Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

“‘Another poor trade that you have taken to,’ replied Perez. ‘If that be all you have to say to me, there was no need to charge down upon us with your comrades like a band of robbers. When you first came in sight there were some ostriches about a mile in front of me; if those are what you seek, continue your hunt and leave us to continue our journey.’

“During this parley, the bullock-drivers, believing danger past, ceased to stand upon the defensive; Fernando’s comrades slowly approached and carelessly mingled with them, rolling their cigarritos and entering into conversation. Although suspecting no treachery, Perez hesitated to resume his march so long as Fernando and his band were there. Thus the halt was prolonged, and the ostriches, no longer frightened by the creaking of wheels, reappeared upon a rising ground behind which they had taken refuge.

“‘Don Gil,’ exclaimed Fernando, ‘I will wager that my horse, which has already done ten leagues to-day, will overtake one of those birds sooner than yours, fresh though he be.’

“‘I have no time to try,’ replied Perez, annoyed at the delay; ‘the place is not safe, and I am in haste to see the houses of Cordova.’

“‘Pshaw! a five minutes’ ride,’ said the muleteer; ‘come, one gallop, and I will rid you of my company, and of that of my friends, with which you do not seem over and above pleased.’

“‘So be it then,’ answered Perez, ‘and then I must be off;’ and he set spurs to his horse. Fernando rode so close to him that their knees touched. The _gauchos_ and drivers shouted to excite the two horses, which seemed to fly over the plain; and the ostriches, finding themselves pursued, fled their fastest, stretching out their necks, beating the air with their short wings, and furrowing the ocean of tall herbage by rapid zigzags right and left. The two horsemen gained upon them. The furious race had lasted at least ten minutes, when Fernando fell into the rear. Gil Perez, looking back to calculate the distance that separated them, saw him brandishing a set of balls as big as his fist.[14] ‘_Amigo_,’ cried he, without stopping, ‘those balls are big enough to catch a wild horse.’ Whilst he sought, in his girdle, the small leaden balls he proposed throwing round the ostrich’s neck, his horse fell, his fore-legs entangled in the ropes that had just quitted the muleteer’s hands. The violence of the fall was in proportion to the rapidity of the ride. On beholding his rival roll in the dust, Fernando uttered a triumphant shout. Perez, who had fallen upon his left side, sought to extricate his sabre in order to cut the terrible cord which shackled his horse’s legs. The poor brute, panting and covered with foam, struggled violently for release. Before Gil Perez could draw his weapon, the muleteer was on foot and held him by the throat.

“‘You are a traitor and a coward!’ cried the unfortunate Perez, giddy from his fall, and trying to shake his enemy off. ‘You have led me into a snare to murder me!’

“‘That is not all,’ coolly replied the muleteer. ‘Look yonder; you see that smoke, it proceeds from your waggons. The plain is on fire. ’Tis you whom I was hunting, _carretero_ (waggoner); but for you I should still be a muleteer. I have become a brigand. I have seen Pepa; she rejects me. The traitor, I say, is you, who have ruined all my hopes.’

“Perez was active and vigorous: on equal terms his enemy would not have dared contend with him; but surprise and terror paralysed his strength. After deliberately stabbing him, Fernando passed a rope round his neck, and, as he still breathed, dragged him to a neighbouring stream and threw him into the water.”

Gil Perez dead, most of his men, who had arms and were more than a match for the banditti, joined the latter, plundered the waggons, killed the oxen, and departed with their new comrades, those who had no horses riding double. Fernando promised to take them to a place where they could mount themselves well. He kept his word. One night, old Torribio, who, ever since Fernando’s visit and the commencement of the civil war, had kept vigilant watch, and frequently patrolled the neighbourhood of the _esquina_, thought he heard voices in the forest. He bridled up the horses, which he always had ready-saddled in the stable, and entreated his mistress and her daughter to escape by the Cordova road. The two women got upon the same horse; Torribio, armed with sabre and carbine, mounted another, to escort them; Juancito, not understanding the danger, leaped, light and laughing, into his saddle, whip in hand, and his sling over his shoulder. The little party set out. They would have escaped an enemy to whom the locality was not familiar. But Fernando had placed spies round the posting-house, and lay in ambush upon the road to Cordova. A bullet from Torribio’s carbine grazed the brigand’s cheek; the next moment the faithful old servant lay in the road, his skull cleft by a sabre-cut. Juancito escaped into the forest. His mother and sister did the same, but were captured and taken back to the posting-house, which was pillaged and afterwards burnt. The outlaws then departed. Doña Ventura had supplied them plentifully with brandy, hoping to escape during their intoxication, but Fernando drank nothing. When the moment came for departure, he lifted Pepa upon his horse, repulsed with his foot her despairing mother—who in vain struggled and clung to her child—and rode off. Pepita, more dead than alive, uttered lamentable cries. The muleteer heeded them not, but sang the lines he had sung upon the memorable night when he found Gil Perez at the posting-house, and left it with a sombre prediction that Pepa would drive him to evil.

“No estès tan contenta, Juana,
En ver me penar por ti;
Que lo que hoy fuere de mi,
Podrá ser de ti mañana.”

Doña Ventura’s fate is not upon record; she is believed to have perished of hunger, misery, and cold. Juancito lost his way in the pampas. Although bred in the desert, the poor boy had not sufficient experience to guide himself by sun and stars. It was never known how long he held out. Not many days after his flight, there was found, upon the frontier of the Indian country, a child’s corpse, which was supposed to be his. A whip hung from the wrist, and a sling was over the shoulder. The birds of prey had made a skeleton of the body.

The fate of poor Pepita was far worse even than that of her mother and brother. Forced to follow the fortunes of the _gaucho malo_ and his band, she was compelled to enliven their bivouacs by song and dance. At first, even the rude desperados amongst whom she had fallen, were inclined to pity her sufferings, but soon they imitated the contempt with which Fernando treated her. Elegantly dressed, she accompanied them everywhere; she was their ballet-dancer and opera-singer. Her duty was to amuse those who rarely addressed but to insult her. She was known in the country as the wife of the _gaucho malo_. Sometimes, in the night, when the robbers, overcome by fatigue, slept to the last man, she might have escaped; but whither could she fly? Their halts were generally in places remote from all habitations; and even had she reached a farm or village, what sort of welcome would there have been for the supposed wife of the _gaucho malo_ and accomplice of his misdeeds?

“After several months,” Mateo continued, “passed in rambling about the plains, Fernando, emboldened by impunity and success, approached the villages. Other bands, better organised and more numerous than his own, spread terror through the province of Cordova. He profited by the general confusion to take share in the fight, like a privateer who spreads his sails in the wake of friendly frigates. The militia, called out to oppose the insurgents who threatened the town of Cordova, were beaten. The town remained in the power of the horsemen of the plain, and the militia could not return to their homes, of which the enemy had taken possession. They were forced to fly, exchanging a few parting shots with roving corps that sought to impede their escape. I was of the number of the fugitives. The company to which I belonged daily diminished. Every man secretly betook himself to the place where he hoped an asylum. Only twenty of us remained together, resolved to make for the western provinces, and to cross the Andes into Chili: we had two hundred leagues to get over before putting the frontier between us and the enemy.

“One evening, as we were riding through the sierra of Cordova, we noticed a bivouac amongst the rocks. ‘Shall we reconnoitre that camp?’ I asked of the officer who commanded us. ‘They are _gauchos_,’ he replied; ‘it is almost dark, we can pass them unperceived: the robbers are not fond of fighting when there is no chance of booty;’ and we silently continued our march. By the light of the bivouac fires, we made out a dozen horsemen seated on the ground upon their saddles. Their lances were piled in a sheaf in the middle of the camp; before them a woman was dancing, her figure and movements clearly defined against the bright fire-light. They did not hear us; we marched at a walk, pistol in bridle, hand and carbine on thigh. We had already passed the bivouac unperceived, and were closing up our files preparatory to starting off at a gallop—it was no use fighting, the game was already lost—when a young man in the rearguard imprudently fired at the group. In an instant, the _gauchos_ were armed and on horseback. Then they paused for a moment to see whence the danger came. We set up a loud shout, which the echoes repeated. The _gauchos_ were terrified. Whilst they hesitated to assume the offensive, we turned their camp. They fired half-a-dozen carbines at us, but hit nobody. Those who had no firearms went about and ran, and their example was quickly followed by the rest of the band. Their flight was accelerated by the shots we sent after them. A few fell, but we did not stop to count the dead. This useless victory might betray our flight; our best plan was now to hasten on through the ravines, and avoid for the future all similar encounters.

“During the skirmish, the woman who had been dancing before the fire had disappeared. We thought no more of her. Suddenly, as we formed up, a shadow passed before the head of the column. ‘Who goes there?’ cried the officer, and we quickly reloaded. ‘Who goes there?’ he repeated, probing with his sabre the bushes that bordered the path. We listened, and presently we heard a plaintive moan, followed by sobs. ‘It is a wounded man,’ said the officer: ‘so much the worse for him, the devil a doctor have we here!’

“‘Señores caballeros,’ cried the mysterious being that was thus hid in the darkness, ‘have pity upon me—save me! He is dead! I am free! Ah! mother, mother!’...

“The officer had dismounted; a young girl threw her arms round his neck, repeating the words: ‘Save me—he is dead!’ We had all halted. ‘It is the dancing-girl,’ said the men; ‘she detains us here to give time to her friends to return. It is the wife of the _gaucho malo_.’

“‘I am Pepa Flores,’ she vehemently replied, ‘the daughter of Doña Ventura of the _esquina_! Ah, _señores_, you are honest people, you are! Never, never have I been Fernando’s wife. Is there none here who knows Doña Ventura?’

“I at once recognised Pepa’s voice. ‘She speaks the truth,’ I cried; ‘I will answer for her. Come, Pepita, you have nothing to fear with us.’

“Fernando had perished in the skirmish. It was perhaps my hand that had terminated the career of the formidable bandit, and liberated Pepita. When she learned that her mother was dead—I myself was obliged to impart to her the mournful fact, which everybody else knew—she shed a flood of tears, and begged me to take her with me. A proscribed fugitive, I had enough to do to take care of myself; but how could I resist the entreaties of an orphan, who had neither friend nor relative in the world?”

All the fugitives pitied the poor girl, and were kind to her. Her character had been changed, as well it might be, by her abode with the _gaucho malo_ and his band. She was no longer the timid, indolent creature whom Mateo had known at the posting-house; she was quick, alert, courageous, and gave little trouble to anybody. At halts she made herself useful, and was particularly grateful and attentive to Mateo, whom she called her saviour and liberator. At the town of San Luis, he would have left her in charge of a respectable family, but she wept bitterly, and begged to follow his fortunes, disastrous though they were. He was then for the first time convinced that she had never loved either Fernando or Gil Perez. The poor girl had attached herself to the man who had delivered her from dreadful captivity, and shown her disinterested kindness. At Mendoza he again attempted to prevail on her to accept of an asylum under a friendly roof, but with no better success than at San Luis. The season was far advanced, snow rendered the passage of the Andes dangerous and very painful. Mateo’s companions urged her to wait till spring, when she might rejoin them at Santiago. She would not hear of delay. Her vision was fixed upon Chili and its Paradise Valley, Valparaiso. Providing themselves with sheepskins for protection against the cold, and abandoning their arms, now a useless encumbrance, the party commenced the toilsome ascent. They got on pretty well until they reached the region of snow. There they were obliged to quit their horses, and to climb on foot the steep and frozen acclivities, bearing on their shoulders heavy loads of provisions and fuel, their legs wrapped in fur, and handkerchiefs tied over their ears. Pepita, her head and neck enveloped in a large shawl, marched stoutly along, and often led the way, bounding like a mountain goat. Three days passed thus. There were frequent falls upon the frozen snow, many narrow escapes from death in a torrent, or over a precipice. The enormous condor hovered over the heads of the weary pilgrims, as if hoping a repast at their expense. At last they reached the foot of the Cumbre, the last steep they had to climb before commencing their descent into a milder climate, and a land of refuge. An icy wind blew, a driving snow fell: it was doubtful whether the Cumbre could be ascended upon the morrow. The wanderers halted early, in a hut known by the ominous name of _Casucha de Calavera_ (the Cabin of the Skull). They had still a little wine in their ox-horns, which they heated and drank, and then wrapped themselves in their blankets and lay down to sleep. At midnight the wind was still high, but the snow had ceased, and they determined to proceed. The reflection of the sun from the snow had so fatigued their eyes, that they travelled in the night as often as they could safely do so. Their next stage was almost perpendicular, but it was unbroken by precipices, and they thought they might risk progress. They would have done more prudently to await daylight, but they were eager to cross the frontier—to reach the summit of the Cumbre, the boundary-line between Chili and the Argentine provinces. They began to ascend. Poor Pepa’s feet were swollen, and she suffered in walking, but she was as courageous as ever, and made light of hardship. Soon the travellers entered a dense fog: they no longer saw the stars; all around them was white as a shroud. The fog became sleet; they plodded wearily on, supporting themselves with their sticks, sometimes on hands and knees.

“I was so weary,” said Mateo, “that I thought I was in a dream. I had no sensation in my body, but my head was very painful. A few paces off, I heard the frozen snow crack gently under Pepa’s feet, and I discerned her form accompanying me like my shadow. Snow succeeded the sleet; it fell in heavy flakes, and accumulated so rapidly as to threaten burial to laggards. The path—or rather the track—was invisible; in spite of all my efforts to follow it, I felt that I was deviating. I called to Pepa, but neither her voice nor the voices of my comrades replied; we were scattered. I walked on at random, I know not for how long. When daylight came, I found myself in a deep ravine, amidst snowdrifts and glaciers. Right and left, as far as I could see, was a vista of similar valleys. Not a vestige of Pepa or of my comrades. My strength failed me. With great difficulty I crept into a sort of cave amongst the rocks. There I fell asleep.”

He would have perished but for Pepa, who, on discovering his absence, spurred his comrades, by her reproaches, to a search for the friend whom their own terrible sufferings and fatigues would have induced them to abandon. There was, indeed, little chance of finding and saving him, and the men would have been fully justified in consulting their own safety, and pushing forwards. But a woman’s courage shamed them. Pepa, _esperaba desesperada_—despairing, she still hoped. She nobly paid her debt of gratitude to her deliverer. His life was saved, but hers was lost. Her hands and face cut and bleeding from the cold, her legs scarcely able to support her, she traced him out. It was still in time; friction restored him to consciousness. But the sunlight had scarcely greeted his eyes, when a cry of distress reached his ears. A treacherous crust of snow, covering a crevice of incalculable depth, gave way beneath Pepa’s feet, and she disappeared for ever.

The whole of this sketch—of which we have given but a bare outline, omitting many incidents—is full of life, interest, and character, although it is to be remarked and regretted that Mr Pavie’s style is deficient in that terseness and vigour which enhance the fascination of narratives of adventure. He is too diffuse and explicit, dwells too lovingly upon details, distrusts his readers’ intelligence, and is rather sentimental than energetic. “Pepita” is decidedly the best of his South American sketches. That entitled “The Pinchegras” has interest. For several years after the battle of Ayacucho had finally overthrown Spanish dominion in Chili, an armed band, known as the Pinchegras, from the name of their chief, still upheld the banner of Castile. Pablo Pinchegra began his singular career with his brothers and a few vagabonds for sole followers. They formed a mere gang of robbers. Presently he was joined by several Indian caciques and their warriors, and then by a Spaniard named Zinozain and five-and-twenty men, who carried arms in the names of Ferdinand and Spain. Thenceforward Pinchegra adopted the same rallying cry; at the end of 1825 the “royalist army” numbered eight hundred men, including Indians, and gained an important advantage over the Chilian troops at Longabi, where a squadron of cavalry was annihilated by the long lances of the Indians. The Spanish faction in Chili, encouraged by this unexpected success, recognised Pinchegra as their champion, and supplied him with arms and munitions of war. Deserters from the army of the Republic, adventurers of all kinds, flocked to his standard, beneath which a thousand men were soon ranged. With these and his Indian allies to support him, he found himself master of a large track of country, attacked and pillaged towns, carried off cattle and women to his camp in the Andes, and made his name everywhere dreaded. It was found necessary to send large bodies of troops against him. These accomplished little; and it was not until 1832 that his band was completely defeated and broken up—or rather, cut to pieces—he himself having previously been betrayed to his enemies, and shot. No quarter was given to the fugitives, and the victor’s bulletin (but Spanish bulletins are proverbially mendacious) stated that only four men of the army—for it then really was a small army—escaped the slaughter. The Indian auxiliaries had run at the beginning of the action. With one of the four survivors, a _caudillo_, or chief of some mark, named Don Vicente, Mr Pavie fell in at Mendoza, during the winter he passed there. The Pinchegra was silent and mysterious enough; but a young French physician, settled in the place, told his countryman the history of the last body of men that maintained with arms the right of Spain to her South American colonies. It is an interesting narrative, comprising much personal adventure, and numerous romantic episodes. The story of _Batallion_, an Indian foundling, adopted by a cavalry regiment, in whose ranks he serves and is slain, and that of Rosita, a lovely _Limeña_ who loved and was abandoned by an English naval officer, and whom Mr Pavie saw in the madhouse at Lima, where she inquired of every foreign visitor whether the frigate had returned, complete the South American portion of a very interesting book.

NAPOLEON AND SIR HUDSON LOWE.[15]

One of the most distinguishing features of public life in England is the judgment exercised upon the character of its public men. In other countries the public man is generally seen through a haze of opinion. The minister of a foreign monarchy stands in the clouded light of the throne. If eminent, his fame is the result of secret councils, unknown circumstances, and personal influences almost purposely hidden from the national mind. If unsuccessful, his failures are sheltered under his partnership with the higher powers. He is hidden in the curtains of the Cabinet. At all events, he divides this responsibility with the monarch whose choice has placed him in office, and whose influence retains him in power. There are no publications of private correspondence, no despatches, except garbled ones; no secret instructions, hereafter to be developed. All the materials for forming a true estimate of the minister are withheld, by suppressing all the materials for forming a true estimate of the man. Even if a biography of the individual is written, either by a friend or an enemy, it is generally greatly destitute of that evidence from which alone posterity can come to a rational conclusion. But in England—and it is to the honour of England—the career of the public man is almost incapable of misconception. He has seldom been chosen by the caprice of power. He must have given pledges as to character. Parliament has been the point from which he has launched into the navigation of public life; his principles must have undergone a probation before his possession of office, and the whole course of his after life is registered by correspondences, despatches, and authentic memorials, which may be made public at the requisition of any member of the Legislature. The twofold advantage of this publicity is, that public justice is sure to be done to character, and that every man acts under a sense of that enlarged responsibility which is the safest guardian of public honour. If even to this feeling there may be exceptions, this view is the true theory of Ministerial life; and, among the imperfect motives of all human virtue, it is not the least that the documents are in existence, hourly accumulating, and sure to be brought forward, which shall testify to the nation and the world against every act of individual shame.

The record to which we now advert is a collection of letters, despatches, and orders, on a subject which formed some years ago the chief topic of Europe—the detention of Napoleon at St Helena. The treatment by the British officer to whom he was given in charge, the commands of Government, and the character of his captivity, are now, for the first time, laid before the world on the testimony of unanswerable documents; and an authentic form is now given to the narrative of that melancholy period which closed on the most eventful, disturbing, changeful, and dazzling era of Europe for a thousand years; the fifth act of the most magnificent drama of the modern world; the thunderstorm which, combining all the influences of a world long reeking with iniquity, the feculence of earth with the fires of heaven, at last burst down, perhaps to purify the moral atmosphere, or perhaps to warn nations of the still deeper vengeance to come, and startle them into regeneration.

We now give a brief sketch of the governor of St Helena. Sir Hudson Lowe was born in Ireland, in Galway, in July 1769. His father was an Englishman, who had served as a medical officer with the British troops in the Seven Years’ War, and whose last service was as head of the medical department in the garrison of Gibraltar, where he died in 1801.

Shortly after the birth of Sir Hudson Lowe, his father’s regiment, the 50th, being ordered to the West Indies, he was taken out with it, and thus underwent the first hazard of a life of soldiership. On his return to England he was made an ensign in the East Devon Militia—probably the youngest in the service, for he was but twelve years old. In 1787 he was appointed to an ensigncy in the 50th regiment, then at Gibraltar—arriving while the place was still in ruinous confusion from the memorable siege. “The whole rock was covered with fragments of broken shells and shot; and there was not a house in the town, nor a building within the batteries, which did not bear the marks of its devastation.” O’Hara succeeded to Elliot as the governor, and seemed resolved to signalise himself by his discipline. “I was once,” says Sir Hudson, “proceeding with the escort, in order to reach the barrier-gate by daybreak, with my head down, to stem, as well as I was able, the tremendous gusts of rain and wind, when I heard myself very sharply spoken to by a mounted officer, who desired me to ‘hold up my head and look what I was about, for it was not as a mere matter of form I was ordered on that duty.’” This officer was General O’Hara. “This,” says the narrator, “is the only _real rebuke_ I ever experienced from a superior officer during the whole course of my military life.” He approves of the rebuke. On another occasion, on parade, when the late Duke of Kent happened to have done something which displeased the General—on a rebuke, in the presence of the officers, the Prince said, “I hope, sir, I shall always do my duty.” The General’s reply was, “And if you don’t, I shall make you do it.” It, however, happened that this man of fierce tongue showed himself at least _unlucky_ in the field; for, having been sent to take the command of Toulon, then in possession of the Allies, he was taken prisoner in an unsuccessful sortie, and carried off by the besiegers.

On leave of absence, after four years’ duty in the garrison, Lowe, then a lieutenant, travelled into France and Italy, and made himself master of the languages of both; an accomplishment of prime value to a soldier, and which was the pivot of his fortunes. On his return to Gibraltar, the war having broken out, the 50th was ordered to Corsica, and garrisoned Ajaccio—the residence of that family who were afterwards to enjoy such splendid fortune.

In a memorandum he says, “We were all delighted with our change of quarters to Ajaccio. The town was well laid out, spacious, well built, and the citadel had excellent accommodations, but not sufficient for all the officers. One of the best houses was occupied by the mother and sisters of Bonaparte. An officer of the 50th, of the name of Ford, was, for a short time, quartered in the house, and spoke with much satisfaction of the kind manner in which the family acted towards him. The young girls—for such they were at that time—ran slipshod about the house, but hardly any notice was taken of them. There were several balls and parties given after our arrival there, but Madame Bonaparte was not invited to them, on account of the situation of her two sons (in France). She shortly after removed to Cargese, originally a Greek colony, to a house which had been built or occupied by Count Marbœuf while in the administration of that part of the island. It is not from my own recollection I mention those circumstances, because, strange as it may appear, I was not aware of the residence of any of the Bonaparte family at Ajaccio during nearly two years when we were in garrison in that town. I used frequently to hear Napoleon spoken of, but not as connected with the exploits generally mentioned as giving the first celebrity to his name—his share in the expulsion of the British from Toulon.”

The 50th subsequently served in Elba, Lisbon, and Minorca. To this last place flocked a large body of Corsican emigrants, who were formed into a corps called the Corsican Rangers, the charge of which was intrusted to Lowe, then a captain. In 1800 they were attached to the Egyptian Expedition under Abercromby, Lowe having the temporary rank of major. In the famous landing at Aboukir, on the 8th of March 1801—one of the most brilliant exploits ever performed by an army—the Corsican Rangers fought on the right of the Guards, and were warmly engaged; they were present also at the battle of Alexandria (March 21, 1801), when the dashing attack of the French on the English lines was most gallantly defeated;—an action which, in fact, involved the conquest of Egypt, for the French fought no more, the rest of the campaign being a succession of marches and capitulations. In this campaign the Major had the good fortune to save Sir Sydney Smith’s life; for a picket, mistaking Sir Sydney for a French officer, from his wearing a cocked hat (the English wearing round hats), levelled their muskets at him, when Lowe struck up their pieces and saved him. His activity in command of the outposts received the flattering expression from General Moore—“Lowe, when you are at the outposts, I always feel sure of a good night’s rest.” Moore, in writing to Lowe’s father, said—“In Sir Ralph Abercromby he lost, in common with many others, a good friend; but his conduct has been so conspicuously good, that I hope he will meet with the reward he merits.” In Sir Robert Wilson’s history of the campaign, Lowe is mentioned as “having always gained the highest approbation,” and his Corsican Rangers as exciting, from their conduct and appearance, “the general admiration.”

On the Peace of Amiens they were disbanded, but Lowe was confirmed in his rank of Major-Commandant; and after being placed on half-pay, was appointed to the 7th or Royal Fusileers, on Moore’s recommendation; adding, “It is nothing more than you deserve; and if I have been at all instrumental in bringing it about, I shall think the better of myself for it.” This generous testimony continued to influence Lowe’s fortunes; for on his arrival in England, in 1802, he was appointed one of the permanent Assistants Quartermaster-General. “I have known you,” said Moore, “a long time; and I am confident your conduct, in whatever situation you may be placed, will be such as to do honour to those who have recommended you.” He soon obtained a mark of still higher confidence. Before he had been many weeks in England, he was sent on a secret mission to Portugal, for the purpose of ascertaining the state of Oporto and the neighbouring cities. On this occasion he expressed his opinion of the practicability of defending the country by united British and Portuguese. Thus he gave an opinion contradictory to that of Europe, but subsequently realised with the most admirable success by Wellington.

He then proceeded to the Mediterranean, with an order to raise another regiment of Corsican Rangers. In the course of service with this corps, he commanded at Capri, in the Bay of Naples; and as the loss of this place formed one of the chief themes of foreign obloquy on this officer, we enter into a slight statement of the facts, less for the clearance of his character, than for the more important purpose of showing how truth may be mutilated, partly by negligence in the general narrative, and partly by exaggeration in the personal enemy.

The island of Capri, in May 1806, had surrendered to a British squadron. Its possession was of value as blocking up the Bay of Naples. Colonel Lowe, with five companies of his regiment, and a small detachment of artillery, were sent in May to garrison the island. The whole regiment was subsequently sent. In August, Murat took possession of the kingdom of Naples, and his first expedition was to Capri, whose possession by a British force, seen from the windows of his palace, continually molested him. Accordingly, on the 4th of October, an embarkation under General Lamarque attempted a landing near the town of Capri. Lowe with his Rangers hastened to the spot, and drove the enemy back to their ships. The island is three miles long, and about two miles across, and had 4000 inhabitants. Lowe had demanded a force of 2190 men for its defence. The whole number under his command were 1400, of whom 800 were a regiment of Maltese, of a miscellaneous description, and but imperfectly disciplined, though commanded by a gallant officer, Major Hammill. Lowe placed this regiment in Ana-Capri, an elevated district, on a platform of rock, to be ascended only by 500 steps of stone. The French landed 2000 men there. The Maltese regiment dispersed themselves, notwithstanding the utmost efforts of Major Hammill, who, disdaining to follow their flight, was killed; finally, the whole of the Maltese regiment were taken prisoners. Thus the 1400 men were reduced to 600, in the presence of a French force of 3000! Lowe’s object was now necessarily confined to defending the town of Capri, which he did vigorously, for ten days of frequent attacks, in the hope of being succoured by the English squadron, which would have turned the tables on the besiegers, and caught the French General in a trap. But, from some cause not easily accountable, the fleet did not appear, and the Corsican Rangers were left to the rotten and unprepared ramparts of the town. On the 15th the French cannon had made a practicable breach. Lowe still held out, and attempted to erect new defences under the fire of the French guns; but the walls were crumbling, and the cannon of the town were rendered nearly unserviceable by the enemy’s fire. The French flotilla also approached. In the evening Lamarque sent in a flag of truce, demanding the surrender of the garrison as prisoners of war, with the exception of Lowe and five or six of his officers. Lowe would permit no distinction between his officers and soldiers, nor suffer the words “prisoner of war,” positively refusing to accept of any other terms than “to evacuate his post with his arms and baggage.” On these terms alone the town was surrendered, and on the 20th the garrison embarked at the Marina, “with all the honours of war.” In addition, it deserves to be remembered that, on Lamarque’s demanding that several of the foreigners, who had enlisted in the British service while prisoners, should be given up to him, Lowe’s spirited answer was, “You may shoot _me_, but I will never give up a single man.”

On this occasion he received many flattering letters on his defence of the island under such difficulties; and among the rest, one from Major-General Lord Forbes, expressing the sense which must be entertained by his superior, Sir John Stuart, “of the unremitting zeal, ability, and judgment which his conduct had displayed, under the trying circumstances of Capri.”

After various services on the Italian coast, Colonel Lowe with his regiment was ordered on an expedition against the Ionian Islands, then garrisoned by the French. On their conquest, he was appointed governor of Cephalonia and Ithaca, with a recommendatory circular from General Oswald, commanding the expedition, and congratulating the people on the government of an officer “who had shown himself the common father of all ranks and classes of their communities.” In 1812 he obtained the rank of full Colonel, and returned on leave to England. “I was then,” he says, “in my twenty-fourth year of service, and had never been absent a single day from my public duty since the commencement of the war in 1793. I had been in England only once during that time.” His services were still required by Government in matters of importance; in inspecting foreign regiments to be taken into English pay; in attendance on the negotiations for the accession of Sweden to the Grand Alliance, &c. &c. At the Swedish Court he met the “Queen of the Blues,” the celebrated Madame de Stael, talking politics as usual. She had begun her performances in Sweden with writing a letter of thirty pages to Bernadotte, _instructing him_ how to govern the Swedes; but she was not always guilty of this extravagance of _presumption_. Silly in her political ambition, she was hospitable in her home. A little theatre was formed in her house—for the French, even in exile, cannot live without the follies of the theatre—where she and her daughter exhibited scenes from the _Iphigenie_ of Racine. How her physiognomy might have agreed with the requisitions of the stage, it is difficult to conjecture, for Nature never clothed a female with a more startling exterior. She afterwards performed in a farce of her own, in which her daughter exhibited as a dancer! And those were the entertainments for ambassadors and princes!—for Bernadotte, then Prince-Royal, came in, but soon disappeared. We should by no means wish to see the manners of foreign life adopted by the pliancy of Englishwomen.

The prince is thus described: “I have never seen so remarkable a countenance as that of Bernadotte; an aquiline nose of most extraordinary dimensions—eyes full of fire—a penetrating look—with a countenance darker than that of any Spaniard—and hair so black that the portrait-painters can find no tint dark enough to give its right hue: it forms a vast bushy protuberance round his head, and he takes great pains, I understand, to have it arranged in proper form.” When we had the honour of seeing the prince, which we did in Pomerania, when he was about to march his army to the camp of the Allies, every lock of his hair was curled like a Brutus bust displayed in the window of a Parisian _perruquier_. From Sweden Colonel Lowe was summoned by Lord Cathcart, then ambassador to Russia, to join him at the Imperial headquarters in Poland. After an interview with the Czar, he joined the Allied troops, and was present at the hard-fought battle of Bautzen on the 20th and 21st of May. Here he first saw that extraordinary man, whom he afterwards was to see under such extraordinary circumstances of change. In his correspondence with Lord Bathurst, the Colonel says—“Between the town of Bautzen and the position of the Allies is a long elevated ridge.... In the morning a body of the enemy’s troops was observed to be formed on its crest. In their front a small group was collected, which by our spyglasses we discovered to be persons of consequence in their army. Among them was most clearly distinguishable Napoleon himself. He advanced about forty or fifty paces, accompanied only by one of his marshals (conjectured to have been Beauharnais), with whom he remained in conversation, walking backwards and forwards (having dismounted) for nearly an hour.

“I was on an advanced battery in front of our position, and had a most distinct view of him. He was dressed in a plain uniform coat, and a star, with a plain hat, different from that of his marshals and generals (which were feathered); his air and manner so perfectly resembling the portraits that there was no possibility of mistake. He appeared to me conversing on some indifferent subject; very rarely looking towards our position, of which, however, the situation in which he stood commanded a most comprehensive and distinct view.”

In October, through Sir C. Stewart (now Marquis of Londonderry), he was attached to the army under that great and bold soldier, Marshal Blucher, and was with him in every battle from Leipsic to Paris. His description of the horrors of the French retreat, after the battle of Leipsic, unfolds a dreadful picture of the sufferings of war. “For an extent of fifty miles, on the French route, there were carcasses of dead and dying horses without number; bodies of men, who had been either killed, or died of hunger, sickness, and fatigue, lying in the roads and ditches; parties of prisoners and stragglers brought in by the Cossacks; blown-up ammunition waggons, in such numbers as absolutely to obstruct the road.... Pillaged and burning towns and villages marked, at the same time, the ferocity with which the enemy had conducted himself.”

In the close of this memorable year, Colonel Lowe was ordered to Holland on a commission for organising the Dutch troops who were to join Sir Thomas Graham’s army; but (as it appears), at his own request, his destination was changed for the Prussian army, under Blucher, then crossing the Rhine. He was present at all the battles fought by that army on their march through France, forming, with its four German actions, no less than _thirteen_—of which _eleven_ were fought against Napoleon in person.

In all those campaigns he gallantly took the soldier’s share, being constantly at the Marshal’s side; being present, on one occasion, when he was wounded; on another, when the Cossack orderly was shot beside him; and on two others, when he narrowly escaped being made prisoner, being obliged to make a run of it, with the whole of his retinue, through a party of the enemy; Bonaparte also having been nearly taken by him in the same way, on the same day. He was present at the conferences of Chatillon, where he strongly joined those opinions which were in favour of the “March to Paris;” and he had the honour of bearing the despatch to England announcing the abdication of Napoleon; which was instantly published from the Foreign Office, in a “Gazette Extraordinary.” Colonel Lowe was received with great distinction. The Prince-Regent immediately knighted him; and the Prussian order of Military Merit was conferred on him, with the order of St George from the Emperor of Russia.

In 1814 Sir Hudson Lowe was promoted to the rank of major-general, and appointed quartermaster-general to the British troops in the Netherlands, commanded by the Prince of Orange. In that capacity he visited the fortresses on the frontier, and drew up reports on their restoration. It is remarkable that among his plans was the recommendation of building a Work at Mont _St Jean_, as the commanding point at the junction of the two principal roads from the French frontier, on the side of Namur and Charleroi, to Brussels, and the direction in which an army must move for the invasion of Belgium. How much earlier the battle of Waterloo would have terminated, and how many gallant lives might have been saved by the possession of a fortress in the very key of the position, we may conjecture from the defence of Hougomont, where the walls of a mere farmyard, defended by brave men, were sufficient to resist the entire left wing of the enemy during that whole hard-fought, decisive, and illustrious day.

The news of Napoleon’s escape from Elba roused all Europe. It was at once the most dexterous performance, and the most unwise act, of the great charlatan of empire. He ought to have delayed it, at least for a year. The negotiators at Vienna were already on the verge of discontents which might have broken up the general alliance; the troops were on the point of marching to their homes: thus Europe was about to be left without defence, or even to a renewal of hostilities. But the escape of Napoleon sobered all. The universal peril produced the universal reconciliation. And the Manifesto was issued in the shape of a universal declaration, proclaiming Napoleon Bonaparte the enemy of mankind.

The position of Sir Hudson Lowe at Brussels made his advice of importance. The question was, where the Allied armies should expect the attack? The Prussian generals were of opinion that they should be prepared on the side of Switzerland and Mayence. Sir Hudson Lowe, more sagaciously, affirmed that Brussels would be the object. Count Gneisenau, the Prussian quartermaster-general, finally decided to wait for the opinion of the Duke of Wellington on his arrival in the Netherlands. At this period, while matters remained in a state of uncertainty as to the movements of France, Sir Hudson Lowe was offered the command of the British troops at Genoa, intended to act with the Austro-Sardinian army, and the squadron under Lord Exmouth, against the south of France. Unwilling to quit the great Duke, he waited on him for his opinion. As all recollections of Wellington are dear to his country, we give his few words, in which, after saying that Sir W. Delancy (as his successor) might not at once be _au fait_ at the business of the Office, and as Sir G. Murray, “who had been with him for six years, was only on his return from Canada, still he did _a good deal of his own business_, and _could do business with any one_.” In short, “it was a case that must be left to himself.”

Accordingly, he remained with the Duke until the beginning of June, and then went to take his command. On his way through Germany, he met at the Imperial headquarters Blucher, Schwartzenberg, and the Czar. With the last he had the honour of a conversation. The Czar received him in his cabinet, quite alone; took him by the hand; said that he was glad to see him, but that it was an unfortunate circumstance which compelled him (the Czar) to come forward; that oceans of blood might be again spilt; but that, while that man (Napoleon) lived, there would be no hope of repose for Europe; that armies must be kept up by every nation on a war footing; and that, in short, there appeared no other alternative than carrying on the war with vigour, and thus bringing it to the speedier close. The Czar spoke in English. He asked many other questions; but seemed most gratified by knowing that the force under the Duke of Wellington, instead of being 60,000 men, was, with the Allied forces of the Netherlands, not less than 100,000.

On reaching Genoa, the expedition sailed to the south of France; but all the cities having suddenly hoisted the white flag, the war was at an end.

Now began the only portion of his prosperous and active career, which could be called trying and vexatious. On the 1st of August 1815 he received an order to return immediately to London, for the purpose of taking charge of Napoleon Bonaparte.

On his arrival in Paris he had communications with all the Cabinet. Lord Castlereagh asked him his opinion of the possibility of Napoleon’s escape. He answered that he could see none, except in case of a mutiny, of which there had been two instances at St Helena. But on being informed of the nature of the intended garrison, he answered that its chance would be proportionably diminished. This was the only conversation which he ever had with Lord Castlereagh. On reaching London, he received the Ministerial orders for the charge of his memorable prisoner. By Lord Liverpool’s authority, he was told that if he remained in charge for three years, the royal confidence, and, we presume, the royal reward, “should not stop there.” Lord Ellenborough, Chief-Justice, assured him, “that in the execution of the duty the law would give him every support.” On the 23d of August, the Directors of the East India Company appointed him governor of St Helena; the command of the troops, with the local rank of lieutenant-general, was given to him; and his salary was fixed at £12,000 a-year.

The regulations for the safe keeping of Napoleon, adopted by the Secretary of War and Colonies, Lord Bathurst, and delivered to Sir George Cockburn, were (in outline) as follows:—

1. When General Bonaparte shall be removed from the Bellerophon to the Northumberland, there shall be an examination of the effects which the General shall have brought with him.

2. All articles of furniture, books, and wine, which the General shall have brought, shall be transhipped to the Northumberland.

3. Under the head of furniture is the plate, provided it be not to such an amount as to bespeak it rather an article of convertible property than for domestic use.

4. His money, diamonds, and negotiable bills of exchange, are to be given up. The admiral will explain to him that it is by no means the intention of Government to confiscate his property, but simply to prevent its being converted into an instrument of escape.

The remainder consists of details. In the event of his death, the disposition of his property was to be determined by his will, which would be strictly attended to.

Bonaparte was to be always attended by a military officer; and if he was permitted to pass the boundaries allotted to him, the officer was to be attended by an Orderly. No individual of his suite was to be carried to St Helena but with his own consent, it being explained to him that he must be subject to the restraints necessary for the security of Bonaparte’s person. All letters addressed to him were to be delivered to the admiral, or governor, and read by them. Bonaparte must be informed, that any representation addressed to Government would be received and transmitted, but must be transmitted open to the governor and admiral’s inspection, that they might be enabled to transmit answers to any objections. If Bonaparte were to be attacked with serious illness, the governor and admiral were each to direct a medical person, in addition to his own physician, to attend him, and desire them to report daily on the state of his health. Finally, in the event of his death, the admiral was to give orders for the conveyance of his body to England.

It would be difficult to conceive arrangements less severe, consistently with the urgent necessity of preventing another war.

On the embarkation on board the Northumberland, the arms were to be taken from the French officers on board; but to be packed carefully, and put into the charge of the captain. Napoleon’s sword was not taken from him, and the swords of the officers were restored on their arrival at St Helena. Of this order, Count Montholon made a handsome melodramatic story, in the following style: “His lordship (Lord Keith) said to him, in a voice suppressed (assourdie) by vivid emotion, ‘England demands your sword.’ The Emperor, with a convulsive movement, dropped his hand on that sword, which an Englishman _dared_ to demand. The expression of his look was his sole answer. It had never been more powerful, more _superhuman_ (sur-humaine). The old admiral felt thunderstruck (foudroyé). His tall figure shrank; his head, whitened by age, fell upon his bosom, like that of a criminal humbled before his condemnation.” This theatric affair Mr Forsyth declares to be _pure fiction_. The story is contradicted even by Las Cases, who says, in his journal—“I asked, whether it was possible that they would go so far as to deprive the Emperor of his sword? The admiral replied that _it_ would be respected; but that Napoleon was the only person excepted, as all the rest would be disarmed.” The perpetual habit of frequenting the theatre spoils all the taste of France. The simplest action of life must be told in rhodomontade, and even the gravest facts must be dressed up in the frippery of fiction.

On the 7th of August 1815, Bonaparte was removed on board of the Northumberland, with a suite of twenty-five persons, including Count and Countess Bertrand, with their three children; Count and Countess Montholon, with one child; and Count de Las Cases, with his son, a boy of fourteen. As Mengeaud, the surgeon who had accompanied him from Rochefort was unwilling to go to St Helena; O’Meara, the surgeon of the Bellerophon, was chosen by Bonaparte, and allowed by Lord Keith to attend him.

They hove to at Madeira for refreshments, and landed at St Helena on the 15th of October.