. It was evident that the attack was not to commence on our side, and the greatest and most intense anxiety pervaded us as to what part of our line was first to be assailed.
Meanwhile Sir Arthur Wellesley, who from the height had been patiently observing the field of battle, despatched an aide-de-camp at full gallop towards Campbell’s brigade, posted directly in advance of us. As he passed swiftly along, he called out, “You’re in for it, Fourteenth; you’ll have to open the ball to-day.”
Scarcely were the words spoken, when a signal gun from the French boomed heavily through the still air. The last echo was growing fainter, and the heavy smoke breaking into mist, when the most deafening thunder ever my ears heard came pealing around us; eighty pieces of artillery had opened upon us, sending a very tempest of balls upon our line, while midst the smoke and dust we could see the light troops advancing at a run, followed by the broad and massive columns in all the terror and majesty of war.
“What a splendid attack! How gallantly they come on!” cried an old veteran officer beside me, forgetting all rivalry in his noble admiration of our enemy.
The intervening space was soon passed, and the tirailleurs falling back as the columns came on, the towering masses bore down upon Campbell’s division with a loud cry of defiance. Silently and steadily the English infantry awaited the attack, and returning the fire with one withering volley, were ordered to charge. Scarcely were the bayonets lowered, when the head of the advancing column broke and fled, while Mackenzie’s brigade, overlapping the flank, pushed boldly forward, and a scene of frightful carnage followed; for a moment a hand-to-hand combat was sustained, but the unbroken files and impregnable bayonets of the English conquered, and the French fled, leaving six guns behind them.
The gallant enemy were troops of tried and proved courage, and scarcely had they retreated when they again formed; but just as they prepared to come forward, a tremendous shower of grape opened upon them from our batteries, while a cloud of Spanish horse assailed them in flank and nearly cut them in pieces.
While this was passing on the right, a tremendous attack menaced the hill upon which our left was posted. Two powerful columns of French infantry, supported by some regiments of light cavalry, came steadily forward to the attack; Anson’s brigade were ordered to charge.
Away they went at top speed, but had not gone above a hundred yards when they were suddenly arrested by a deep chasm; here the German hussars pulled short up, but the Twenty-third dashing impetuously forward; a scene of terrific carnage ensued, men and horses rolling indiscriminately together under a withering fire from the French squares. Even here, however, British valor quailed not, for Major Francis Ponsonby, forming all who came up, rode boldly upon a brigade of French chasseurs in the rear. Victor, who from the first had watched the movement, at once despatched a lancer regiment against them, and then these brave fellows were absolutely cut to atoms, the few who escaped having passed through the French columns and reached Bassecour’s Spanish division on the far right.
During this time the hill was again assailed, and even more desperately than before; while Victor himself led on the fourth corps to an attack upon our right and centre.
The Guards waited without flinching the impetuous rush of the advancing columns, and when at length within a short distance, dashed forward with the bayonet, driving everything before them. The French fell back upon their sustaining masses, and rallying in an instant, again came forward, supported by a tremendous fire from their batteries. The Guards drew back, and the German Legion, suddenly thrown into confusion, began to retire in disorder. This was the most critical moment of the day, for although successful upon the extreme right and left of our line, our centre was absolutely broken. Just at this moment Gordon rode up to our brigade; his face was pale, and his look flurried and excited.
“The Forty-eighth are coming; here they are,—support them, Fourteenth.”
These few words were all he spoke; and the next moment the measured tread of a column was heard behind us. On they came like one man, their compact and dense formation looking like some massive wall; wheeling by companies, they suffered the Guards and Germans to retire behind them, and then, reforming into line, they rushed forward with the bayonet. Our artillery opened with a deafening thunder behind them, and then we were ordered to charge.
We came on at a trot; the Guards, who had now recovered their formation, cheered us as we proceeded. The smoke of the cannonade obscured everything until we had advanced some distance, but just as we emerged beyond the line of the gallant Forty-eighth, the splendid panorama of the battle-field broke suddenly upon us.
“Charge, forward!” cried the hoarse voice of our colonel; and we were upon them. The French infantry, already broken by the withering musketry of our people, gave way before us, and unable to form a square, retired fighting but in confusion, and with tremendous loss, to their position. One glorious cheer, from left to right of our line, proclaimed the victory, while a deafening discharge of artillery from the French replied to this defiance, and the battle was over. Had the Spanish army been capable of a forward movement, our successes at this moment would have been much more considerable; but they did not dare to change their position, and the repulse of our enemy was destined to be all our glory. The French, however, suffered much more severely than we did; and retiring during the night, fell back behind the Alberche, leaving us the victory and the battle-field.
NIGHT AFTER TALAVERA.
The night which followed the battle was a sad one. Through the darkness, and under a fast-falling rain, the hours were spent in searching for our wounded comrades amidst the heap of slain upon the field; and tho glimmering of the lanterns, as they flickered far and near across the wide plain, bespoke the track of the fatigue parties in their mournful round; while the groans of the wounded rose amidst the silence with an accent of heart-rending anguish; so true was it, as our great commander said, “There is nothing more sad than a victory, except a defeat.”
Around our bivouac fires, the feeling of sorrowful depression was also evident. We had gained a great victory, it was true: we had beaten the far-famed legions of France upon a ground of their own choosing, led by the most celebrated of their marshals and under the eyes of the Emperor’s own brother; but still we felt all the hazardous daring of our position, and had no confidence whatever in the courage or discipline of our allies; and we saw that in the verymêléeof the battle the efforts of the enemy were directed almost exclusively against our line, so confidently did they undervalue the efforts of the Spanish troops. Morning broke at length, and scarcely was the heavy mist clearing away before the red sunlight, when the sounds of fife and drum were heard from a distant part of the field. The notes swelled or sank as the breeze rose or fell, and many a conjecture was hazarded as to their meaning, for no object was well visible for more than a few hundred yards off; gradually, however, they grew nearer and nearer, and at length, as the air cleared, and the hazy vapor evaporated, the bright scarlet uniform of a British regiment was seen advancing at a quick-step.
As they came nearer, the well-known march of the gallant 43d was recognized by some of our people, and immediately the rumor fled like lightning: “It is Crawfurd’s brigade!” and so it was; the noble fellow had marched his division the unparalleled distance of sixty English miles in twenty-seven hours. Over a burning sandy soil, exposed to a raging sun, without rations, almost without water, these gallant troops pressed on in the unwearied hope of sharing the glory of the battle-field. One tremendous cheer welcomed the head of the column as they marched past, and continued till the last file had deployed before us.
As these splendid regiments moved by we could not help feeling what signal service they might have rendered us but a few hours before. Their soldier-like bearing, their high and effective state of discipline, their well-known reputation, were in every mouth; and I scarcely think that any corps who stood the brunt of the mighty battle were the subject of more encomium than the brave fellows who had just joined us.
The mournful duties of the night were soon forgotten in the gay and buoyant sounds on every side. Congratulations, shaking of hands, kind inquiries, went round; and as we looked to the hilly ground where so lately were drawn up in battle array the dark columns of our enemy, and where not one sentinel now remained, the proud feeling of our victory came home to our hearts with the ever-thrilling thought, “What will they say at home?”
I was standing amidst a group of my brother officers, when I received an order from the colonel to ride down to Talavera for the return of our wounded, as the arrival of the commander-in-chief was momentarily looked for. I threw myself upon my horse, and setting out at a brisk pace, soon reached the gates.
On entering the town, I was obliged to dismount and proceed on foot. The streets were completely filled with people, treading their way among wagons, forage carts, and sick-litters. Here was a booth filled with all imaginable wares for sale; there was a temporary gin-shop established beneath a broken baggage-wagon; here might be seen a merry party throwing dice for a turkey or a kid; there, a wounded man, with bloodless cheek and tottering step, inquiring the road to the hospital. The accents of agony mingled with the drunken chorus, and the sharp crack of the provost-marshal’s whip was heard above the boisterous revelling of the debauchee. All was confusion, bustle, and excitement. The staff officer, with his flowing plume and glittering epaulettes, wended his way on foot, amidst the din and bustle, unnoticed and uncared for; while the little drummer amused an admiring audience of simple country-folk by some wondrous tale of the great victory.
My passage through this dense mass was necessarily a slow one. No one made way for another; discipline for the time was at an end, and with it all respect for rank or position. It was what nothing of mere vicissitude in the fortune of war can equal,—the wild orgies of an army the day after a battle.
On turning the corner of a narrow street, my attention was attracted by a crowd which, gathered round a small fountain, seemed, as well as I could perceive, to witness some proceeding with a more than ordinary interest. Exclamations in Portuguese, expressive of surprise and admiration, wore mingled with English oaths and Irish ejaculations, while high above all rose other sounds,—the cries of some one in pain and suffering; forcing my way through the dense group, I at length reached the interior of the crowd when, to my astonishment, I perceived a short, fat, punchy-looking man, stripped of his coat and waist-coat, and with his shirt-sleeves rolled up to his shoulder, busily employed in operating upon a wounded soldier. Amputation knives, tourniquets, bandages, and all other imaginable instruments for giving or alleviating torture were strewed about him, and from the arrangement and preparation, it was clear that he had pitched upon this spot as an hospital for his patients. While he continued to perform his functions with a singular speed and dexterity, he never for a moment ceased a running fire of small talk, now addressed to the patient in particular, now to the crowd at large, sometimes a soliloquy to himself, and not unfrequently, abstractedly, upon things in general. These little specimens of oratory, delivered in such a place at such a time, and, not least of all, in the richest imaginable Cork accent, were sufficient to arrest my steps, and I stopped for some time to observe him.
The patient, who was a large, powerfully-built fellow, had been wounded in both legs by the explosion of a shell, but yet not so severely as to require amputation.
“Does that plaze you, then?” said the doctor, as he applied some powerful caustic to a wounded vessel; “there’s no satisfying the like of you. Quite warm and comfortable ye’ll be this morning after that. I saw the same shell coming, and I called out to Maurice Blake, ‘By your leave, Maurice, let that fellow pass, he’s in a hurry!’ and faith, I said to myself, ‘there’s more where you came from,—you’re not an only child, and I never liked the family.’ What are ye grinning for, ye brown thieves?” This was addressed to the Portuguese. “There, now, keep the limb quiet and easy. Upon my conscience, if that shell fell into ould Lundy Foot’s shop this morning, there’d be plenty of sneezing in Sacksville Street. Who’s next?” said he, looking round with an expression that seemed to threaten that if no wounded man was ready he was quite prepared to carve out a patient for himself. Not exactly relishing the invitation in the searching that accompanied it, I backed my way through the crowd, and continued my path towards the hospital.
Here the scene which presented itself was shocking beyond belief,—frightful and ghastly wounds from shells and cannon-shot were seen on all sides, every imaginable species of suffering that man is capable of was presented to view; while amidst the dead and dying, operations the most painful were proceeding with a haste and bustle that plainly showed how many more waited their turn for similar offices. The stairs were blocked up with fresh arrivals of wounded men, and even upon the corridors and landing-places the sick were strewn on all sides.
I hurried to that part of the building where my own people were, and soon learned that our loss was confined to about fourteen wounded; five of them were officers. But fortunately, we lost not a man of our gallant fellows, and Talavera brought us no mourning for a comrade to damp the exultation we felt in our victory.