THE HALF-PAY CAPTAIN.

‘Certe ego transilui positas ter in ordine flammas,Virgaque roraleslaurea misit aquas.’”

Thus we parted, and resumed our opposite marches—I for the front, and the volunteer, with his escort, for Renteria.

“’Tis of little import, Corporal. A gallant soldier’s memorywill flourish, though humble turf be osier-bound upon his grave.The tears of his country will moisten it.”Colman.

On a cold and snowy night, in the winter of 1823, I was passing through the Strand, on my way home from a formal dinner-party, when I stepped into one of those houses of entertainment which abound in that semi-fashionable neighbourhood which skirts the occidental line of aristocratic demarcation—Charing Cross. Although this house had assumed the dignified appellation oftavern, the only claim it possessed to such distinction, was the display of a few mutton-chops, a plate of mutton kidneys, and two fine heads of celery,in the window. Nor was it what is termed “apublic-house”—“Where ’bacco-pipes, and clumsy pots of beerRegale the crowd:”but might be said to have fixed its intrinsic rank midway between the two. It possessed a neat and comfortable parlour for public use, and, although perfumed by tobacco, and moistened by homely ale, neither vulgar “pipe” nor clumsy “pot” disgraced it—the segar, in its “naked beauty,” and the brightly polished pewter-vessel, there repelled the rabble, and imparted their cheering pleasures to respectable visitors. The evening paper was there—and so was the “Times,” to read both of which, as well as to escape a heavy fall of snow, I opened the parlour-door, took a seat at an agreeable distance from a fine blazing fire, and was soon accommodated with the newspaper, together with a cup of smoking-hot brandy and water.

There were five persons in the parlour, each at a separate table, but all conversing freely together on that never-ending and purely English topic—the weather. One of them, however, but seldomspoke, and then it was when addressed by others of the company: he seemed by his air, and the formation of a threadbare and well-brushed blue frock coat, to belong to the army, and I at once set him down as one of “the cloth.”

“Waiter, give me a Welsh-rabbit,” said this gentleman, in a mild voice to the attendant of the room, and then took up the newspaper, which he continued to peruse until his supper was brought in.

While he was reading, I had an opportunity of observing him closely: he was bald, except on the sides of the head, and there the thin hair was grey: his face was thin, his cheeks rather hollow, and his large and expressive eyes overshadowed by strongly marked brows: his figure was tall, but wasted; and from the oppressed and hurried way in which he breathed, it was evident that his health was broken. The whole of his dress was extremely clean, but almost worn out. I could perceive that his boots, on which the strong blaze of the fire fell, were in no state to guard the invalid who wore them from the dangerous effects of the melting snow, over which he must tread on his returnhome. When I thought of this, and considered that it might cause his death, or at least encrease his illness, I sincerely pitied his situation. I felt as if I had already learnt his history, and beheld in him the ruins of a genuine military gentleman.

On addressing my conversation occasionally to him, I found that he was by no means so reserved as at first I imagined; and in a short time we fell into a lively and an interesting chat. I politely asked him if he would take a little brandy and water; but he excused himself, although pressed, by saying that his health would not permit him to drink more than half a pint of porter: this, he said, he took usually in the evening. “Wine,” said he, “is too expensive in London, or I should certainly prefer it.” I immediately requested the waiter to bring some wine; but of this the gentleman also refused to partake—and in such a manner that I felt I should have wounded his feelings by pressing my request farther.

We were now undisturbed by general observations; for when the others in the room perceived we were not at all disposed to join them in chat, they continued to discuss the topics of the day withoutinterrupting us. We conversed for about two hours, and I was never more delighted than by his conversation. Military affairs was the subject: we had both served in the Peninsula, and consequently talked of many mutual acquaintances, living and dead: this made us so far familiar, that he gave me an outline of his professional life.

He had entered the army as ensign in 1790, and had served in both the East and West Indies, Holland, and the Peninsula—obtained his Lieutenancy by chance, and his company by purchase. At the close of the last war he was placed on half-pay; in which state he remained: nor could he succeed in obtaining a return to full pay, notwithstanding his long services: this, however, was owing to the great reductions made in the army after the war. He was a native of Bath,—the son of a clergyman whose interest in the church was considerable at the time he became an Ensign; and he assured me, that had he taken his father’s advice and embraced the profession of the church instead of the army he would have been a rich man—not a poor pensioner with a ruined constitution, and without hopes of better days in this world:“But,” said he, “I was fond of gaiety—the fine uniform of the army caught my young mind, and pleased a beautiful and interesting young lady whom I afterwards married; so I gave up the reality for the shadow:” these were his expressions. His wife died in the West Indies, and left him two daughters: they grew up: both married officers in the army: one went to Sierra Leone and died: the other went to Madras; but whether alive or dead he did not know, not having heard from her for eleven months. All his relations were extinct. “I returned,” said he, “from Waterloo, where I was slightly wounded, and on going down to Bath met my father’s funeral—the only relation I had had then on earth except my daughter, who is in India.” He was placed on half-pay, by the reduction of the battalion in which he was effective. He possessed about four hundred pounds in cash; and this, with his income of seven shillings per day, promised fairly to place him above necessity. He remained in London perhaps more from a wish to be on the spot with the head-quarter people, than from any preference he had to an overgrown, noisy, expensive, metropolis;where, without wealth or friends, life is solitude of the worst description. He thought he possessed a better chance of being re-employed in the service, and so obtain a majority by staying near the Commander-in-chief, to watch the progress of military affairs. But year passed after year, in the same dull expectation, and he found himself as far removed from his hopes in 1823 as he was in 1817. His four hundred pounds he lodged in the hands of a mock army agent, who, from day to day, and month to month, promised him an exchange with some individual, with whom, perhaps, the impostor never had communicated. This mock agent at length failed, and ran away; leaving the poor Captain with nothing but his seven shillings a-day: and not only did he take with him his client’s four hundred pounds, but his last quarter’s half-pay, which the knave drew the day before he departed.15

This took place about six weeks before the evening I met the Captain. I immediately offered to introduce him to an army agent, who would advance him the amount of his following quarter’s half-pay. This offer he not only willingly accepted, but cordially thanked me for it; indeed, it had the greatest effect upon his spirits—he became quite another man—his countenance lost much of its melancholy; and it appeared he had previously much reason to be depressed; for he frankly informed me, that Greenwood’s had refused to advance money, and therefore, for the last six weeks, he had been obliged to have recourse to raisingmoney by pawning his clothes. I hesitated not a moment in offering him the loan of what change I then had in my pocket, but he declined to take it; nor could I press him to the acceptance of it. He thanked me gratefully, and promised to meet me at the house we were then in, on the following day at two o’clock, for the purpose of going together to the agent. He paid for his welsh-rabbit and his half-pint of porter, cordially shook hands with me, and we parted. Poor fellow! as he feebly walked out into the fast falling snow, so thinly clad, I heartily wished that Heaven had thrown a cloak over his shoulders.

I was true to my appointment next day; but the Captain was not. I waited an hour, and then left word for him with the waiter that I would come in the evening—and would remain until ten o’clock. I could not think what was the reason of the officer not meeting me, when it was upon a matter of so much importance to him. I went at night, according to what I told the waiter, but he was not there. I called next night,—he was not there. I now concluded that sickness, or perhaps death, was the cause; and regretted much that I hadneither left with him my address, nor the name of the agent to whom I promised to introduce him; neither had I got his card,—certain of meeting at the appointed time and place, we both overlooked the necessity of interchanging addresses.

What I am now about to describe, my readers will say is more of the romantic than the real: I must confess it looks more like the imaginative occurrence of a novel, than of actual life; but, at the same time, can assure them, that it is not romance—not imagination,—but fact.

Three weeks had passed away, and I had totally given up the idea of meeting again this unfortunate gentleman. I had frequently gone to the house where we had met, but without finding him. I left my address with the waiter, to deliver, should he see him; but my card was never removed from the rack in the bar, where the waiter had placed it.

It happened at this time that I changed my lodgings to Villiers-street, Strand. Here I engaged a tolerably well-furnished pair of parlours, and was reading at my fire, the second night after I took possession of them, when my landlord—a littlefat clerk to a brewer—opened the hall-door for somebody who had knocked. I heard his voice increasing to a pitch of anger, which awakened my curiosity; so I laid down my book and listened.

“You cannot be taking up my room for nothing, in this way, Sir; I must pay my rent, and Ishallbe paid by my lodgers. I gave you warning a fortnight ago, when I saw you had no money; and so now you must quit,willy nilly.”

“But, Sir,” replied a voice, in a subdued tone, “I have not been able to leave my bed, in order to look for lodgings, until to-day; and I hope you will not oblige me to quit your room to-night.”

“You may go to the room, if you wish,” replied the landlord, “because I know thelawdon’t allow me to lock it up—and a bad law it is; but if you do go, you will have to sleep without a bed; for I have removed my furniture. The short and the long of the matter is, Sir, you owe me two pounds; and I’ll forgive you the debt, if you only go away to-night: that’s what I call fair and charitable.”

“To-night!” returned a voice, “I cannot go; I was scarcely able to crawl down to the Strand,to look after a gentleman, who promised to recommend me to where I may get money; and now I am quite exhausted.”

“Exhausted! nonsense,” exclaimed the landlord’s wife, who now ran up from the kitchen; “we can’t be troubled with such people, and lose our rent, too.—Parcel of poor devils of half-pay officers, coming to London, here, to eat us up. One word for all; I will not be humbugged out of my lodgings.”

A thought struck me—it might be the poor Captain. I opened the door—itwashe! There he stood in the hall, leaning upon a stick—almost sinking with weakness. He recognised me directly, and as he put out his hand to meet mine, I could see his eyes filled with tears, which he laboured to suppress. I brought him into my room—gave him a chair at the fire—and left him to himself a few minutes, in order that he might compose his feelings; for to have talked to him on the brutality of the landlord then would have wounded him still deeper. I chose, therefore, rather to affect ignorance of it; and while I remained out of the room, took an opportunityof addressing the landlord upon his conduct, and promised to be answerable for the Captain’s rent, which operated a marvellous change in his demeanour towards the poor sufferer whom he had but a moment before treated so harshly.

I returned to my room and made a glass of negus for my guest, affecting in my manners a degree of hilarity which was at vast variance with my real feelings. The Captain was too weak to sit up long; he had been confined to his bed ever since the night he had first seen me, owing to a cold he caught on his return to his lodgings, and, therefore, could not come to his appointment: he had frequently requested his landlord to oblige him by going to the house where we were to have met, and to speak to me, whom he described; but this as well as other favours was denied. All his money was gone, and he had tottered down that night as a last resource, to see me.

I exerted myself to make him happy: the landlady brought him a basin of gruel, of which he partook: his bed was prepared, and—what was never done before for him—warmed with her pan by her own hands. Every thing was attention,and my grateful friend was made as comfortable as one suffering under a consuming disease could be. He remained in bed from this night; and I could see that every day he became more feeble: the doctor who attended him informed me that his lungs were diseased, and that his case was out of the pale of remedy. I did every thing I could for him; and he felt great relief, he said, from my company; for I always kept conversation free from melancholy.

About a week after this last confinement of the Captain to his bed, the landlord offered to have warm curtains put up; this was desirable, and as they were already in the house, he sent for an upholsterer to hang them. I was sitting by the bed of the invalid when this upholsterer came in, along with the landlord, carrying the curtains. The Captain regarded him attentively; then whispering he said to me, “I think I know that man: ask him what is his name.” I did so, and the upholsterer answered that his name was Thomas Hanson. I beckoned to him, and he approached the bed. The Captain then fixed his eyes uponhim, and in a weak voice said, “Tom, do you not know me?”

“No, Sir,” was the reply.

“Ah!” returned the Captain, “I am now so altered that nobody knows me;” and then burst into a flood of tears.

The man gazed on the sufferer intensely: he turned to me in evident embarrassment, and whispered, “I don’t recollect the gentleman, indeed, Sir.”

A short pause took place, and the Captain wiped his eyes with his handkerchief.

“Were you not in the **th regiment while they served in Spain?” said he.

“Yes, Sir; I served with them there, and since they came home too. I have been pensioned, and now, thank God! I’m in a good way of business, on my own account. I assure you, Sir, I do not recollect your face.”

“No, no!” rejoined the Captain, “my face and all—all are changed. I’m very unlike the Captain now, Tom, that led you up the hill at Talavera, and saved your life at Salamanca.”

Hanson changed colour—he looked closer—he recognized him—then fell on his knees by the bed and seizing his old Captain’s hand, wept like a child. I hurried out of the room, for I could not bear the scene.

Hanson never left the bed of the dying officer one hour at a time. However, the poor fellow died next day; and the last sad office of closing his eyes was performed by this faithful and humane soldier; nay, more—from his purse came the expenses of the funeral—his own hands made the coffin—and no mourner ever followed the beloved dead to the grave with a sincerer sorrow, than Hanson did his poor Captain.

(A SKETCH FOR THE “MEDICOS.”)

“There were four-and-twenty Doctors all of a row.”Old Song.

Scene.—The mess-room, of the Medical Staff at Chatham. A couple of dozen Doctors at dinner; all in blue uniform,—red collar and cuffs, no epaulettes. Guests, consisting of a retired Major, and a Captain of Infantry on full pay. Attendants, &c. &c.

Staff Surgeon Ward.This goose is as good asubjectas ever Icut up:—Doctor Adipose, shall I send you asuperior extremity?16

Dr. Adipose.Thank you, Mr. Ward. I’ll take one—au—hau—, with a slice of the breast; and, as your hand is in, you may as well let me have the—au—Pope’s nose.

Staff Surgeon Ward.There,—there,—there, Doctor—there you are; there is the deliciousos coccygisfor you.

Dr. Adipose.Thank you, au—hau—, thank you, my dear friend—very good, indeed.

Dr. Kyle.Permit me to send you some sauce.

Dr. Adipose.Thank you, Doctor, au—hau—, very good, very good; it looks a perfect Kitchener,—au—hau, very good, indeed.

Hospital Assistant Lintly.Mr. President, a little soup.

President.Eh! what! soup again, Lintly?

Hospital Assistant Lintly.Yes, Sir, if you please.

President.There, there. De’il a word I’ll say aboot yer taste, mon; gin ye had supped as much sargery soup as me, ye’d tak to soolids.

Dr. Kyle.Ah, Mr. President, you were too long in the Peninsula to recover your taste for soup.

President.True, Doctor! Hey—de ye remember when you and I war hospital mates togither at Belem, when the sargeryman wad han’ us up twa smoking tins o’ broth, to see if it war fit for the sick; an’ then we wad hae anither twa, to see if it war fit for the wounded; an’ then twa mere to see if we liked it oorsels,—ha! ha! ha! Doctor, we war jolly hospital mates, then. Ecod! I never swallowed a mouthfu’ o’ soup sin’ I was promoted.

Dr. Kyle.I was never an hospitalmate, Mr. President; “Hospital Assistant to the Forces,” wasmyfirst appointment in the department.

President.Aweel, it’s a’ the self-same thing. When I first entered—noo sax-an’-twenty years—we had mates, an’ nae assistants at a’.

Dr. Kyle.You are perfectly right, there; the service had noassistantsat that time, sure enough.

Dr. Adipose.(wiping his chin.) You are too severe, Kyle; au—hau—; you are, indeed, hau—; I’ll trouble you for a cut out of the thick end of that haunch of mutton; it looks delicious; au—hau—, good indeed—very good.

Dr. Kyle.I’ll send you a slice, Doctor, that will digest on its first contact with the gastric fluid;—there, Sir, there.

Dr. Adipose.Hau—, very good. I haven’t seen such a haunch as that since the last annual dinner of the society for the benefit of the widows of our department; thatwasdelicious, too.

Capt. Beamish.Oh, youhavea society, then, for the widows of your department, Doctor?

Dr. Adipose.Yes, yes; I’ll tell you all about it, by-and-by.—A little currant jelly, Thomas.

Dr. Kyle.Yes, Captain, to the laudable exertions of Sir James M’Grigor we are indebted for a valuable fund,—sufficient to protect our widows and our orphans, if it please God to leave them without other means.—Mr. Lintly, do you take mutton? Oh! Sir, it is a vast advantage.

Major Oldfield.’Pon my honour, I am very happy to see such improvements in your department. When I entered the service, now fifty years ago, there was no department at all. A surgeon was something like our present military parson; he used to go about in plain clothes, orwith a black coat and a military cocked hat: his pay was bad; and as to his assistant, he was a sort of lob-lolly-boy; but now, how different! Ah! the Duke, Heaven rest his soul! was the first who improvedyourdepartment, Gentlemen, as well as every other belonging to the army.

Dr. Adipose.Major—au—I’ll trouble you for a little of the harrico—hau: It looks very well—au—very well, indeed.

Vice-President.Splint, shall I send you a little pig?

Mr. Splint.Indeed it is a thing Mrs. Splint is very fond of; and if you like, I’ll send my servant up to you to-morrow for it.

Vice-President.For what!

Mr. Splint.Why the little pig you mentioned.

Dr. Adipose.Poo—oo—au—ha! ha! ha!

[A general laugh—more at the expense of Dr. Adipose than the little pig.]

Vice-President.Why, my dear Sir, I asked you to take a little ofthisroast pig.

Mr. Splint.Oh dear!—I beg your pardon.

Dr. Adipose.Very good—very good joke indeed—hau.Well, I think as you mentioned it, I’ll taste the little pig—aleetle bit, Mr. President. Devilish good joke—thank you, that will do.

Vice-President.Yes, Major, the Duke was our best friend; it was he who first raised the pay of the surgeons, and thus made the situation more worthy to be filled by men of education. Sir James M’Grigor, and Sir William Franklin, have completed what the Duke began, and now, thanks to those gentlemen, our department is not only happily organized, and its rank sustained, but we can furnish in the field, men of genuine professional education; not tyros of the pestle, but scientifically bred surgeons, who can whip off your legs while you’d be saying “Jack Robison.”—A glass of wine, Major.

Major.With great pleasure.

Dr. Adipose.Mr. Vice, I’ll taste that wild duck—hau—it looks well—and squeeze a lemon on it:—but first we’ll take a glass of wine—hau.

Capt. Beamish.I’m not so long as the Major in the service, by twenty years, and even inmytime the military surgeons were in general inferiorto what they are now, both in education and respectability.

Mr. Ward.The peninsular war required a vast deal of surgeons, and therefore, a number of young unqualified men, of necessity were sent out to Portugal; but since that, Sir, this very Chatham hospital has been established; and it bids fair to become a school for military surgeons.

Dr. Kyle.By-the-by, it would not be a bad thing to follow Buonaparte’s plan of educating medical men for the army. The Parliament might vote money for worse purposes than promoting the health and comfort of the soldiers in providing a military-medical school.—This I really believe. Then, in case of necessity, we should not be forced to receive indifferently educated surgeons into the service.—Chatham would be the very place for it. We have already a splendid anatomical museum, a good library, and an extensive hospital. All wanting now, is permission to receive young men as pupils or cadets, who would be supported by government until fit to join the army:—Something like the Artillery-school at Woolwich. Then the well-qualified officers of the department, whoare now receiving half-pay for nothing, might have here something to do in lecturing as professors.

President.Hoot! if ya’d apply to parelament for sic a thing, ya’d ha’ Masther Joey Hume at wark wi’ his hammer an’ tongs:—he’d cry oot “sae muckle for lodging—sae muckle for poorridge—an’ sae muckle for pooltices,” till he’d run up a bill for the hoose that wad beat theDocthor’s Billclane oot an’ oot.

Dr. Kyle.But Sir James and Mr. Hume are both Aberdeen men, are they not? There might be something done that way.

President.Nae, that wad do naething; Sir James has a lang heed o’ his ain, an’ if it war to be done at a’, he’d nae consult the calculator aboot it.

Dr. Adipose.Very true, Mr. President, hau—I’ll thank you for another custard, au—just to finish this apple-pie.

President.First we’ll take a drap o’ wine, Docthor; ya’r takin’ reed, so there’s the decanter.

Major Oldfield.I really think the plan isgood; for this reason:—when men expend a considerable sum on medical education, they look to a return; and the success of private practice is far more tempting than the army-surgeon’s; therefore professional education might be provided for them at a moderate expense, and as a security, they might be bound to remain a certain number of years in the army.

Capt. Beamish.I remember a joke which passed current at the expense of the young surgeons when I was at Lisbon:—a ship was hailed, in passing up the Tagus, to learn what she had on board, and the Master answered “horses and hospital mates, for the use of the army.”

Vice President.Very true: there were many such jokes played off upon them; and this was owing, in a great measure, to the want of such an establishment as this at Chatham. Then, a set of young raw Scotch or Irish pupils would come up to London, pass their examinations, and be ordered forthwith out to Portugal. Unacquainted with military etiquette and the usages of officers, it is not to be wondered that they were in general laughed at. I myself have seen one of themedical juniors—then a dispenser of medicines, but now Apothecary to the Forces—dressed in abrownill-madesurtoutcoat, blue trowsers ending at the calf of the leg, pepper-and-salt coloured worsted stockings, and shoes; the whole surmounted by a cocked hat, and straight black feather: in one hand he carried his sword, and in the other an umbrella!

[A laugh from all the mess, particularly convulsive in Dr. Adipose.

President.It’s vary deeferent noo; look at us a’ here fra’ top to bottom—there’s nae irreg’larity in oor appearance—nae gaudy gewgaws aboot us, but neat an’ military to a degree: oor uniform is noo blue an’ reed ye see—then it was reed an’ black. Here, when a young man joins us, he learns not only his duty, but the mode o’ appearing like a proper meelitary surgeon, an’ joins a regiment ready made, as it were: it was far deeferent during the peninsular war. I can assure ya gentlemen, the present Airmy Meedical Board deserve the highest praise—an’ something more substantial too, for the establishment o’ this valuableheed-quarters, I may call it, o’ the Meedical Department; an’, wi’yir leave, I’ll noo drink their health in a bumper; [all rise] I’ll gi’ ya, gentlemen, Sir James M’Grigor, an’ Sir William Franklin, the regenerators o’ the Meedical Department.

[drunk with three times three.

Assist. Staff Surg. Leech.The only thing I see unpleasant in our situation, is that we are not promoted fast enough.

[a laugh.

President.There is something in that: Misther Leech there, has been in the sarvice—hoo long noo, Leech?

Assist. Surg. Leech.About eight years on active service abroad, and nearly eight more on half-pay.

President.Ha! that’s a long time. I remember when I enthered the sarvice, an assistant-surgeon seldom remained withoot promotion for mere nor three years, and some got it in as many months. But this can hardly be helped noo, fra’ the encreased numbers. Hooever, it wad be an improvement in the Department, if the juniors were mere quickly promoted; and also a greater number o’ gude places for the seniors to look up to.

Dr. Adipose.Right, Mr. President, hau—take care of the seniors.—I’ll thank you for the nuts.

[a laugh.

Vice President.There are not enough of high places certainly. The situation of Inspector of Hospitals, is all that the surgeon can fairly look to; and of these there are not many. Now what is that worth?—about 700l.a year. This, mind you, is theutmosta man can look to, unless it be the directorship of the Department; and that is butoneplace of worth—all this after twenty or thirty years of troublesome service:—there lies the disadvantages of the profession. If a surgeon be but commonly attentive, and fairly qualified, he will soon be worth more than twice seven hundred a year in civil practice: nay, an apothecary, who sticks up a blue bottle at the corner of a narrow lane in London, will soon make as good an income as the Inspector of Hospitals.

President.True enough: there ought to be at least half a doozen gude births, o’ a thoosand a year, by way o’ rewards for auld and meretorious meedical oofficers; an’ the young ones ought to run up a leettle faster. What d’ye think of thesinecures given to the Irish Medical Board:—the present Surgeon-general, an’ Physeecian-general, an’ several o’ the Inspecthors, enjoy their full pay an’ allooances, yet were never in the army at a.’ (murmurs of disapprobation from all the Mess) Yes, gentlemen, ’tis fac’ as deeth:—hey! I wish the Duke may just tak’ it into his head to examine it.

Dr. Adipose.Au—hau—that’s the man for cutting up the Doctors—hau—I’ll take the olives and that orange, Mr. Ward—hau—thank you.

Dr. Kyle.What our worthy President says is just. Those situations in Ireland were given to richcivilpractitioners—I believe by one of the Viceroys: now, really, if Viceroys choose to reward their medical friends with good incomes, they should not take the money out of the pockets of those officers who have been living like gipsies on the mountains—enduring every privation to watch over the lives of our gallant soldiers; or perhaps wasting their health and life in the pestilential air of tropical hospitals. There are but few good places in the Department, and surely they should not be given to wealthy practitioners, who do not belong to the army. Cheyne, Crampton,Peel—all worth at least two or three thousand a year each by their practice—take three of our best places from us; yet, until their present appointment, never had anything whatever to do with the army.

Mr. Ward.Yes; Crampton, I believe, was an hospital mate for five or six months; and, I remember, he did duty in the camp which was on the Curragh of Kildare.

Dr. Kyle.Vast service, indeed! (a laugh.)

Dr. Adipose.Gentlemen, I’ll give you a toast—hau:—I’ll give you—Mr. Abernethy and the digestive organs.

[A roar of laughter follows the corpulent gentleman’s toast.

President.Why—Adipose—what the deel maks you toast the digeestive organs?

Dr. Adipose.Because they are our best friends—hau—and the particular supporters of our worthy brother Abernethy.

(applause.)

Major Oldfield.Gentlemen, I’m sorry my health requires me to leave you. There was a time when I could drink with the best of you:but I am seventy-six years of age, and that I hope will be my excuse for quitting so early this pleasant mess-table. Allow me, before I go, to say that it gives me the greatest satisfaction to see the hospital staff thus consolidated: many attempts were made, during the long time I served in the army, to establish a regular mess in this department, but all failed. I give you joy, therefore, gentlemen, on the attainment of the object now: and I trust you will not receive it as flattery when an old officer tells you, that for forty years in the service, he never had the honour of dining at a mess where there was more military regularity and more enlightened members. Permit me now, Mr. President, to drink “Prosperity to the Medical Officers of the Army—the soldiers’ best friends in the day of sorrow.”17

(great applause.)

The Major now departed—several of the membersof the mess, who were on duty, also retired to the hospital, and the remainder sat in pleasant conversation until eleven o’clock, when they partook of deviled turkey, specially prepared by Doctor Adipose; and having washed it down with a few glasses of claret, broke up for the night.

“That’s the worst of the army,” said Private Andrews to Sergeant Dobson, as he rose to open the guard-house door—“that’s the worst of it: we are scarcely well acquainted with the inhabitants of a town in which we are quartered, when the route comes, and off we go; perhaps never to see again people that we would wish to spend our lives with.”

“Very true,” replied the Sergeant; “I have often felt that, and so have you; but I think there is something about our leaving Ballycraggen which touches your feelings, Andrews, a littlemore than the leaving of any former quarters in which I have seen you.”

“Why, to tell you the truth, I do not like to quit that poor girl, Sergeant; she is a good, kind-hearted creature,” returned Private Andrews, lifting the latch for the purpose of seeing who it was that engaged the sentry in conversation.

The door was opened, and in a few moments an aged man appeared at the threshold, exclaiming “Soldiers, I am glad to see you—blessings upon you! It is a cold and a bleak night: I have yet four miles to go: will you give me a seat at your fire? I am a man of threescore and twelve years of age, and before now my shoulder has borne a brown bess in the service.”

“Come in, come in, my old fellow!” was the answer from every man of the guard. The stranger’s venerable appearance was acarte blanche: he was not only admitted to the guard-house, but the old oak chair was resigned to him by honest Sergeant Dobson—no small compliment, considering the comfort and importance which it always afforded to the Sergeant of the Guard.

The old man who was thus simultaneously honoured, was that sort of personage which a romantic poet would think his fortune made in getting a sight of; and in describing him would immortalize himself,—provided he were a true poet: the white beard would demand a dozen stanzas:—the Ossianic vapour of the morn curling in the breeze—the snow upon the skirts of a towering mountain—the surf whitening the base of the cloud-capped sea-rock—these, and a thousand other comparisons, would be called in to paint it. The bald and expanded forehead would be likened to the most polished work of ivory-turners; the eye add a new star to the heavens; and the figure of the man be handed down to sculptors as a model for the venerable grandeur of humanity!

Now, as I am writing plain prose, I will say without metaphor, that he was a tall man of seventy-two years of age, with a long and silky white beard; a good-natured countenance, and as sound and healthy to all appearances as Corporal O’Callaghan; who, in point of age, might have been almost his grandson, and who took up hisposition beside him at the fire, the moment the old man sat down.

“What the divil makes you wear your beard?” said the Corporal; “couldn’t you borrow a razor anywhere once a week?”

“I have worn my beard,” replied the stranger, “for these many, many years. It is an old friend, and tells me a history. It was never cut since the mutiny of the Nore.”

“What! are you a sailor?” demanded the Sergeant.

“No, young man, I belonged to the Royal Marines.”

“O, by the powers! he’s one o’ the red boys afther all,” exclaimed the Corporal: “give us your fist.—God! you’re very cowld: will you take a—” here O’Callaghan whispered something to the stranger, and then went to a recess in the guard-room, where there was a bottle—in short, nothing that could be done by the guard to show their respect for the old soldier, was neglected: the consequence was, that he became very communicative, and related not only the history ofthe mutiny of the Nore, but gave them a description of his own adventures subsequent to that affair. There is no use in making a secret of the matter—a bottle of potyeen whisky was dispatched, and the party enjoyed themselves by the fire in listening to the veteran’s stories with the greatest attention for a couple of hours: during which time the rain pattered, and the wind blew, unheeded by the group. He told them he had enlisted when a boy, and had served as a marine in several engagements. He was entrapped into the mutiny of the Nore; but the only part which he took in the proceedings, was writing out in a fair hand several papers for the mutineers—and this he declared he did for no other purpose than to indulge his own vanity, in displaying his fine writing, upon which he had highly valued himself. He was tried after the surrender of the mutineers, and transported for life to Van Diemen’s Land. Amongst the stories with which he amused the guard, the most interesting was the following, in which he himself was a principal actor.

“I had not been more than two or three weeks in Hobart Town, when I was assigned as a crown servant to a worthy gentleman—Mr. Allen—with whom I lived, until it pleased God to call him away from this life: I served him faithfully, and he treated me more like a relation than a slave. He failed in business as a merchant a year before his death, and I believe it preyed upon his mind. He left scarcely any property behind him, but what there was, he willed to me:—seventeen pounds was all that remained after the whole of his things were sold by auction, and his funeral expenses paid. This sum fell to me. I was very happy while Mr. Allen lived; but after that, I began to think of obtaining my liberty, in order to return home to this country, for there was nobody I cared about in the colony. I was applied to by a Mr. M’Carthy, to undertake the overseeing of his land; and I accepted the offer. I had my choice of places; for old Jack Worral—that’s my name—was well respected by every free settler in the country. Shortly after my going to Mr. M’Carthy’s,the Bush-rangers became very troublesome: there was a gang of them—about seven-and-twenty—out in the woods and wild country; and they used to come down of a night and plunder the settlers of everything—neither cattle nor corn, nor house, was secure from their depredations. Mr. M’Carthy had a fine schooner lying in the Derwent, loaded with goods; he feared that the Bush-rangers would plunder her; for his neighbour, a Mr. Carlisle, had been recently robbed by them, and he, himself, had seen some of them shooting kangaroos on the banks of the river. He therefore mentioned to me, that he would like to form a party to go in pursuit of them. I volunteered to be one; for although then near sixty years of age, I could manage the best of them. Several of the neighbours instantly joined:—there were Mr. Triffit, and Murphy, and Jemmot, and Brown, and Carlisle, and Tooms, and Hacking, and O’Berne, the master of our schooner, the Geordy, and three or four sailors. Every man had a fowling-piece or a musket—some had also pistols, and swords, and bayonets. We started on the track of the Bush-rangers, just an hour before sunrise, of a beautiful twilight-night,in the latter end of spring: our direction was towards the centre of a space, between two high hills, which was about three miles away, and where there was an open valley on the banks of a small river: we used to call it the fairy’s valley, on account of the little patches of green pasturage which every where appeared through the thick and matted brushwood?]—for you know it is said, that these are the spots where thegood people18dance of a moonlight night.

“We travelled on after our guide, who was a native that lived in the service of Mr. Carlisle, and who had been ill-treated by the Bush-rangers but a few days before, when they were plundering his master’s house: there was no road or path, as you might see in other countries—our way was over hills, and over craggs, and through jungles of brushwood, so that we were an hour and a half before we got into the opening of the valley. The sun was up and mists disappearing; the place as silent as the grave—nothing to be heard but whatever noise ourselves made. Mr. M’Carthy now proposedthat we should lie down, under cover of an overhanging rock, in a sort of green cave, thatched, as it were, with briers, bushes, and flowers, of every description: he said we had better halt and send out one or two as scouts: this we did; and the guide, with Mr. Murphy himself, after having taken a little refreshment by way of breakfast, climbed up the side of a steep hill, through the bushes, in order to get a complete view of all round from the top. While they were away we examined all our arms, and took our breakfast of cold meat and a small allowance of grog, dealt out by Mr. M’Carthy—for he kept charge of the spirits himself, lest any one should take too much. In about a quarter of an hour after Mr. Murphy and the guide went out, we heard a shot which rattled and echoed three or four times across the valley: this, as we afterwards learned, was fired by one of the Bush-rangers at a bird, and in the sight of the guide, who now came creeping down the hill with Mr. Murphy, making signs for silence. Our scouts informed us that the Bush-rangers were within shot, roasting mutton under a hill; but that to come upon them without being observed,it would require us to return and advance by an opening on the other side of them—a rising ground that was clear under-foot, but covered with immense trees. We immediately proceeded one by one to the rear, and in about ten minutes were in view of the smoke from the Bush-rangers’ fires; and by stooping so as to screen ourselves from the possible view of the robbers, we were enabled to get within about a hundred yards of them. Mr. M’Carthy ordered us to lie down, which we did. We could hear the fellows through the bushes, cursing, swearing, and laughing; some were cooking pieces of mutton, others lolling on the grass, smoking and drinking: and a pretty, interesting-looking native girl, sat playing with the long and bushy black ringlets of a stout and wicked-looking man seated by her: he had pistols in his belt—wore a fustian jacket, a kangaroo-skin cap and waistcoat, with leather gaiters, and dirty velveteen breeches. I saw him as plainly as I see any one here; and what do you think? the fellow had two watches in his fob! This turned out, as I learned afterwards, to be Michael Howe, the second in command of the robbers: at that timeWhitehead was the leader—a tall, ill-looking villain as ever you saw:hewas also there, asleep on the grass.

“We were now directed by Mr. M’Carthy to cock our pieces, and on a wave of his hand to rise and show ourselves, but not to fire until the word was given; and also, that if the Bush-rangers attempted to fire, to drop down so as to avoid the shot, and, if not possible to advance at once upon them, we were each to take a position behind a tree, and from thence fire upon the robbers: this was the plan of attack. Mr. M’Carthy now rose up, and with his piece at the ‘ready,’ cried out to Whitehead to surrender: the Bushmen were up in a moment, and behind a tremendous trunk of a hollow tree, through a hole in which we could see them. Whitehead replied to the summons very coolly; ‘I tell you what, M’Carthy,’ said he, ‘you will never be easy until I settle you: I spared your life last Thursday night; and if you want not to lose it, go home about your business.’

“Mr. M’Carthy now waved his hand, when we all stood up, and came to the present. Whitehead got behind the tree.

“‘Put down your guns,’ said he, ‘and I’ll speak to you.’

“Mr. M’Carthy ordered us to comply; we took them from our shoulders, but still held them with our fingers on the triggers.

“‘Now,’ said Whitehead, ‘let me advise you to leave us alone; we are well armed, and can beat you; but we don’t want blood: let us alone, I say, and go back to your homes. A man of us will not be taken alive.’

“‘If you surrender quietly, Whitehead,’ replied Mr. M’Carthy, ‘I can assure you pardon from the Government: you see my party is strong, so don’t force me to fire.’

“Michael Howe then roared out, ‘Slap at the beggars!’—a volley was fired at us through the hole in the tree; and which we returned. On looking round at our party, after I had fired, I saw Carlisle, Murphy, Jemmot, Triffet, and O’Berne, lying on the ground, but none of them quite dead.

“Whitehead now cried out to us, with an oath, to surrender; but we reloaded fast, and kept up such a hedge-firing, that one of the fellows dared not show himself, to present his piece. I calledout to our party to take aim at every shot, and only two to fire at a time. Some of the sailors now led away four of our wounded party; but Mr. Murphy could not be stirred, he was shot through the belly, and remained: Mr. Carlisle died on our way home; and O’Berne, who was shot in the face, expired in four days after. We were obliged to retreat, firing as we went; but the Bushmen had no wish to follow us. The fact is, Mr. M’Carthy ought to have opened on them at first, without giving them a moment’s consideration, and then should have run right in upon the fellows.

[“To be sure,” replied Sergeant Dobson; “they should not have given them a moment.”

“Oh, faith! that’s where they put their foot in it, completely,” rejoined Corporal O’Callaghan, as he offered the horn cup to the old man. “Wet your whistle,” said he, “before you go any farther.”

This was done in due form, and the venerable soldier renewed his story with encreased energy and pleasure:—]

“It was a disastrous end to our expedition, and the death of these unfortunate men caused a panic throughout the settlement: the 73d wasordered out, in detachments, to scour the country; but the Bushmen knew too well how to avoid them—they had a world of unpopulated country, of the finest nature, to retire into. However, a party of the soldiers came so close on them one day, that they found their meat burning on the fire, where they had placed it to broil, while the sheepskin was beside it, out of which the mutton was cut; but they could not catch a man of them.

“It might well be expected, that if the Bush-rangers could, they would not let Mr. M’Carthy rest after this attempt upon their lives; and we so much expected their vengeance, that we made preparation to protect ourselves immediately. Mr. M’Carthy obtained permission to keep a party of the 46th regiment in the house, night and day; the house being situated so lonely. The robbers were not aware of this, or they would not have ventured to make the attack, which they did in a very short time after the failure of our expedition against them. I was sitting at the fire one night, along with the soldiers, talking of one thing or another, when the window was knocked in by a volley fromwithout, and by which one of the soldiers was wounded in the arm. Mr. M’Carthy was from home at the time. Up the men jumped, and seizing their muskets, fired out instantly. I and a soldier ran down stairs and out at one of the back doors, when looking over a wall, we perceived a man at the front of the house: he was alone, and was beckoning to others to come on. I levelled at him,—fired:—he jumped off the ground, two yards at least, and then fell; but got up, and ran towards another of his comrades, crying out, ‘Howe—here, take my watch—the beggars have shot me.’ These were his last words: he then fell. Several of the soldiers now ran round, to get in the rear of the Bushmen, who, quite undaunted, were approaching the house. Several shots were fired both by and at the soldiers a little way from the gate. I now perceived a man approaching the dead body of the fellow I shot: I had no other charge for my gun, and no bayonet, so I returned into the house to load; when casting my eyes from the window, I saw the figure engaged over the body, taking his money, as I then thought. The light was out; the soldierswere gone from the house, engaged with the robbers, so I could not find either a grain of powder or a cartridge. I made up my mind in a moment to attack the fellow I saw below, with the but-end of my musket, so down I ran for that purpose, and was coming behind a ridge of dung or manure, in order to make sure of my man, when I saw the fellow—it was Howe—with the head of the dead man in his hand! he gazed a moment at the body, and then said he, ‘Poor Jack Whitehead, I swore to you, that if ever you fell near me, I’d not let your head be taken; the b——y governor won’t know you now, and no beggar shall get a rap for you, my boy: lie there, brave fellow, and I’ll bury your head for you in our own green valley—I know you would have done the same for me.’ I was petrified with astonishment; so Howe got off, and left the mutilated trunk in a pool of blood: he had cut off the head with his clasp knife. The body was taken away next day to Hobart Town, and gibbited on Hunter’s island. The soldiers, I believe, did not hit any of them—the night was too dark and the Bushmen too wary. If I could have got a cartridge when Howe was cutting off his comrade’shead, I should have settled him; and as it turned out, this Howe was the worst villain of the whole. On the death of Whitehead, he became the head of the gang, and committed the most terrible depredations every where; there was a reward of 100 guineas offered for his head; and that was twice the sum offered for any of the others. There was also a free pardon, with a passage home to England, ready for any of the crown prisoners who would take him or any of his men. The hope of getting back to my own country once more made me turn my attention particularly to this point, and as Mr. M’Carthy offered to assist me in all my projects, I set about the means of accomplishing them.

“I was once very near seizing Howe in the very centre of Hobart-Town, where he was in the disguise of a gentleman. I’ll tell you how it was: I was in a store one day, buying some powder and shot, when this fellow came in: the man’s name who kept the store was Stevens. Although Howe changed colour the moment he entered and saw me, yet I did not observe that itwashe; but when I heard him speak in his peculiarly vulgarway, I remembered the voice of the fellow who cut off the head of Whitehead. Strong as Howe was, I thought I was stronger; so without hesitation I grasped him by the collar, and told him that he was my prisoner: he struggled hard with me, and held on my throat; and I had got him fast at the back part of the store, when I was knocked down by a blow on the back of my head, and became senseless. It was some minutes before I recovered myself; and when I came to my senses, I found Stevens holding some strong spirits to my lips, and otherwise kindly attending me. He told me that a strange man had rushed into the store, and with a bludgeon knocked me on the head while I was struggling with Howe; and that when I fell from the blow, Howe jumped up and both ran away: little I then thought that it was Stevens himself who struck me and released Howe. This soon was brought to light; for information was given to the governor that Stevens was a receiver of Howe’s plunder; so he was hanged on Hunter’s Island, and buried under the gibbets of three of his correspondents. The fellow confessed to me in the jail, that it was he who struck me,and said he was only sorry he had not killed me. This man was a crown prisoner, but was thought to be an industrious person who was making a fortune by his business: two youths, his accomplices, were sentenced to death along with him, but were pardoned at the place of execution, on account of their tender years. It was this man, or some of his connexions, who used to supply the Bushmen with information, and also with necessaries.—As an instance of this—the gang appeared at Port Dalrymple, where they robbed one Mr. Rose, and in only eleven days after that, when the soldiers were scouring the neighbourhood in which this robbery was committed, they appeared at Bagdad—a distance of one hundred miles from Port Dalrymple, and intercepted a waggon load of valuable property belonging to a Mr. Stocker, who traded from one settlement to another: this they never could have accomplished unless they had information from their colleagues in Hobart Town.

“I now obtained leave to accompany a party of the 46th regiment on a regular campaign against the Bush-rangers. We carried with us flour, spirits, and some live stock; the weather being fine,we wanted no tents—and even if we had we could not have carried them. My arms were a musket and two pistols; my powder-horn and bullet-bag slung across my shoulder: I did not look much unlike Robinson Crusoe, with my long beard; and I was as often called by that name as by my own. I never passed a pleasanter time than for the three weeks we were out on the excursion, except when we lost our flour in a ford; and then we were so reduced that some of our party gnawed away their mocassions, or kangaroo-skins which they wore on their feet. Although we did not destroy the gang on this campaign, we were the means of hanging four of the Bush-rangers. On the third day’s march after we started, we were close to a place called theTea-tree Brush, and were poking our way through a thick and wide bed of briers and brushwood, in order to get over to an open and green space shaded with trees, where we proposed cooking a quarter of mutton, when we spied a smoke rising from the very trees we were approaching. We were soon on the clear ground, and the whole party advanced as quick as possible towards the smoke, determined to give no quarter to the Bushmenunless they surrendered. We now could see a hut made of boughs, and a fire before it, when out darted two men, and in a moment disappeared into a close thicket, and we lost them. In this hut we found several watches and trinkets, some cloth, twenty-five bullets, some powder, and three kangaroo dogs, all of which we took with us, first having dined heartily upon our mutton in front of the hut—and such a beautiful situation for a bivouac I never was in. It was a flat piece of green land, covered with wild flowers, and overlooking the most beautiful country that can be imagined—a precipice in our front, from which we hurled a stone that rolled over half a mile of a steep hill down to a river all studded with islands, and ornamented by the most delightfully displayed foliage on its banks—plain over plain, and wood over wood, was to be seen for twenty miles’ distance; and the blue mountains far away gave one an idea of an earthly paradise: yet no human being claimed it—none ever trod over this fine country but a few lawless brigands.

“We were now on the scent of the Bushmen, and I proposed a plan which turned out well;this was, that we should lie in ambush all the evening in a covered recess near the hut, and watch the return of some of the gang, whom we had no doubt were out hunting. This was approved by the Sergeant in command of us, and we immediately retired to the ambuscade: here we smoked our pipes:—it was so situated, that we could see all around without being ourselves perceived.

“We had been in this situation about two hours, when we espied four of the Bushmen; Howe was one of them; and the native girl, whom I saw playing with his curls before, was with him. Both were armed with pistols. Her dress was neither native nor European, but a very pretty sort of costume made up of skins, feathers, and white calico. They advanced towards the hut, until they came to within about three hundred yards of it, when the girl, who was before them, ran quickly back, seized Howe by the arm, and pointed to the hut. What was the reason of this I cannot tell: perhaps she saw something about it that excited suspicion—but, be that as it may, the whole party turned round, and fled for the valley, by an open,clear, and slanting ground which led into it. Out we ran after them, and were gaining a little upon them when we came to the bottom of the valley. They here took different directions; but Howe was our man; so after him we all went, dashing up the opposite hill from that on which the hut was; for all parties had forded—the water taking nearly up to the middle. When Howe and his girl, who followed him closely, gained the summit of the hill, he turned round, deliberately took aim at one of us with his fusee, and fired; but without effect. This was returned by three of our party, but also without effect. Our chase now was over a tolerably open country, and I dare say that we all ran at nearly full speed for about a mile—Howe before us, apparently taking it very easy; but he must have run amazingly well, to have distanced us so much in a mile, and with such seeming ease to himself. The girl, we could observe, was falling fast behind, but she still ran, and we could see Howe frequently motioning her on: at last the poor thing stopped short at once, as if overcome by fatigue. Howe roared at her, with a voice that sounded over theplain, and although five hundred yards from us, we heard it like the blast of a trumpet. What do you think he did, when he found that she could not move? the dog drew his pistol—fired at her—and the poor girl fell. I could not resist the feeling of rage which then took possession of me: I dropped on my knee, took a cool aim, and fired.”

[“Did you kill the rascal?” interrupted O’Callaghan.

“No. I suppose from the exertion of running, my aim was not as it in general was. However, we were rather far away for any thing like a certain shot.”]

“We continued the chase, and in about five minutes Howe arrived at an abrupt ravine, into which he darted; and we might as well have attempted to seek him in the bottom of the sea, as the place he sunk into; so we returned to the girl, whom we found was not dead, but severely wounded in the shoulder and neck. When we lifted her up, she trembled, and attempted to fall on her knees, to supplicate for mercy, as she expected to be shot instantly: but we soon relieved her fears, and led her to a shade, where we made a covering ofbranches for her, and otherwise assisted her, by tying up her arm in a sling, and washing the blood off it. The unhappy girl now offered to point us out the track of the robbers, and do every thing she could, to forward our views. We halted for the night, and at daybreak next morning proceeded on our search, guided by the girl, who was now able to walk.

“After a slow march of three hours, having passed through the ravine into which Howe went, we arrived at the verge of the river Shannon. Here were several huts which the girl said the Bushmen occasionally inhabited—that is, whenever they moved in that part of the country; nothing, however, was in these huts but beds of leaves and dry grass: there were strewed about several sheep skins, and marks of recent fires. The girl informed us that she had been there with Howe four days before. In a few minutes she ran over to the Sergeant, and pointing to the opposite bank of the Shannon, exclaimed, ‘There is Geary.’ We all looked across the river and saw one of the Bushmen with his gun levelled at us: he fired, and the ball splashed in the water close to us. It was nouse to waste our powder, for the fellow disappeared. We then set fire to the huts, and guided by the girl proceeded on our march. It would astonish you to see how she discovered the tracks of the robbers; she would sometimes go on fast, and at others stop, look attentively at the grass and leaves under her, and although we could see no mark of footsteps, she declared she did: she would minutely examine each leaf and brier and blade of grass on a spot where she was ‘at fault,’ in order to see were they broken or pressed; and in this way she brought us to a creek of the river near which she said was a hut, and that very likely some of the gang were there. We had scarcely arrived on a high rock which overhung the water of the creek when we heard a shot close to us, and a desperate-looking fellow with a rifle in his hand instantly darted past us: he evidently had no expectation of meeting suchfriendsas the soldiers at this place, for when he saw us he wheeled about and attemped to retreat, but two active fellows of our party leaped down into a hollow and completely cut him off. We were on the top of the rock, and within twenty yards of the Bushman. The fellowstopped an instant: we were just going to seize him, when he at once made a spring, and down off the rock he leaped into the water below, first having flung his gun away. The distance he fell was about a hundred feet. He sunk; but rose in a moment and commenced to swim to the opposite side. The two of our party who before had stopped him, now made for the other bank of the creek, and if they had not run extremely well and leaped a craggy ravine at the upper end of it, the Bushman would have escaped; but they were in time; and when the fellow was approaching the bank, they appeared, and pointed their muskets down at him. I almost pitied the wretch when this took place, he looked so miserable; but he did not surrender: he swam back to the centre of the creek and there cried out to us that if we would not fire he would propose fair terms: he was then below us; muskets were levelled at him from both sides, and an instant would have sent him to the bottom. The Sergeant asked what terms he wanted? He replied that he wished to be taken as an approver, and that he would discover all he knew of the gang. ‘Come ashore,’ said the Sergeant,‘trust to the Governor for your life—I can make no terms with you: but if you refuse to submit, we’ll blow you into atoms the next instant.’ The fellow paused, and looked wildly up at both sides of the creek, there death was staring him in the face—and such a face of horror I never saw. He had nothing left him but submission; so he cried out, ‘Very well, Sergeant, I’ll submit; but I hope you’ll mention my proposal to the Governor.’ The wretch now swam to the opposite bank, and yielded himself to the custody of the two soldiers there, while we proceeded round to join them. On our way we had to go a considerable distance, unless we all leaped the ravine, which was so well done by the two of our party on the other side; this we had no motive for,—it was dangerous; and besides that, the female who was along with us could not, ifwecould. We were passing through very long grass and high weeds, nearly up to our heads, when the girl cried out to us to stop. She said that somebody had gone this way bleeding; and showed blood on the weeds, evidently but lately spilt. She also said, that there was a Bushman’s hut, about a hundred yards away. We thereforechanged our intention of going to the other side of the creek, and sent a man to assist in bringing round to us the prisoner, while we went to the expected hut; at the same time marking the spot where the blood was. The girl pointed out the place where the hut lay,—we could not then see it; but on approaching a little further, discovered it in a hollow, beautifully surrounded with trees and close brushwood. We halted, and presented our muskets at the opening of the hut, while the Sergeant called out to know was there any body there? and threatening to fire, if they did not come out. No answer:—so we advanced—entered it—and there beheld a dead man—his head nearly severed from his body, and a bloody razor beside him—the ground and grass bed on which the body lay, soaked with blood. Without removing the corpse, we waited, until the prisoner and his escort came up. The Bushman was led to see the body: he showed no astonishment; but merely said, with an affected pity, ‘Aye, that’s poor Peter Septon: he often said he’d cut his own throat, but now I see he has done it completely.’ ‘That’s a lie, you villain,’ said I; ‘no man ever cut his ownthroat in that manner: this was done by you.’ The wretch’s countenance could not change much for the worse; however, his clammy lips quivered, and he wiped the sweat off his forehead, as he replied that he knew nothing about the murder. ‘Murder!’ said I; ‘then you think itisamurder?’ ‘Why,’ replied he, ‘when a man cuts his own throat—isn’t that murder?’ ‘Youdid it!’ cried out every one present; and the prisoner’s eyes evidently answered, ‘I did.’

“It was now proposed to trace the track of the blood, and having left four of our party at the hut to take care of the prisoner, we followed the girl, at a short distance, through various places: she of course was guided by the blood. In about ten minutes, our guide beckoned to us, and we quickly approached to where she stood; there she pointed to a man lying in the long grass, and bleeding profusely—it was a desperate Bushman of the name of Collyer.19We raised him up; he was weak and faint from loss of blood; his handwas shattered by a shot, and his throat partially cut. The poor wretch was then carried by the men back to the hut, and having tasted a little spirits grew something stronger. He sat leaning against a tree; and looking at the other prisoner with a scowl, he cried out to him, ‘You treacherous villain! thank God, you are taken!’ Then addressing us, he said, ‘That rascal, while I was asleep, attempted to cut my throat with a razor, after he had killed his comrade Septon, who slept beside me; and as I was trying to escape from him, he fired at me, and shattered my hand.’ The murderer now, like a fiend, roared out ‘D—n your eyes and heart, I wish I had cut your throat first, and now you would not be here to tell me of it.’ At this moment, the girl cried out to him, ‘Hillier, you killed my sister, too.’ ‘Yes, you black devil, and if I had you now in the Tallow Chandler’s Shop,20I’d serve you in the same way.’

“We immediately tied Hillier’s arms well, andhaving bound up Collyer’s wounds, and refreshed ourselves, we took the direction of home. Collyer was able to walk after he rested and took a little spirits and water. The dead man’s head we made Hillier cut off and carry—hung round his neck in a haversack.”

[“What was that for?” demanded Sergeant Dobson.

“Because,” replied the old man, “there was 50l.reward for every Bushman’s head; a hundred for Howe’s or Geary’s, and seventy-five for Collyer’s.”

“That was sufficient reason,” rejoined the Sergeant.

“By Gad! it was a very good thing, to make the rascal carry home his own work; and I hope he was paid his wages for it,” said O’Callaghan.]

“That he was,” replied old Worral; “both he and Collyer were gibbetted on Hunter’s Island, beside the whistling bones of Whitehead, and the two fellows who escaped us at the time we started them out of the hut; their names were Burne andM’Guire, and I’ll tell you how they were taken. As soon as they were off through the thicket from our party, they made their way down to Kangaroo Point—for they were completely cut off from the gang; and wishing to go to Bass’s Straits, by which they would be safe, they applied to a settler to let them have a boat, for which service they offered him a watch. The settler, who had often lost his cattle and corn by the Bush-rangers, pretended to accept their proposal, and having requested them to wait at a certain place until he returned with the boat, went to Hobart’s Town, and returned with a party of soldiers:—the robbers were surrounded and taken. Burne, a hardy old fellow, attempted to escape, and had broken his way through the soldiers, when a shot took him in the leg, and down he dropped. They were tried for the murder of Mr. Carlisle, and gibbetted.”

“[Well, how did you get on with the prisoners, Collyer and the murderer?” demanded Jack Andrews.]

“I’ll tell you. We did very well; but met with no more of the Bush-rangers. I should havementioned that the girl, when we halted on the evening we took the two robbers, gave us a history of her treacherous paramour, Howe; and all she said about him was corroborated by both Collyer and Hillier, who were present while she told us what she knew about him. We halted in a very beautiful spot, beside a clear river, in which we could see the fish frolicking about as if they wanted us to cook them for dinner; and all sorts of curious birds were as plenty as sparrows in this country. The place was a green dry piece of flat, close to a thick wood, and at the bottom of a hill. On the opposite side of the river, hill after hill arose, covered with wood; also, at the edge of the river there were a dozen Kangaroos skipping about, but they took care to keep far enough from us. There were several giants of trees at different distances; and under one of those we lighted a fire; having first tied our prisoners together and fastened them to an immense bough, that was hanging from its parent trunk, splintered perhaps by a storm.

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