Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

The comrade, finding much difficulty in providing a nurse for the child, declared that he would sooner undertake the care of him himself until an opportunity of better disposing of him should occur, as he felt convinced that the poor infant would be lost, if suffered to remain with the woman under whose care he then was.

There was no objection made to this, so the soldier immediately took charge of the child. And well he acquitted himself in his responsibility: he regularly washed, dressed, and fed the little fellow, every morning; he would clamber over the hills and procure goats' milk for him, when even the officers could not obtain that luxury; and although not much of a cook, would boil his ration-meat into a nutritive jelly, as scientifically as the best of them, for the child. In less than two months, the little campaigner was very different in appearance from that which he exhibited when first taken in charge of the soldier; and he became a rosy-faced, chubby, hardy little hero, as ever bivouacked on the hills of Portugal.

Month after month passed away, during which the regiment often moved about. Upon the march the soldier always found means of procuring a seat for the child upon one of the baggage mules; and he now became so interesting to all who knew him, that little difficulty in obtaining transport for him was to be met with. One time a muleteer would take the boy before him on his _macho_, or place him between two sacks or casks, upon the animal's back, and gibber Spanish to him as he jogged along; at other times he would find a seat on some officers' baggage, or “get a lift” in the arms of the men; nobody would refuse _little Johnny_ accommodation whenever he needed it. So far I heard from a soldier of the division in which the child was protected. What follows I witnessed myself.

After the battle of Busaco, which was fought in the year following that of Talavera, the army retreated over at least one hundred and fifty miles of a country the most difficult to pass; steep after steep was climbed by division after division, until the whole arrived within the lines of Torres Vedras. The whole of this march, from the mountains of Busaco to the lines, was a scene of destruction and misery, not to the army, but to the unhappy population. Every pound of corn was destroyed, the wine-casks were staved, and the forage was burnt; the people in a flock trudging on before the army, to shelter themselves from the French, into whose hands, had they remained in their houses, they must have fallen. Infants barely able to walk; bedridden old people; the sick, and the dying—all endeavouring to make their way into Lisbon; for which purpose all the asses and mules that they could find were taken with them, and the poor animals became as lame as their riders by a very few days' marches. It was a severe measure of Lord Wellington's thus to devastate the country which he left behind him, but, like the burning of Moscow, it was masterly; for Massena being thus deprived of the means of supplying his army, was soon obliged to retrace his steps to Spain, pursued in his turn by the British, and leaving the roads covered with his starving people and slaughtered horses.

Amidst this desolation I first saw the little hero of whom I write. I had been with the rear-guard of the division, and was approaching Alhandra, when I observed four or five men standing on a ridge, in the valley through which we were passing. One of them ran towards me, and said that there was a man lying under a tree a little way off the road, beside a stream, and that he was dying. A staff-surgeon was close by; I told him the circumstance, and we immediately proceeded to the spot. There we beheld a soldier lying upon his back, his head resting against a bank, his cap beside him and filled with water as if he had been drinking out of it. Beside the man sat a fine boy, of about three years' old, his little arms stretched across him. The child looked wistfully at us. We asked him what he was doing there? but, from fright and perhaps confusion at seeing us all intent upon questioning him he only burst into tears. The surgeon examined the man, and found he was lifeless, but still warm. I asked the child, if the man was his father? he said he was; but to any further questions he could only lisp an unintelligible answer. The surgeon thought the man had died of fatigue, probably from marching while under great debility or sickness. I asked the boy, if he had walked with his father that day? and he replied, that he did not, but had been carried by him.

At this moment the last of the division was passing up the hill, and the French columns appeared about half a mile behind. There was nothing to be done but to remove the child, and leave the dead man as he was. I directed the soldiers to do so, and to bring him along with them. They accordingly went over to the boy, to take him away from the body; but he cried out, while tears rolled from his eyes, “_No, no! me stay wi' daddy!—me stay wi' daddy!_” and clung his little arms about the dead soldier with a determined grasp. The men looked at each other; we were all affected in the same way; I could see the tears in the hardy fellows' eyes. They caressed him; they promised that his father should go also; but no, the little affectionate creature could not be persuaded to quit his hold. Force was necessary; the men drew him away from the body; but the child's cries were heart-rending: “_Daddy! daddy! daddy! dear, dear, daddy!_” Thus he called and cried, while the men, endeavouring to sooth him, bore him up the hill just as the enemy were entering the valley. This was little Johnny, and the dead man was his father's kind, good-hearted comrade, who perhaps hastened his own death in carrying the beloved little orphan.

NIGHTS IN THE GUARD-HOUSE.

No. I.

“See yonder, round a many-colour'd flame,
A merry club is huddled all together;
Even with such little people as sit there
One would not be alone.”

GOËTHE.

“Who goes there?”

“Rounds.”

“What rounds?”

“Grand rounds.”

“Stand, grand rounds—advance one and give the countersign.”

“Waterloo.”

“Pass, grand rounds: all's well.”

Splash went the steed, and patter went the rain, as the above dialogue rapidly passed between the officer of the rounds and the advanced sentry of Ballycraggen guard-house, one stormy night in the depth of December, and in the midst of the Wicklow mountains.

“Guard, turn out!” instantly bellowed with true Highland energy, from the lungs of Sergeant M'Fadgen, and echoed quickly by those of Corporal O'Callaghan, increased the panic to its climax, and broke up the circle of story-tellers who were enjoying themselves round a huge turf fire, and, for aught yet known, a bottle of pure potyeen. “Guard, turn out!” repeated the corporal, as he upset, in his haste to obey, the stool on which he sat, as well as the lance-corporal and a fat private who occupied one end of it; but notwithstanding these little embarrassments, both men and musquets were out of the guard-house in a twinkling—silent, and as steady in line as the pillars of the Giants' Causeway.

The officer's visit did not last many seconds, for the night was too wet, and nothing had occurred with the guard worth his particular notice: off he galloped, and the clatter of his horse's hoofs was almost drowned in the word of command given by Sergeant M'Fadgen, as he returned the guard; for the Sergeant always made it a point, when giving the word within the hearing of an officer, to display the power of his non-commissioned lungs in the most laudable manner.

The arms were speedily laid down, and each man ran to take up his former position at the fire, or perhaps to secure a better, if permitted to do so by the rightful owner: this, however, was, as regarded the stools, without any reference whatever to the sergeant's seat—an old oak chair, which he leisurely, gravely, and consequentially resumed.

“The Major was in a hurry to-night, Sargeant,” observed Corporal O'Callaghan, as he fixed himself at the front of the fire, elbowing his supporters right and left.

“The Major's nae fool, Corporal; it's a cauld an' a raw naight,” replied the Sergeant.

“Could, did ya say, Sergeant,” returned O'Callaghan; “By the powers o' Moll Kelly! he knocks fire enough out o' the wet stones to keep both him and the baste warm: I could ha' lit my pipe with it when he started off.”

“Aweel, he's done his duty as effectally as if he had stopped an hoor; so dinna fash, but gi' us that story you were jist commencing afore the turn-oot.”

“Yes, yes, the story, Corporal!”—“Give us the story;”—“That's the thing, my boy;”—“Let us have it.” These, and a dozen similar requests followed the Sergeant's, from the men of the guard; when, after the due quantity of hems, haws, and apologies, usual in all such cases, Corporal O'Callaghan commenced the following

STORY OF MARIA DE CARMO.

“Well! if yiz _will_ have the story, I suppose I must tell it:—Maria de Carmo, you see, is a Portuguese name, as _you_ Redmond, and _you_ Tom Pattherson knows well: for it's often you saw the self-same young girl I'm going to tell about; and as purty a crature she was as ever stept in shoe leather,—a beautiful and as sweet a young blossom as the sun ever shone upon, with her black curls, and her white teeth, set just like little rows of harpsichord kays; and her eyes, and her lips, and her ancles! O! she bet all the girls I ever saw in either Spain or Portugal; that you may depend upon. Well, Harry Gainer was her sweetheart; poor fellow! he was my comrade for many a long day. _You_ knew him well, Sargeant.”

“I listed the lad mysel at Waterford, aboot this time ten years, as near as poossible; an' a gay callant he was,” said M'Fadgen; and then with an important sigh resumed his pipe.

“Well, Harry and I went out with the rigiment from Cork to Lisbon in 1810, and it was in March; for we spent our Patrick's Day aboord, and drowned our shamrock in a canteen of ration rum, just as we were laving sight o' Ireland: and we gave the counthry three cheers on the forecastle—the whole lot of us together, sailors an' all, as the green hills turned blue, an' began to sink away from our sight. We had a fine passage, an' landed at a place called the Black Horse Square, in Lisbon, afther only six days' sailing, as hot and as fine a day, although in March, as one of our July days here. Well—to make a long story short, we made no delay, but, according to ordthers, were embarked aboord the boats, and sailed up the Tagus to Villa Franca (as pretty a river as ever I sailed in), and then the rigiment marched on to Abrantes, where we halted: it was in this town that Harry first met with Maria de Carmo. Both he and I were quarthered at her father's house, a nice counthry sort of place, what the Portuguese call a _Quinta_, in the middle of a thick wood of olives, on the side o' the high hill of Abrantes. You could see from the door fifty miles and more, over beautiful blue mountains on one side; an' on the other side, across the Tagus, a fertile, cultivated counthry, with the fine wide river itself, like a looking-glass, wandering away—God knows where. O, it was as purty a spot as any in Ireland, I'm sure, barrin' the town itself; and that was a dirty, narrow hole of a place, on the very top o' the high hill,—yet it was fortified all round, as if it was worth living in. The streets are so narrow that you could shake hands out o' the windows with the opposite neighbours. There's a bit of a square, to be sure, or Praça, as they call it, but that's not worth mentioning. The fact is, I often thought that the town of Abrantes was like a big dunghill in the middle o' Paradise.

“We halted here about a month, during which time Gainer was always looking afther this young girl; and faith! he hadn't much throuble to find her any day, for she was just as fond of looking afther him. I often met them both sthrolling up along the side o' the river, like two turtle doves, billing and cooing, and I could ha' tould how the matther would have gone, in two days afther we arrived; for, 'pon my sowl I don't know how it is, but when a young couple meets, that's made for one another, there is such an atthraction, an' such a snaking toward this way an' that way, that they are always elbowing and jostling, 'till they fall into each other's arms.

“Poor Harry was a warm-hearted sowl as ever was born, and as honourable, too. He came to me the night before we marched from Abrantes for Elvas, and says he to me (we were just outside the town, taking a bit of a walk in an orange garden), says he, ‘Tom,’ an' the poor fellow sighed enough to brake his heart; ‘Tom,’ says he, ‘I don't know what to do with that girl; the rigiment marches to-morrow, and God knows will I ever see her again. She wants to come with me, unknown to her parents.’ ‘An' will you take her?’ says I.—‘Take her, Tom,’ says he; ‘is it an' she, the only child of the good-natured ould man that behaved so well to us? The Lord forbid! I'd sooner jump off this hill into the river than I'd lade a sweet and innocent young girl asthray, to brake the heart o' her father.’

“Och, I knew well, before I mintioned it, that Harry's heart was in the right place.—‘Well,’ says I, ‘you must only lave her, poor thing; it's betther nor take her with you. But what does her father say?’ ‘O,’ says Harry, ‘the poor man would be willing enough to let her marry me if I was settled; but although he likes me so much, he knows well that this is no time for marriages with soldiers.’ ‘Well, then, Harry,’ says I, ‘there's no manner o' use in talking; you must only give her a lock o' your hair and a parting kiss,—then God speed you both.’

“With that we went back to our quarthers, an' took share of a canteen o' wine; but although Harry drank, I saw it was more for the dthrowning of his throubles, and the sake of conversation about Maria, than for any liking he had to licker. But faith! I'm sure, although I'm no great hand at it myself, I think a glass on such an occasion as that, when the heart o' the poor fellow was so full, an' my own not very empty, an' when we were going to march from the town we spent some pleasant hours in, was a thing that if a man could not enjoy, he ought to be thrown behind the fire, as a dthry chip.

“We were just finishing the last glass, when the ould man, our Patroa, Signior Jozé, came to say that we must ate a bit o' supper with him, as it was our last night in the place; and although I didn't undtherstand much o' the language, yet he explained himself well enough to make us know that he was in the right earnest o' good-nature. We had no more wine to offer him, at which he smiled, and pointed to the parlour below,—‘_La esta bastante_,’ says he; which manes _there's enough below stairs, my boys_. We went down to supper, which was a couple of _Galinias boas_, or in plain English, _roast fowls_,—an' soup: with oranges of the best quality, just plucked out of the ould man's garden. Maria was with us, an' I don't think I ever passed a pleasanter night. God knows whether it was so with Harry an' his sweetheart or not; I believe it was a sort o' mixture. They were both not much in the talking way, an' Maria looked as if she had a hearty male o' crying before she sat down to supper. However, I kept up the conversation with Jozé, though I was obliged to get Harry to interpret for me often enough, as he was a far betther hand at the Portuguese than I was, from always discoursing with Maria—faith! in larning any language there's nothing like a walking dictionary;—that is to say, a bit of a _sweetheart_.

“Signior Jozé gave us a terrible account o' the French when they came to Abrantes first; an' all he feared was, that ever they should be able to make their way there again. He hoped he would never see the day, on account of his dear Maria, for they nather spared age nor sex in the unfortunate counthry.

“‘They call themselves Christians,’ says he, ‘and the English infidels; but actions, afther all, are the best things to judge by: the sign o' the cross never kept a devil away yet; if so, there should not have been such a _Legion_ of them here along with the French, for we had _crosses_ enough.’

“Jozé was a liberal man in his opinions, an' although a Catholic, an' more attached to Harry an' me from professing the same religion, yet he was not like the bigots of ould, that I read of; but one that looked upon every faith in a liberal light. He was for allowing every man to go to the devil his own way.”

“I dinna ken but Jozé was raight,” drily remarked Sergeant M'Fadgen; to the truth of which observation a general admission was given by all the fire-side listeners.

“Well, we broke up about one o'clock purty merry, but not at all out o' the way; and as we had to march, a little after day-brake, I thought three or four hours' rest would do us no harm: so I wouldn't let the Patroa open another bottle. Harry looked a little out o' sorts at my preventing him; but I knew what he was at—he didn't want the dthrink; but just to keep sitting up with the girl: therefore I thought it betther to go; for he an' she would have been just as loth to part if they had been six weeks more together without stopping.

“Next morning we turned out at day-brake; an' faith! Harry might as well have staid up all night for the sleep he got—he looked the picture of misery and throuble. We had our rations sarved out the day before; but faith! _we_ did not want much o' that—Harry and I; for Jozé had stuffed our haversacks with every spacies of eatables.

“We mustherd in the square or market-place,—mules and all, by four o'clock, and at half-past four we marched off to the chune o' _Patrick's Day_, upon as fine a band as ever lilted; which, in the middle o' foreign parts, as I was, made me feel a little consated, I assure you. The rigiment was followed by a crowd of Portuguese, as far as the bridge over the Tagus where we crossed. Poor devils! the band didn't seem to make _them_ look pleasanter; they were like as if they suspected we were not certain of keeping the French out long.

“Just as the light company was moving on to the bridge, (Harry and I belonged to the light company,) we halted a few minutes, and he fell out to spake a parting word to Maria an' her father, who were both waiting then at the bridge. Her mantilia a'most covered her face; but still I saw the tears rowling down her cheeks, poor girl, like rain. In a few moments the column moved on, and Harry was obliged to fall in. We both shook hands with the ould father—Harry kissed his sweetheart, and we marched on over the bridge. But to make a long story short, our rigiment remained at Elvas about three months, when the French began to attack us, and we retrated upon Abrantes. This was the time that they boasted of going to dthrive us into the sea, clane out o' Portugal; but by my sowl the Mounseers never were more mistaken in their lives. Well, we hadn't hard from Maria for two months, and I remember it was late in the evening when we entehred Abrantes on our retrate. Harry and I didn't want to taste bit or sup till we went down to ould Jozé's house, and there we larnt that he died of a faver six weeks afore: poor ould man! I was sorry to hear it, an' so was Harry—very sorry indeed. We inquired about the daughther, an' hard that she was living with a particular friend of her father's, at the other end o' the town. We soon found her out, although she was denied to us at first by an ould woman; but faith! a nice-looking young lad, dressed like a _pysano_, or counthry-boy, with a wide black hat an' red worsted sash on him, came out driving along, and threw his arms round Harry's neck, hugging an' kissing him. By my sowl! the boy was _herself_, sure enough. The fact is, Maria had dthressed herself up like a boy, fearful that the French would ill use her when they came into the town; an' they expected them from report, two days before. Faith! an' so they would, I'd warrant ye; for they never showed much mercy to a purty girl once in their power.

“The people with which Maria now lived, were good cratures, and as fond of her as if she was their own. They insisted upon us stopping with them, although there was six soldiers more in the house. A good room was provided for us, an' every thing comfortable. Harry and Maria made much o' their time; but I was obliged to go on the baggage-guard, so left them to themselves. Next morning, at day-light, we were all undther arms, and marched out o' the town towards Punhete. We were the rear-guard, and as we expected the advanced guard of the French up, we were prepared to give 'em a _good morning_: the baggage was all on, an hour before. Sure enough the enemy hung on our rare the whole day, and towards night our company had a bit of a brush with 'em.

“But I forgot to tell ya, that as we left the town of Abrantes, in the dusk o' the morning, and the column was moving down the hill, the mist was so thick I could hardly see Harry, although so close to my elbow; but I hard him discoursing a little with a Portuguese that walked beside him. ‘When did you lave Maria,’ says I.—‘Hush, man,’ says he, ‘she's here.’—‘O, by the Powers!’ says I again, ‘Harry, my boy, you did right, for she'd be desthroyed by these thundthering French beggars.’—‘For God's sake!’ says Harry, ‘then don't let on to mortyal man anything about it: she can be with us until I can get her down to her friends in Lisbon.’ I made no reply, but just put out my hand to Maria, who was close to Harry, an' I shook hands with her. ‘O, my honey!’ says I, ‘you'll be as good a little soldier as any in the division: take a dthrop out o' this canteen.’ Poor thing! she smiled and seemed happy, although we had no great prospects of an asy life of it, for a few days at laste. She wouldn't taste the rum, of coorse, but with the best humour in the world, pulled out a tin bottle and dthrank a little of its contents, which I saw was only milk.

“The mist began to rise above us by this time, and the sun threw out a pleasant bame or two, to warm us a bit; for the men were all chilly with the djew. In a very few minets, the walking and the canteens produced a little more talk along the line o' march, and we seemed as merry as a bag o' flays, cracking our jokes all along; although a squadthron o' blue bottles was plain enough to be seen, on their garrons, through the bushes on the top o' the hill behind us; but divel a toe they daared come down. Well! we arrived at Punhete, about one o'clock, and afther ating some beef, just killed and briled on a wooden skewer; and washing it down with a canteen o' wine; the division crossed the river _Se hairy_,[4] an' encamped on the other side in green tents: that is, good wholesome branches o' cork, chesnut, olive, and orange threes waving purtily over our heads. Dy you remember the night, Pattherson? Dy _you_, Redmond?”

“Yes, faith! we do,” says Patterson; “and that was the first time I saw Maria, though I then thought she was a boy.”

“Well, I'll never forget that night as long as I live. There we were, Harry, and Maria, and myself, undther a three, with a ratling fire blazing away before us. We gave our blankets to the girl when the men were asleep, and I got plenty of India corn straw, which is like our flaggers, an' made up a good bed for her, an' stuck plenty o' branches into the bank over her, to keep off the djew. There she slept, poor sowl! while Harry and I sat at the fire, until we fell asleep, discoursing o' one thing or other. We had some grapes an' bread, an' a thrifle o' wine which I got in the town on the way (becaise I had a look out for a dthry day), upon which the whole of us faisted well.

“When the girl fell asleep, Harry towld me all about her coming away with him. Says he, ‘Tom, you're my only friend in the regiment that I would confide in, and if I fall I request you will do what's right for that poor dear girl, just the same as a sisther.’ ‘Don't talk about falling,’ says I, ‘till you're dead in earnest. God forbid ya should ever lave us without _falling in_ with a few score o' the French scoundthrels and giving them their godsend.’

“‘Well,’ says he, ‘Tom there's no knowing any of our fates, so God bless you, do as I bid you.’ (I shook his hand, and it was in thrue friendship too. I didn't spake; but he knew what I meant.) ‘She has got most respectable friends in Lisbon, and here's the adthress—“_Rua de Flores, Lisbōa_.”’ I took the paper, and put it up in the inside breast-pocket o' my jacket, where I kept my _will_ in case I was _settled_; for I had a thrifle which I wished my mother and sisther to get in case of accident; an' by my sowl, there was plenty o' rason to expect it, for the report was that the French was coming up in very great force. ‘Tom,’ says he, ‘that sweet girl sleeping there, is as dear to me as my life; an' dearer too. I'll take care of her, plase God, until I bring her to her friends; now that her father is dead and she's an orphan, she shall be to me only as a sisther, until we get to Lisbon, an' then she shall be my wife. Therefore, stand by me, Tom, in protecting her on the march. In the dthress she now wears, she will pass as a muleteer of our division, and not rise wondther in the men. We must say that his mule was killed, an' that he is a good fellow we have taken a liking to—if any body asks about her. I took her away for the best; becaise she was in danger of every thing bad, and also a burthen to the people she was with, at such a time as this. I swore on the Holy Evangelists, before the ould couple, that I would protect her to Lisbon inviolate, and I hope I'll keep my oath, Tom. If I brake it, may that burning log there watch my corpse!’ ‘Then,’ says I, ‘Tom, I'll do my part, an' if I don't mane to do it, may the same light watch mine!’

“In this way we talked over the night, until the day broke. We could just see all spread undther the threes, the men snoring fast asleep, an' the senthries posted in front. Before the light got much clearer, I spied, over on the hill fornent us about half-a-quarter of a mile, our pickets moving in a bit of a hurry; and faith! about half a dozen shots from them showed us plainly what sort of a storm was beginning. The alarm was amongst us in a minet, an' every one of us sazed the cowld iron, in the twinklin' of a bed-post. ‘Harry,’ says I, ‘waken poor Maria.’—‘Yes,’ says he, ‘God help her, I will.’ With that he did, and without frightening her much, towld her to keep him in sight, but not to be very close to him when he was in any danger. O she was a heroine every inch of her! She didn't spake much, but bowldly buttoned her coat, put her hand on her heart, and looked at him as if she said, ‘Wherever you are, there will I be.’

“Very few minutes more passed, till the Granadiers and we (being the light company) were ordthered out to cover the retrate; a squadthron o' the French 16th dragoons, in green coats and brass helmets, came trhotting up the road through the ravine, that was on our right an' opening with the main road. We were within about two hundthred yards o' them before they _got_ into the main road, for we advanced close to it, undther the cover of a ridge o' bushes; an' in about a minet we let slap amongst them. O! faith, it bothered them, for they didn't want for the word ‘_threes about_,’ but galloped off, laving about a dozen o' them behind. Howsomever, they didn't go far when they returned at a throt, seeing that a column of infantry was moving down the main road from the top o' the hill, to dislodge us. At this moment our own light dthragoons (the 13th, I think,) with horses that looked like giants to the French garrons, came smashing down behind us on the main road, just as the French horse were coming up. Oh! by Jabus! such a licking no poor devils ever got; the sabres went to work in style, an' our captain gave us the word to face about, an' give it right in to the column coming down the road; which we did with a “_cead mille falthea_,” an' then retired as steady as a rock, before our cavalry. It was just at this time I saw Maria close to us, an' as pale as death, though all on the alert, an' as brave as a lion. We were now in full march afther the breeze we had kicked up; when, from an opening on our right, through a wood of olives, an immense body of horse approached at full gallop: we had just time to give them a volley an' run, when they were in amongst us. Harry an' I, an' about eighteen more, were cut off from the rest and surrounded, when all further fighting _with us_ was out o' the question; so we were marched off prisoners. The divil a much they got by this manœuvre, for we could see that they came back quick enough, with our dthragoons afther 'em, and if it wasn't that the French infantry by this time cum up, we should have been retaken. I saw one fellow, a sarjeant o' the French horse, going back to the rear, with his thigh laid open and his face cut down the sides: Faith an' many a French horse galloped by us without a ridther at all.”

“I lost all feelings about myself when I looked at Harry, for his countenance was like a wild man's. I knew the cause: it was that Maria was missing. He attempted to run back, an' was near being bagneted by the French guard in charge of us, for doing so.

“There was no time for thinking; or for any thing else. Away we were marched to the rear as fast as we could go, meeting at every step fresh regiments of the French cavalry an' artillery, all in high spirits,—humbugging us with ‘_God dam Crabs_,’[5] an' the like. Then we were taken across the river at Punhete, an' packed off to Abrantes. In going through, the rascals paraded us about the town to show they had taken _some_ prisoners, an' telling the Portuguese that they killed _thousunds_ of us that morning! On the way to Abrantes poor Harry hardly spoke a word, an' I didn't say much, for our hearts were sick and sore. The whole o' the road along was in a bustle with the advancing army, singing French songs and shouting at us as we passed. ‘Ah!’ says I to myself, ‘if I had half a dozen o' ye to my own share, I'd larn you to shout at th' other side o' yir mouths.’ But we'd _one_ comfort; an' that was, that we knew these fellows' tone would be changed before they went many miles farther.

“We arrived at Abrantes—right back to where we started from the day before,—an' was again made a show of about the town by the braggadocios o' Frenchmen. One o' their generals came up to me—a finikin little hop-o'-my-thumb fellow, who could talk a little broken English; an' says he, ‘You Englisman, eh?’—‘Yes,’ says I, ‘in throth I am.’—‘From what part?’—‘From a place called Ballinamore, in the county of Leitrim.’ ‘Is dat in Hirlaund?’—‘Yes, faith,’ says I, ‘it is.’—‘Ah bon,’ says the general, ‘you be von Catholic—von slave d'Angleterre.’—‘No, Monseer, I'm no _slave_ to Angleterre, though I _am_ a Catholic. There's a little differ in our religion, to be sure, but we are all _one_ afther all.’—‘Vell, Sare, you be Catholic, an Frenchmen be Catholic. You give me all de information of de English army, and vee make you sargeant in de French Guard, and give you de l'argent; you can den fight against de heretick English.’—‘Thank you,’ says I, ‘Monseer General, but I'd much rather be excused, if you plase. I know no differ between Ireland and England when once out o' the counthries; we may squabble a bit at home, just to keep us alive, but you mistake us if you think we would do such a thing as fight against our King and counthry. Come, boys, says I, (turning about to my comrades,) if any o' yiz want promotion an' plenty o' money, now is your time. All you'll be asked to do, is to fight against your ould king, your ould counthry, an' your ould rigiment. Any o' yiz that likes this, let him spake now.’ The General was a little astonished, an' so was the officers with him. There was a bit of a grin on all my comrades' faces, but divil a word one o' them answered.—‘O! I see how it is,’ says I, ‘none o' yiz accepts the General's offer; so now take off your caps an' give three hearty cheers for ould England, Ireland, an' Scotland, against the world.’ Hoo! by the holy St. Dinis! you never hard such a shout—it was like blowing up a mine. The General hadn't a word in his gob; he saw there was no use o' pumping us any more, and so he turned round smiling to one of his officers, an' says he in French (which I understood well, though he didn't think it) ‘_En verité ce sont de braves gens! si toute l'armée Britannique est comme cet echantillon-ci, tant pis pour nous autres_:’ and galloped off. The maning o' that was this, you see—that _we were the broth o' boys, an' if the remaindhar o' the English army was like us, the divil a much chance the French would have_.”

“It was nae bad compliment, Corporal,” said Sergeant M'Fadgen; a sentiment in which the rest of the guard unanimously joined.

“By my soul it wasn't, Sergeant, and we all felt what it was to have the honour of our regiment in our hands, and to stick to it like good soldiers, as we ought through thick an' thin.”

“Well, we were there standing in the market-place, surrounded by straggling French an' Frenchified Portuguese; that is, fellows who followed their invaders, like our dogs, to be kicked about as they liked; but there wasn't many o' them, an' maybe the poor divils couldn't help it, unless they preferred a male o' could iron. The shops were all shut up, except where they were broke open by the French, and in every balcony you could see, instead of young women, a set of French soldiers smoking and drinking. Says I to Harry Gainer, ‘If poor Maria was here now, she'd have a bad chance among these rapscallions.’ Harry shook his head and said, with a heavy sigh, ‘Ah, Tom, is she any betther off now? God help her, where can she be?’ At this very minet, a muleteer boy appeared amongst them, crying out ‘_Viva os Francesos_,’ along with some others, and he had a tri-color cockade in his hat. It was nobody else but Maria herself! She put up her finger to her lip, when she saw that we were looking at her; an' this is the Portuguese sign for silence. We undtherstood her in a jiffy, an', by the Powers! poor Harry's face grew like a May-day morning. I could see that he didn't know whether he was on his head or his heels. ‘Silence, my boy,’ says I, ‘don't you see how it is? don't take the laste notice of her for your life.’ We were immadiately marched off to a church, close by, where we were to lie for the night. Some brown bread was given to us, an' some of Adam's ale to faste ourselves; an' there we were—twenty of us. Now just as we were going in, Maria, in a bustling sort o' way, got close to Harry and me, and says she, in a whisper, ‘_Non dorme vos merce esta note, Anrique, pour amor de Dios_.’ She then went away in a careless manner, pretending to join in the jokes passed off upon us by those around.”

“The English o' that,” said Serjeant M'Fadgen, anxious to show his knowledge of the Portuguese, “is _For the loo o' God, Harry, dinna sleep a wink the naight_.”

“Throth you're just right! It is, Sergeant; you ought to know it well, for you were a long time in the Peninsula.”

The Sergeant shut his eyes, and smoked again.

“Well! we got into the church, which was more like a stable; for there was a squadthron of dthragoons' horses in it the night before; the sthraw that remained was all we had to sleep on, an' wet enough it was, God knows! The althar piece,—a fine painting, cut and hacked, an' the wood of the althar itself tore up for firing. ‘There's something a brewing, Harry,’ says I.—‘Whisht!’ says he, ‘Tom; she manes to get us out if she can; an' sorry enough I am, for she may get shot, or be hung by these Frenchmen, if they discover that she is our friend.’ So we talked about it awhile, and agreed to watch all night, as she desired. It was then coming dark, an' we all sat down on the sthraw, an' afther a few mouthfuls of what we had, an' some conversation, all fell asleep, except Harry and I. We talked together to pass the time, till about nine o'clock, when we both from fatague felt very sleepy, so we agreed to lie down, one at a time, while the other walked about. I had the first sleep; an' I suppose it might be two hours, when Harry wakened me, an' lay down himself; but although he did, his sleep was only a doze, for he used to start an' ask me something or other every ten minutes. At last, about one o'clock—I think it couldn't be more—the high window on one side began to rise up, and I could just disarn a figure of a head an' shouldhers, like Maria's, between me an' the faint grey light o' the sky; so I wakens Harry, an' we both went over undther the window. ‘It's she, sure enough!’ says I; an' a whisper from her soon showed it was. The snores of our comrades were just loud enough to dhrown her voice, an' ours too, from any danger; an' from the great fatague they suffered, there wasn't a sowl awake, but ourselves and the senthry outside the door. ‘Take this rope,’ says she, in Portuguese, ‘an' pull up the ladther, while I guide it down to you:—make no noise.’ We then laid howld o' the rope, which by a little groping we found hanging down from the window, an' we pulled steady, while she took the top o' the ladther, an' guided it down as nice as you plase. She then sat down across on the window, while we cautiously mounted the ladther, an' got up to her. I was first; so I looked all round to see if I could make out any o' the senthries; but the heavy sky and a high wind favoured us. So Harry an' I stands on the edge, an' we slowly draws up the ladther an' put it down. ‘Here goes!’ says I; an' I took a parting look at my poor comrades. ‘God send you safe, lads!’ thought I, as I went down. Maria was the next, and then Harry. When we all three got out clear, I was putting my hand to the ladther to take it away, when the senthry cried out ‘_Qui va là?_’ from the front o' the church. Thinks I, ‘It's all up with us!’ Maria seemed to sink into nothing: she laned against us both, thrembling like an aspin-lafe, while we stirred not a limb, and held fast our breath. ‘_Qui va là?_’ was again roared out by the senthry, in a louder voice. O God! how I suffered then, an' poor Harry too: the dhrops run off our faces with the anxiety, for it was now whether we should answer to the senthry's challenge, an' be taken, or remain silent an' be shot! He challenged a third time, when, at the highest pitch of our feelings, a Frenchman answered to the challenge as he passed the senthry. I suppose it was some officer prowling about the town to watch the guards. Oh! what a relief it was to us! Ye may _guess_ how glad we were to find that our chance was as good as ever.

“Afther a bit, Maria tould us to follow exactly wherever she went, and to carry the ladther with us. So we proceeded—she first—picking our steps in the dark, till we got out over a little wall into a narrow lane, where we left the ladther down in a ditch. The wind blew as loud as ever I hard it, which favoured us greatly; an' the sort o' grey twilight that was above us, was just sufficient to show us our way. Maria now got into a little garden o' grapes, through a broken wall, and desired us to follow her; which we did, all along undther the vines, which grew over the walk as thick as hops. We creeped on, 'till we came to a sort of an outhouse; where we halted to dthraw our breath, an' thank God for our escape so far. Says Maria to Harry, ‘Men Anrique! men curaçao!’—but there's no use of telling it in Portuguese, so I'll give it in plain English—‘Henry, my heart,’ says she, ‘we are now at the back of Señor Luiz de Alfandega's house,’ (that was her friend's, where she lived) ‘and we must stay there until morning.’ ‘Are the French in it, or not?’ says Harry. ‘No,’ replied Maria, ‘none of the soldiers, except a sick French curnel and his servant; but both are fast asleep above stairs. Poor Luiz an' his wife are fled, and there is nobody remaining in the house but Emanuel’ (that was an ould crature of a man, sixty years in the family—a sort o' care-taker o' the vineyard). ‘I will go to the window an' see if all is safe. It was he who provided me with the ladther, an' now waits to hear of my success. Stay here until I return.’ She went up to the house, and in a few minutes came back an' guided us safely into the kitchen, where ould Emanuel was waiting.

“When we got into the kitchen, there was the poor ould man sitting. We couldn't see him till we sthruck a light—which was a good while first, owing to his groping about for a flint, an' being fearful o' wakening the curnel or his sarvant, that was above stairs. Well, we got the light, an' a sad sight it showed us; _there_ was desthruction itself—every thing broken and batthered—the windows knocked out—the partitions burned—an' the ould man, with his white head, standing, like Despair, over the ruins. This was all done by the rascals o' French; an' I suppose if they wern't turned out, to make room for the sick curnel, they'd have burned the boords o' the floors afore they'd ha' left the house.

“Maria now brought out from a nook in the kitchen, two shutes o' counthryman's clothes for us to put on, in ordher that we might all escape to the English camp; an' scarcely had we taken them up, when we hard a noise, as if a person had slipp'd his foot on the stairs. ‘Whisht,’ says I, ‘Harry; there's somebody stirring.’ We were all as mute as mice, an' the ould man blew out the light. We could now hear a footstep moving down the stairs; an' as there was a boord broken out o' the partition, Harry an' I popped out our heads to look. It was dark; but we could see the cracks in the gate o' the house. Presently the step was at the bottom o' the stairs, an' in the stone passage or gateway,—the Portuguese houses mostly have gateways. Maria thrembled like an aspin leaf, an' Harry pinched her to be quiet. The boult o' the gate was now slowly moved an' opened. We could then see, by a dim light from the sthreet, that a French soldier, in rigimentals, was let in by another in undthress, an' the gate quietly shut, an' not boulted, but latched afther them. ‘By the Powers!’ thinks I, we are done. So we listened: an' presently one o' the villians says to the other, in French, ‘He's fast asleep; but you must be quick, or he may wake; the money is all ready on the table.’ Both then stole up stairs, an' I consulted with Harry about the matther. We didn't know what to think of it. Says I, ‘They're going to rob the curnel of his money, you may depend upon it.’ I then explained to Maria what the man said; an' says she, in a minute, ‘They're going to _murther_ him.’ ‘Yes,’ says ould Emanuel, ‘_Certamente_.’ Scarcely was the word out of his mouth, when we hard a dreadful groan! ‘It's the curnel,’ says the ould man. Harry an' I jumped out in a minute, followed by Emanuel. ‘Dthraw your bagnet,’ says I.—Harry was up first; and slash into the room where the light _was_, we ran. One o' the villians fired a pistol at Harry as he enthered, an' just rubbed the skin off his arm with the ball. The poor curnel was struggling undther the other fellow. Harry jumped in upon the bed at him, while I ran at the fellow who fired the pistol. It was a large room; he made for the door, an' leaped right over Emanuel—I afther him, down stairs into the kitchen, an' got him down. He was a horrible sthrong man; I'm not very wake myself, and faith! he gave me enough of it. I dthropped my bagnet to hould him, when he made a desperate effort, an' twisted himself away from me. You may think I held a good hoult, when the breast-plate, which was the last thing I held out of, broke away in my hand. I ran afther him as he got out o' the door, but he got clane off through the back o' the house.

“I immadiately went back to the room, an' there was Harry shaking the murdtherer by the neck, an' the ould man lifting up the curnel gently, who was groaning in a shocking way, an' looking at us as if he thanked us from his very heart an' sowl, but couldn't spake a word. He was bleeding fast from a deep wound in the side, an' the bloody knife was on the ground, beside the bed.

“Afther I shook my fist at the tallow-faced rascal that stabbed his masther, an' when I threatened him with the rope, I went over to the poor curnel an' I spoke kindly to him: I gave him a dthrink o' wather: O! God help him, how ghastly he looked at me—I'll never forget it. He pressed my hand to his heart an' sunk back upon the pillow; then he struggled an' heaved his breast very much, an' seemed just on the point o' death.

“At this minute we hard people running up the stairs, an' in a minute a corporal an' six file o' the French guard burst into the room. The murdthering dog no sooner saw this than he fell on his knees, an' pretended to pray to heaven an' to thank God for his deliverance; then starting up, he cried out to the corporal to saze the murdtherers of his master!

“The three of us were immadiately sazed. We did every thing we could to prove the matther as it really was, but this was of no use. I abused, an' cursed, an' swore at the villian as well as I could, in both French an' English, and bid them ask his masther; but this had no effect, for when the soldiers went to the curnel they found him dead: so Emanuel, Harry, an' myself, were hauled off as if we were three murdtherers, an' locked up in the guard-house.

“When we began to think of ourselves, good God! how dthreadful our situation appeared. Harry suffered on account of his Maria as much as any thing else. What was become of her he could not tell, nor could I either: poor ould Emanuel did nothing but pray all the night.

“As soon as the day-light came, hundthreds of officers crowded to see the two English soldiers who broke from their prison and murdthered a curnel; an' sure enough it was past bearing what we endured from them. But the worst of all was when the general who wanted us to enther his sarvice the day before, came an' saw us.

“‘What!’ says he, ‘are these the men who refused so nobly yestherday to bethray their counthry? Have _they_ committed murdther?’

“O! this cut us to the heart. There was not an hour passed until a court-martial was assembled: we were marched in by twelve men, an' placed before it for thrial. The charges were read; they were for murdthering the curnel, an' attempting the murdther of his servant. All the officers o' the garrison were present.

“To describe our feelings at that moment is out o' the power o' man; but we were conscious of our innocence, an' that supported us. The poor ould man was almost dead; he could scarcely spake a word.

“The thrial was very short; the murdtherer was the evidence. He swore as coolly and as deliberately that we killed his masther as if it really was the case. He said that the curnel had just gone asleep, an' _he_ had lain himself down beside his bed, on a matthrass, when he saw the door open, when we three enthered with a lanthern, an' having sazed him, stabbed his masther with a clasp knife, but that before he was sazed, he said he snatched a pistol an' fired at us.

“One o' the officers present then persaving the mark o' the ball on the arm o' Harry, pointed it out.—His coat was sthripped off, an' the skin appeared tore a little, which a surgeon present declared was done by a ball. The corporal and the guard which took us, proved the situation which they found us in, adding, that we were just proceeding to kill the sarvant as they enthered the room.