Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

For six months after this separation, the family of Diego heard no tidings of him; for, no doubt, his letters, as well as theirs, were opened and destroyed by the invaders; however, at the end of that time, a muleteer, who had been pressed along with Diego, returned, by permission, to die from ill health, and he brought letters from him to the almost despairing friends. It appeared by these, that he was along with the army in the south of Spain, and had but little hopes of being able to return to his beloved Joanna, his relatives, and his projected farm-house, for at least another half-year; but he did not even at that period return—nor for upwards of a year after.

During this absence Mina and his intrepid Guerillas were incessant in their annoyance of the French, throughout the province in which the widow lived; frequently surprising strong parties of the enemy, even in the town of Ernani. So desperate were these warriors, that they would often appear on the high and broken hill, close under which the city of Tolase stands; and when the French regiments were on parade beneath them in the square, would open an unexpected volley of musketry on them, which never failed in taking good effect; and before they could be subject to retaliation they were generally off. It was an attack of this description, headed by Mina, which afforded a pretence for the destruction of Ernani.

The Guerillas had halted there for half a day, and furnished themselves with provisions. A French regiment, hot from Bayonne, and eager for plunder, marched in, as Mina's men marched out; and at an ambuscade upon the road, received a most annoying fire from the Guerillas, without being able to pursue them. The regiment immediately commenced the work of destruction in the village:—the houses were sacked and set on fire; the inhabitants murdered; and, amongst the general ruin, was the widow's cottage. Diego's uncle was sabred in his own house, and the innocent girl, who was all to the absent muleteer, still more cruelly treated. Her poor father, in protecting her from the brutal violence of the soldiers, was shot through the head, and the unhappy girl herself died in three weeks after at Escotia, a village in the Basque mountains, whither she and the mother of Diego fled. Her eyes were closed by the widow's hand, and her last words were her “_dear, dear Diego!_”

Shortly after the sacking of the village the Muleteer returned. He had deserted with great difficulty from the southern army, taking with him his favourite mule; and was pacing in the highest possible spirits, singing along the road from Tolosa, when the tops of the houses, amongst which his early and happy days were passed, met his eye. It was in the evening. The sight of his own Joanna's home, and of his beloved mother's cottage, made him urge on his mule. Light was his heart and light his song; he was then about to enjoy, as he thought, the happiest hours of his existence. It was quite dark when he arrived;—he rode up to the house of his Joanna; there was no light—no sound: he entered trembling, for there was no door, and his brain reeled as he beheld in the twilight the ruins of the house. He ran to his mother's cottage, this was no better; distracted then he entered the village;—all was desolate,—no living creature but a wild dog crossed his way. He entered his uncle's house, and there upon the floor lay the murdered body, naked and bruised; he lifted it up, and by the grey light from a sashless window recognized the features of his uncle. The truth now flashed on him: this scene of horror was only one of those which he was forced to witness while with the army from which he had deserted. For a few moments he was senseless, but this only preceded the tempest of his mind;—he ran back to his mule, mounted, and galloped to Rinteria, about a league distant. Here the first persons he met outside the town were two French soldiers; in a moment he was off his mule, and before time for a thought had passed, they both lay bleeding at his feet: he killed them with his cochilio; there was but little noise, for they never spoke. Breathless and raging, he remounted, and rode on to the house of one he had known—a former companion; there he learned the fate of his Joanna,—that both she and his mother were dead. Diego's hands were covered with blood; and as he cursed the authors of Ernani's destruction, he exultingly showed to his friend the red drops of retribution, and told him that he had already struck down two of the invaders to the earth. The young man, to whom he confessed this circumstance, was the person who afterwards informed his mother of it. He declared that such was the state of Diego's mind, when he came to him at Renteria, that he would have destroyed himself, but for the satisfaction he felt in having killed the Frenchmen. I conversed with this young man at Renteria afterwards, for he returned to his home when the British arrived at Passages.

The alarm was now beginning to spread. Diego's friend was not less the enemy of the French than himself. Mina was in the mountains. Two excellent horses were in the stable of Diego's friend, belonging to a French colonel: these, with a brace of pistols and two swords, they seized during the absence of the servants; and, together with Diego's mule, forded the river, and took a by-way across the hill, towards the Tolosa road; the favourite mule was turned loose in a fertile valley, and the next day both the travellers came up with Mina's party, which they joined with a shout of “Viva Espagna!”

Many a Frenchman fell by the hand of Diego—he had lost all; he only lived to avenge the destruction of his home and his happiness. No Guerilla was before him in the attack,—he was the first in, and the last out of the battle: and if gratified revenge could compensate for the ruin of tender affections, Diego was amply satisfied. But no, nothing could appease him,—the thought of his misery burned like Ætna's fires within his breast,—no blood could extinguish it. With only seven or eight others, he has been known to have surprised a party of French soldiers three times that number. Often has he watched their movements dressed as a simple muleteer, and when any favourable opportunity has occurred, he would hasten back to his companions, buckle on his sword, and return, thus reinforced, to attack any straggling band of the enemy drinking in a wine house, perhaps, or otherwise off their guard. To set fire to the house, and then dash in upon their victims and slaughter them, before they were aware of their danger, was a very usual mode of proceeding with Diego and his associates; after which exploits the Guerillas would disappear as rapidly as they had come.

At one of these attacks the Muleteer met his death. His friend was beside him when he fell, and from him I heard the fight described. The Guerillas consisted of between fifty and sixty prisoners, and had received information that some mules loaded with valuables, and escorted by a company of French infantry, were on their way from Bilboa to Bayonne, and had not yet passed a defile in the mountains about two leagues and a half from the former city. Through this defile runs a narrow river close to the high road. On one side of this road and river rises a rugged mountain, whose steep sides are abruptly broken in several parts, and at others hang out over the depth below. In various shelves of the height are to be seen full-grown trees, the roots of which stretch out from the broken earth, and serve for the support of creeping and climbing underwood. This bold mountain continues unintersected for at least half a mile; and as the opposite side of the road beneath is equally flanked by rocks, the invaders, in forcing this passage, were wholly at the mercy of the enemy above: and before they took the precaution of securing the heights, whole divisions were often cut off by a handful of men, who would deliberately march on with the French column, firing upon it as often as they could load, doing the greatest execution.

To this pass, then, hastened the Guerilla party, and arrived about an hour before the mules and escort appeared in sight. As soon as the French had advanced well into the defile, the Guerillas appeared above on the heights, dismounted, and opened fifteen muskets upon them. The fire was returned, but with no effect; for one step backwards brought the Guerillas under cover of the craggy verge of the height. The French increased their speed to double quick time, but the Guerillas kept up such a fire upon them, that twenty men out of about seventy, were strewed along the road, dead or wounded. The Guerillas now laid down their muskets, mounted, and fell in with the remainder of their own men, in order to get before the French, and thus finish the business by a charge. They trotted on, and headed the escort very soon. They now descended to the road, and lay in ambush about a quarter of a mile from the enemy. A projecting arm of a rock, covered with trees, concealed them from the French, whose column was now passing, and in a moment, a most desperate charge from the Guerillas broke them up. The mules took fright and increased the confusion, while the sabres of the Spaniards finished in a very short time the bloody affair. Diego's horse was in the midst of the French, and there fell with him, wounded. He fought on foot with both dagger and sabre, and had just brought to his feet a French sergeant, when one of the men who lay near him, wounded from his sabre, levelled his piece at Diego, and shot him through the breast. He was the only one his brave party lost, while every single Frenchman was either killed by them or the peasants, who gladly finished what the Guerillas began.

This was the fate of the unhappy Diego. He did not die for an hour after he fell. His comrades carried him into the mountains, and there he breathed his last. But before he died, he took from his pocket the prayer-book and the silk handkerchief which his mother gave him the day he parted from her, and consigned them, as his last gift of friendship, to his companion, with a request that he would offer a mass for his poor mother's soul, and never cease to pursue the French with vengeance while they had a foot in Spain. Then kissing the lock of hair, which he held, he said “Do not take this out of my hand when I am dead, but bury it with me: it is the hair of my own dear Joanna.”

His wish was obeyed, and he was buried just as he lay, under a wild chestnut-tree, where a Frenchman had never trod. Peaceful be the bed of the Guerilla for ever! May the invader never disturb the grass that waves over his dust!

When the poor widow had told me the short history of her hapless son, she went to a little box, and with the tears streaming down her pale cheeks, brought me the handkerchief and the prayer-book;—“There,” says she, “is all I have left of my poor son!” She staggered with grief and debility as she walked across the room with the treasure of her heart. I took them with reverence, and concealed my tears by examining them; for I will not deny it, I could not help weeping. The poor woman sat down, and rocked herself to and fro in silent grief, while I turned over the leaves of the prayer-book without knowing why I did so. At this moment my servant entered the room to prepare supper, and I left the house to indulge in my thoughts for half an hour alone amongst the ruins of Ernani.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] These verses are adapted to a Spanish glee, usually sung by the muleteers, and set for four voices. Those who have been in Spain during the British war there, will recollect the air by the following popular gingle, sung mostly by the muleteers while travelling.

“General Morillo
E su division,
Rumpe la cabeçà
De Napoleon.”
Tre lo ri, tri lo, &c.

[9] Cooking-pots.

RATIONS, OR ELSE!

General Picton, like Otway's _Pierre_, was a “bold rough soldier,” that stopped at nothing; he was a man whose decisions were as immutable, as his conceptions were quick and effective, in all things relative to the command which he held. While in the Peninsula, an assistant commissary, (commonly called assistant-commissary _General_, the rank of which appointment is equal to a Captain's,) through very culpable carelessness, once failed in supplying with rations the third division under General Picton's command; and on being remonstrated with by one of the principal officers of the division, on account of the deficiency, declared, with an affected consequence unbecoming the subject, “that he should not be able to supply the necessary demand for some days.” This was reported to the General, who instantly sent for the Commissary, and laconically accosted him with:—

“Do you see that tree, Sir?”

“Yes, General, I do.”

“Well, if my division be not provided with rations to-morrow, by twelve o'clock, I'll _hang_ you on that very tree.”

The confounded Commissary muttered, and retired. The threat was alarming: so he lost not a moment in proceeding at a full gallop to head quarters, where he presented himself to the Duke of Wellington, complaining most emphatically of the threat which General Picton had held out to him.

“Did the General say he would _hang_ you, Sir?” demanded his Grace.

“Yes, my Lord—he did,” answered the complainant.

“Well, Sir,” returned the Duke, “if he said so, believe me he _means_ to do it, and you have no remedy but to provide the rations!”

The spur of necessity becomes a marvellous useful instrument in sharpening a man to activity: and the Commissary found it so; for the rations were all up, and ready for delivery, at twelve o'clock the next day.

INFERNAL DUTY.

“Down, down to hell, and say I sent thee thither.”

_Shakspeare._

Captain Thompson, of the artillery, while serving in the Peninsula, had the luck to lose, in the space of one campaign, every man of the heavy brigade which he commanded, some by sickness, but most by the enemy; and he found himself at last, not only the _captain_ of the brigade, but, in his own person, the _brigade itself_. Finding, however, that a commanding officer, without men to command, was neither useful nor ornamental, he applied personally to the Adjutant-general, for advice under the circumstances, observing, that he wished to be appointed to some other duty. The Adjutant-general, at the moment the application was made to him, happened to be proceeding across the village in which they were quartered, to Lord Wellington; and said he would speak to his Lordship, requesting Thompson to call on him, for the purpose of knowing the Commander of the forces' will on the subject. When the Adjutant-general mentioned the matter to Lord Wellington, his Lordship was very busy with a map of the Peninsula, and did not give any answer regarding the captain and his _brigade_; but continued to attend to the subject he was then engaged with.

At length the Adjutant-general got up to retire, and amongst other things, asked his Lordship again, where he should send Captain Thompson; “Oh, send him to h——ll,” was the reply, and the interview ended.

When the last man of the brigade called upon the Adjutant-general, to know the result of his application, he was accosted by that officer in a grave and official manner:—

“Captain Thompson,” said he, “I am sorry we are going to lose you; and still more sorry to learn the sort of duty which the Commander of the forces has assigned to so deserving an officer.”

The Captain, who was a most gallant and deserving, but hot-tempered and impetuous man, interrupted the Adjutant-general thus: “God bless me! I hope his Lordship is not going to send me home.”

“I don't know that,” was the answer.

“I'm sure I have done my duty since I have joined his Lordship's army,” continued the Captain, “and I trust I shall not be so far negatively disgraced.”

“My dear Captain,” replied the Adjutant-general, “it is not a very disgraceful duty to which you are appointed, considering the very respectable men who have preceded you upon it. The fact is, that the Commander of the forces, knowing you to be a _devil of a fire-eater_, has directed us to send you to _h——ll_, and here is your route,” handing him an official direction of the marches by which he was to arrive at his destination.

The stages mentioned in the route were whimsical in the extreme, and there were several good points made; the last-mentioned place on the road was _London_.

When Thompson read the paper, his weather-beaten jaws relaxed into a smile; and putting the document into his pocket, he drily remarked, that Lord Wellington had always been in the habit of giving him _hot work_. “It is not the first time,” said he, “that I was sent to _clear the way_ for him; however, when I arrive, I'll look out for _warm quarters_ for his Lordship and _staff_. But there is a mistake in the route, I suspect; you see ‘_London_’ is the last stage mentioned.”

“Yes,” replied the Adjutant-general, “and depend upon it that is the nearest way to the infernal regions.”

“Excuse me,” rejoined Thompson, “there is a much better.”

“What is that?” asked the other.

“Why,” said the Captain, “_Wellington_, to be sure.”

The joke was soon carried to the Commander of the forces, and his Lordship, with the best humour in the world, changed Thompson's route, and took him off the _infernal_ duty to which he had previously ordered him.

NIGHTS IN THE GUARD-HOUSE.

No. II.

“Hoo' comes it, that ye ha' got an' extra guard the naight, Mulligan—Eh?”

“Musha 'pon my sowl, Sargeant M'Fadgen, it's becaise the Captain ordthered it.”

“Poh! mun, I ken that weel; but the Captain wonna gi' ye a guard for naething, wad he?”

“No, faith! it's _something_ to me; for I've had three this week before; that is, three nights out o' bed in my reglar juty; so isn't it something to be ordthered another night by way o' recreation?”

“Aweel, but what ha' ye been doin, lad?”

“Faith! I was doin' nothing at all; an' it was for that I got my guard.”

“Hoo's that?”

“I was ordthered to put out the light in my barrack-room every night at nine o'clock, an' I did not do it last night—that 's all.”

“But you were doin' a wee bit o' something, I'll warrant, Pat. Ye war a liften yer han' to your muzzle—eh?”

“O! that's nothing at all at all. We had a dthrop to be sure. That fellow over there on the stool—(_you_, mister Jack Andrews, I mane)—kept a tellin' us such stories, that I forgot the time entirely. Hooh! the divil may care—Jack is here now, and Corporal O'Callaghan to boot; so what signifies a guard, if they'll only tip us a bit of a song: what do you say, Sargeant—eh?”

“Why, Pat, I've no objection to that, if there be no muckle noise aboot it.”

Thus spoke the Sergeant, and his worthy private, Mulligan: the latter, by way of punishment, was ordered to an extra guard, for being a little out of rule, as above-mentioned; but his punishment was given him by an Officer who had fought and bled with him, and who regarded him with kindly feelings. Pat's delinquency was reported to the Captain by the Orderly Officer, and he could do no less. However, there was not a better nor a more respected man in the corps, than Patrick Mulligan, of the grenadier company. Like many other good soldiers, he was fond of society and the all-powerful potyeen. So when the Orderly Officer was going round at nine o'clock, he put the light under a wooden pale, and when all was, as he thought, safe, he returned to the convivial glass with his comrades; but the officer was one of those pipe-clay martinets, just joined from the half-pay of a militia regiment, and although he had never seen in his life as much actual service as poor Pat had done in one month of his existence, (and perhaps knew much less in reality about the duties of a soldier,) he stole back to the barracks, and surprised the party of carousing Peninsulars. His report was made, and the men were punished.

The practice of keeping lights in the barrack rooms, after the proper hour for extinguishing them, cannot be justified; but there are infractions of general rules in the army, which, if not to be tolerated, should not be sought after with too scrutinizing an eye. A good officer knows when to pry and when to keep his eyes shut; but that was not the case with Pat Mulligan's Orderly Officer.

“Weel Jock,” said the Corporal, “ye maun gi' us a lilt—you or the Corporal.”

“With all my heart,” replied Jack Andrews, “if Corporal O'Callaghan is willing to join in with his second.”

“Faith! I've no objection in the world to conthribute to the harmony of the guard, if my voice doesn't frighten you, lads.”

“Neever mind, Corporal, your voice is na so bad as the Highland pipes, nor yet so loud. But before ya begin, here tak' a——.”

It is impossible to say what the Sergeant offered the Corporal; but it has been since seriously hinted at by Pat Mulligan, and some others. Whatever it was, I have no business to blab—even if I thought it nothing less than pure Inishowen: however, when compliments had passed, and all the men were comfortably seated round the fire, the Corporal and Jack Andrews sung the following verses to a beautiful Biscayan air:—

THE FRIAR OF ST. SEBASTIAN.

Deep the matin-bell toll'd from Benedict's tower,
Long the Friar alone had sighed for the hour,
When all were at rest—
All but the gentlest lady of Spain
Who loved him the best.
In secret he gave her his passion again,
Unholy, unblest:
His lamp of religion was clouded by love,
Too thick and too dark to be seen from above!

Soon the Friar's boat came her bower beneath,
While Sebastian's rock was silent as death,
And gloomy, and steep.
Soft she descended, while, close to her breast,
Her baby lay asleep;
Gentlest innocent, long is thy rest,
Long, long in the deep!
O Friar! the depth of Sebastian's wave
Cannot cover the crime or the little one's grave.

Light the little boat skimmed the moon-covered sea,
Guilt fell dark on the dawn that pointed their way.
Woe followed their flight:
Soon they were brought to St. Benedict's tower—
The deed came to light.
Down to the dungeon the lovers they bore
On St. Benedict's night.
The lamp of religion had scarcely a ray
To chase the deep gloom of their prison away.

None can tell of the fate that either befell;
Yet on holy record 'tis noted full well
In Benedict's tower.
Often the sentinel, trembling, fears
The matin-bell hour:
Often the sentinel fancies he hears
Heaven's punishing pow'r;
And the moans of dying grow loud in his mind,
As the Friar and Lady flit by on the wind.

At the conclusion of this ballad, the door of the guard-house flew open, and the noise which it made, together with the sudden flapping of the window-shutters, astonished the whole guard, and terrified one or two. The wind roared, the night was as dark as chaos, and the song had wound the soldiers' minds up to a climax. They, for an instant forgot themselves, when the door was thrown open. Perhaps they expected a visit from the Friar himself, accompanied by the Lady, to remonstrate with them on the impropriety of thus disturbing their departed spirits. There was no very great demonstration of fear; but even soldiers—and soldiers used to behold the dying and the dead, cannot be always prepared against the effects of romance and music allied against them. None fell from their seats, nor was any stool overturned; but there was a certain shuffling and huddling up together, which sufficiently demonstrated to the sentry at the door, that his trick (for _he_ was the ghost that opened the door,) had the effect he intended. He laughed without, and the guard laughed within; but none had the _right of laugh_ except the sentry himself; which, to do him justice, he rightly enjoyed.

“Shut the door, then, God dom ye! for a blatherinskate, and mind yar duty,” roared out Sergeant M'Fadgen to the sentry, who obeyed the peremptory words as soon as he had expended his laugh in the dark; and order thus being restored, Jack Andrews was unanimously requested to tell the story of the “_Friar and the Lady_,” as he heard it at St. Sebastian: to this he assented, and gave it in something like the following words:—

“You all know, lads, that when the storming of the town was over, we took the duty there. Well, in the house where I was quartered, there lived nobody but an old couple: the man had been a smuggler, and had once been a prisoner of war in England, so that he managed by his intercourse with British and Americans, to speak English pretty tolerably. The old woman was a regular Basquentian mountaineer, with scarcely a bit of flesh on her bones, and not less than eighty years of age. This old couple had returned to St. Sebastian to occupy the house of a leather-seller, who retired from the town before the siege. And the house was certainly in a complete state of dilapidation, with the exception of the ground-floor; it had been on fire during the siege, and although the flames had not made much havoc in it, yet the shot and shell had done enough to reduce it to a complete wreck. Here I used to sit with the old pair of a night, talking of various subjects, and it was from the old man I heard the particulars of the ‘_Friar and the Lady_.’ He told me that his wife lived in the capacity of waiting-maid with the heroine of the tale, and that the convent of St. Benedict, to which the friar belonged, was in the same street where we then resided. The convent in which the young lady lived was at the extremity of the town, near the sea, which the back windows looked out upon, from an elevated rock. You have all seen the rock, yourselves.

“The young lady was about seventeen years of age; she had been admitted as a novice in the convent of Santa Clara, and was to be made a nun in about ten or twelve months after the period of her becoming acquainted with the friar. He was on very familiar terms with the mother abbess, as well as the whole of the establishment; for he was universally celebrated for piety and wisdom: his age was about thirty-five. This _holy_ gentleman managed matters so that he got the better of the novice's virtue, and the consequences were that she became pregnant: they contrived to conceal all appearances of her frailty; and the holy father, in order to preserve his reputation, prevailed upon the novice to elope with him, under a promise of removing her to Italy, whither he proposed to follow her, and to settle in that country. The night was fixed for carrying this plan into effect,—this was about a week before the day on which she was to take the veil—the friar procured a boat, and with it came to the back of the convent at midnight; the novice was prepared, and bade adieu to the walls of her sisterhood for ever. She entered the boat, and the friar easily rowed it along the coast towards the port of Passages, for it was a fine moonlight night, and the sea was as bright as a looking-glass. Before they had proceeded many yards from the beach the young lady became ill, and in half an hour was delivered of a fine boy in the boat: there were no clothes for the little stranger, and the friar was determined it should not long require them, for he sunk it remorselessly into the deep water close to the rocks, and ended all its wants in a moment.

“The baby was washed on shore next morning stiff and dead. There was a black silk band, with a clasp, twisted round its little leg, by accident, or more likely by the providence of God, for it was recognized as belonging to the unfortunate novice of St. Clara's convent. Enquiries soon took place; the guilty friar and his victim were discovered at an obscure house in the town of Passages, and taken back to St. Sebastian. The influence of the clergy prevented a public trial for the murder, lest the holy church should be scandalized; but neither Friar nor Lady were ever afterwards seen, and it is believed to this day, that they were either privately put to death, or imprisoned in the Convent for life. The old woman declares they were chained in separate dungeons, and starved to death; but this only rests upon her own assertion; however, most of the people of St. Sebastian implicitly believe that the ghosts of both visit the sea-shore every full moon; and so much did their stories about ‘_The Friar and the Lady_’ affect one of our lads, that it nearly killed him.”

“Wha' dy' ye mean,” said the Sergeant.

“I mean John Thomas, the Welshman. You remember we were on guard one night after the siege of St. Sebastian, on the top of the high hill in the middle of the town, where the fort stands, and into which the French retired. Well, this John Thomas was sentry; he was then only a raw boy, just come from among the goats and ghosts of his native mountains. It was exactly twelve o'clock, and a fine moonshine night. You could see the wide Bay of Biscay below your feet; the high Pyrenees, all misty on the right; and close under you the ruined town. I suppose the young fellow was superstitious; but be that as it may, he burst into the guard-room without his musket, fell down on the floor, against which he cut his forehead, and struggled in a fit for half an hour. He was taken down to the regimental hospital, and had three fits before the next morning. When he came quite to himself, he declared that he saw the Friar of St. Sebastian and the Lady beside him on the hill, and that the Friar held a dead infant in his hand, which he dashed down into the sea. Of course, this vision was the effect of his boyish fears and superstition; but it certainly is a fact that the lad nearly lost his life by it, for I heard our doctor himself say so. The poor fellow was afterwards killed at the sortie of Bayonne.”

“I remember the lad weel, Jock; but wha made the sang aboot it?” demanded Sergeant M'Fadgen.

“The Captain himself wrote the song,” replied Andrews, “and Corporal O'Callaghan taught me the air.”

“By my sowl,” said O'Callaghan, “I never hard an air I like betther. I used to sit for hours listening to the boat-women all singing it in chorus. I used to cross with them from Passages to Renteria of an evening, for no other purpose than to hear them.”

“Haud yer tongue, Corporal,” observed Sergeant M'Fadgen. “It's na' for a sang that ye wad stay sae lang amongst a parcel o' bonny lasses like them.”—

“TURN OUT THE GUARD!” roared the sentry: and out the guard turned, leaving Patrick Mulligan in quiet possession of the old arm chair, and a blazing fire.

THE FATE OF YOUNG GORE.

Stars that shine and fall,
The flower that droops in springing;
These, alas! are types of all—
To which our hearts are clinging.

_Moore._

Eight bullets pierced this young man's body! In the full light of glory and in the warm lap of love he died, esteemed, honoured, wept, in the blossom of his youth, and in the pride of manly beauty!

Young Gore was a captain in the 51st regiment, and, I have heard, a son of the Earl of Annan. He fought at the battle of Vittoria, and it was in that town, a few days after the fight, that I first saw him, as well as the fair and soft black-eyed girl who was the innocent cause of his death.

When the sanguinary and memorable fight was at an end, a few officers, of necessity, remained in the town. In consequence of this battle, the Constitution was published on the Sunday succeeding it, in the main square or market-place, with great pomp and rejoicing. In addition to bull-fights[10] and public dancing upon the platform erected in the square for proclaiming the Constitution, a ball was given in the evening expressly to the British officers then in the town, at which all the inhabitants of consequence attended. At this ball I first saw Captain Gore; he was then, apparently, about twenty-two or three years of age, and as handsome a young man as ever I beheld; his hair was a light brown, and hung in a profusion of graceful ringlets; he was of a florid complexion, about the middle size, compact, yet light, and in the beautiful uniform of the 51st, a light infantry regiment, faced with green and gold; he was decidedly the most striking figure in the ball-room; and, in addition to this, was the best dancer amongst the English officers—nay as good as any of the Spanish and French[11] who exhibited on that evening their saltatory powers. Whether it was that our English style of dancing at that time wanted something to be added to its grace by a communication with the Continent or not, I will not pretend to say; but certain it is, that my countrymen were not so happy in plucking the laurels from the French that night in the dance, as they had been a few days before in the fight.

With qualifications such as I have described, it is not to be wondered at if the eyes and hearts of many fair ladies followed the young captain: it would rather have excited wonder if they had not. The warm hearts of the Spanish _Signioritas_ are but too susceptible to the charms of Love when his godship dresses in British regimentals.

My friend D., of the 13th light-dragoons, and I, were admiring the waltzers of the evening, when he observed to me that the young officer of the 51st was not only the best dancer, but had the prettiest and best partner; “and,” said he, “I think the lady seems quite smitten with him; they have been partners the whole of the evening.” From this observation I was led to remark the young lady more closely than I had done before, and the result in my mind was, that Captain Gore was blest with a partner the most bewitching in all Spain, and that _he_ was of the same opinion. She was about seventeen, rather _en bon point_, and middle-sized; large, dark, and languishing eyes; black, glossy ringlets, with a beautifully fair skin; she was dressed in the graceful black costume of her country, and appeared a personification of the Beauty of a Castilian romance; her manners were gentle, and with Captain Gore as her partner, she attracted the admiration of every one present.

Where is the moralist who has looked into the book of nature, and will say that they were culpable in loving each other, although circumstances wholly forbade their union? Let us draw a veil over the weakness of human nature, when opposed by such powerful influences as those which surrounded these young persons. Let us not, with the austerity of mature and experienced wisdom censure, but pity them, circled as they were with a glowing halo of youth and love. They loved—marriage was impossible:—she left her father's house and fled to him, while he vowed to protect her with his life, even unto the end of it. This happened in about three weeks after the ball.

The lady's father at first knew not of the rash step which his daughter had taken, but soon learnt the distressing truth; he became almost frantic, and applied to the authorities for their interference, representing young Gore as a seducer and a heretic. The authorities (a very inferior description of men at that time) immediately ordered a sergeant's guard (Spanish) to accompany the father to the quarters of the captain: they arrived—his apartments were on the first floor—and the soldiers were already in the court-yard below. Gore was informed of the intended purpose, through a Spanish domestic of the house he lived in. His own servant, a brave and determined soldier, hurried to the apartment in which his master was, with his bayonet drawn, and observed that there would be no great difficulty in driving away the “Spanish fellows below,” if necessary. The young lady clung to Captain Gore for protection, and besought him not to give her up; declaring that she would never survive, if he suffered her to be taken away. The soldiers were mounting the stairs—Captain Gore was decided. There was very little ceremony in the affair: he and his servant in a few minutes drove them out of the house, and secured the door with bolts and locks. Few blows were struck by either the Captain or his servant: the success which frequently attends sudden and resolute assaults against superior force, was in this instance manifested; and, considering the opinion which the Spanish soldiery entertained of the British prowess, it is not surprising that the guard was ousted.

The defeated soldiers returned to the authorities and related the failure of their enterprise; they were answered by abuse, and their officer having been sent for, was peremptorily ordered to take his men to Captain Gore's quarters and _force_ the lady away. At the same time he was tauntingly asked whether two Englishmen were equal to a dozen Spaniards.

The guard, under the command of the officer, immediately repaired to the place for the purpose of executing their orders, and demanded admission in the most ferocious manner; but not waiting for reply, the men began to batter the door with their muskets, and apply their shoulders to the panels. The door was too strong for them: they grew still more outrageous, and the officer still more abusive to those within: again they demanded admittance, but this was peremptorily refused by Captain Gore. With the old English maxim in his mind, “_my house is my castle_,” no doubt he believed that he was acting in a justifiable manner; and perhaps he was right in the line of conduct he pursued, because there was a British commandant in the town—and a British officer situated as he was, in the theatre of war, would act with perfect correctness in questioning any authority but that of his own nation:—however, nobody ever suspected the modern Spaniards of good military discipline, or prudence in their actions. As allies, and under a Commander-in-Chief who always listened to the complaints of the Spaniards against his officers or men, the British, in the case of Captain Gore, were treated in a most unwarrantable manner.

The insolent and imprudent officer of the guard was now determined to do all the injury he could, and hearing the voice of Captain Gore inside the door, drew up his men in front of, and close to it; then motioning his orders, which were but too well understood, the whole of the guard fired; the door was not thick enough to resist the bullets, and the unfortunate young man within, fell lifeless in an instant. Would that he had fallen a few weeks before in that battle which defended the rights of Spain, and not thus by the murderous hands of those he defended in that action! He was _not_ a seducer: _this_ his _mistress_ declared over his dead body; and he did not mean to abandon her, as the melancholy catastrophe but too clearly proved.

The young lady was borne almost heart-broken away, and placed within the cheerless walls of a convent many leagues from the scene that was the source of all her love and of all her sorrows.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] These were not, properly speaking, the true Spanish bull-fights, for there was not a convenient place for such an entertainment; but exhibitions much less harmless and more exhilarating. The four gates of the square were shut at twelve o'clock in the day, enclosing a vast concourse of people within an area of about the same extent as one of the smaller squares in London, on each side of which the houses were supported by piazzas. At a given signal, one of seven bulls was let in amongst the people, who fled, of course, at his approach, with the exception of two or three expert men, armed with a small dart and a red cloak; the latter to deceive the animal and cover his eyes, as he fiercely ran at it; while the former was to serve as an irritating instrument against him, in order to increase his fury. When the animal was quite wearied with running after the populace, he was withdrawn, and another bull, fresh and fierce, was let in. Thus they continued until six o'clock; and, considering the nature of the exhibition, it is astonishing that but few received any injury.

[11] Several French prisoners of war (chiefly surgeons) appeared that night in the ball-room, and mingled as cordially with their _enemies_ as if they had been their best friends.

RECOLLECTIONS
OF THE WALCHEREN EXPEDITION.

—— tristesque ex æthere Diræ,
Et scissâ gaudens vadit Discordia palla,
Quam cum sanguineo sequitur Bellona flagello.

_Virgil._

On the 20th of July, 1809, about seven o'clock in the morning, I started from Gracechurch-street on the box of a stage coach, for Deal, where I was to join my regiment (from which I had been six weeks absent), and to proceed with it upon the “_secret_ expedition.” I took with me one good-sized trunk, pretty well stocked, and a cocked-hat case, which contained its proper lodger, one epaulette, two feathers, two black silk handkerchiefs, two pairs of white leather gloves, hat and hair brushes. This case and its contents I lost; and, for the sake of all young officers who may hereafter travel by coach, as well as by way of a hint to stagecoach owners to be more careful, I mention the matter. The articles were left behind in changing coaches at Canterbury, _by mistake_, as Coachee said; but neither personal application at the coach-office, nor epistolary remonstrance with the proprietors, could obtain for me a proper consideration of my _case_, and, like one in Chancery, there it remains.

A more delightful day never shone, and a more bustling time the Deal and Dover road never knew; it was crowded like a fair along the whole of the way. All appeared to have been put into commotion by the “expedition;” and from the number of tars, soldiers, and their never-neglected or forgotten associates, who thronged the road, mounted and otherwise, it may be easily imagined that there was nothing like dulness to be either seen or felt.

I arrived at the Crown Inn at Deal about dusk, where I found some of my brother-officers just set up; for they had returned on shore after having embarked that day. To get a _bed_ was out of the question, either in the house at which I stopped, or any other in the town; for every hole and corner, crack and cranny, was crammed. My friends, consisting of five as jolly _subs_ as ever looked out for a _company_, and myself, sat down in the coffee-room, and there we “kept it up” until three o'clock A.M.; when, stretching ourselves at full length upon the carpet, in company with about two dozen more, we slept until half-past nine o'clock, and arose as refreshed as if we had reposed all night upon a bed of down.

The afternoon of that day I spent in providing those little articles which were pointed out to me as necessary by an old campaigner,—one of Sir John Moore's; and having done this, as well as replaced what I had lost at Canterbury, I went with my companions on board the vessel wherein were our head-quarters,—a transport: here I dined, and felt myself once more at _home_. I really felt it _was_ my home; for I thought then, and think now, that the home of every officer ought to be the place where his regiment is.

We had an excellent mess, and our sea-stock was worthy of the approbation of the Commander-in-Chief himself—every thing was fresh, good, and strong.

We lived on board, expecting every day to sail; but occasionally visited the town, any thing like the bustle of which I never beheld: a most soul-thrilling and interesting scene there presented itself at all hours of the day; myriads of splendid uniforms—military and naval, lovely women, money flying, trade in full motion, faces all smiles, and the weather all beauty,—glasses, cups, and bottles, savoury odours, and harmonious sounds,—every thing alive and on tiptoe with delight! The fine yellow beach stretching along before the houses, within twenty yards of which were its waves foaming brightly, and slowly rolling! the wide and majestic expanse of the Downs literally covered with ships, about which boats were constantly crowding; signals passing through the fleet; the sound of occasional guns; the constant arrival of vessels to join the divisions; the bands of music in the ships and in the boats on the waters!—all made such an impression on the senses, as may not be renewed once in a century.

On the 27th, the _Blue-Peter_ was flying, and next morning, at half past ten o'clock, the signal was made for the sailing of the third division of the fleet, to which our regiment belonged. The anchors were soon weighed, and with a light breeze we set sail from the Downs, for the “unknown land.”

As I had settled all my sentimental matters before I left London, (for which the post is my debtor some odd pounds,) I had nothing to restrain my mind from the enjoyment of the scene before me; and perhaps the thought that I was now quitting those I held dear as life, might have added to the interest with which I contemplated it. The land lessening into blue mist; the ocean expanded to my view, not in a solitary ship, but in the midst of moving cities; hundreds on hundreds of vessels, holding on in the same steady course together, with the warlike crowd visible on the decks of all; when contemplated in the mass, the whole North Sea seemed like a forest! It was a scene sublime and magnificent beyond description.

We had no bad weather; a fine light breeze favoured us during the whole of our voyage; and at night it was not the least delightful of our pleasures, to listen to the glees of the German riflemen who sailed in our division; they were at once harmonious and characteristic, and gave a charm to the scene which kept many a hundred listeners awake. It has often been a matter of annoyance to me, to think that the peasantry of Great Britain alone are the only people in Europe who cannot sing in _harmony_; the lower orders of every other country are qualified to take a part in a glee. Amongst my countrymen, I have heard even an harmonious _second_ condemned as “_not in tune_,” or “_putting the singer out_!” Of late years, however, the nature of harmony has been more comprehended—no doubt, arising from the practice of singing psalms;—if so, this is one good thing that may be set down to the credit of “_the saints_.”

On the 29th we came in sight of the low sandy shores of Zealand, and on the 30th we anchored within about two miles of Campveer, having safely explored a most dangerous gut or branch of the Scheldt, every ship sounding as she proceeded; while “_By the Mark Seven_” was melodiously sung by the crews of the various vessels! A calm and sunny day added much to the effect of the scene.

The troops were now landed, our baggage remaining on board, and General Frazer, under whose command our regiment was, proceeded to attack Campveer. A small battery in our way was abandoned, and the enemy hotly followed to the gates of the town. So sudden was the panic, that Colonel Pack, with his regiment (the 71st), pursued them even beyond the first drawbridge, and was proceeding to attempt to take the town by assault, when two six-pounders were brought to bear by the enemy in front of him, which cleared a lane through our men, killing eighteen and wounding twenty-six: among the former were an ensign and an assistant-surgeon. The latter's head was completely blown to atoms. It has been thought by many, that the French left the drawbridge down on purpose to lead their assailants into a trap; and this opinion is strengthened by the trickery which is well known to prevail throughout the French mode of warfare. Colonel Pack very narrowly escaped being taken prisoner; in fact, he may be said to _have_ been a prisoner, for a few moments after his regiment retired in confusion: he escaped, however, by cutting down the French soldier who took him.

Campveer is an inconsiderable fortress, and was then garrisoned with not more than 400 men; therefore it could not have been supposed to stand long against such a force as we were capable of bringing before it. The fact was soon proved: one day's cannonade and bombardment from our gunboats silenced their batteries, and the garrison capitulated.

The damage done to the town was not very considerable; there were, however, some lamentable proofs of the power of shot and shell left upon the walls, windows, and roofs of the houses. Few people had remained in the town on our approach, therefore few if any of the inhabitants' lives were lost, and only a very few of the French were either killed or wounded. They sunk one of our best and most destructive gun boats by a shot from the batteries, but otherwise they did very little injury to our naval force.

The main body of the army immediately advanced on Middleburg, the capital of the island, about four miles from Campveer; but although this city is fortified, it could not be held by the enemy, in consequence of the impossibility of their gaining supplies from Flushing, which was at the other extremity of the island, and opened upon the broad Scheldt. The latter was therefore considered a more secure and tenable fortification. For this reason, the French forces moved on from Middleburg, along the high road, closely pursued by our troops, but fighting every yard of the way, taking special care never to wait for the points of our lads' bayonets, which were within a very critical distance of their _rear_. The French, in thus retreating, would run for about two hundred yards; then rapidly rally and deliberately wait until the “_crabs_,” as they called us, were close enough; then would they give us a volley—not, however, without our hearty return of the compliment; when they would immediately scamper off through open files of their own men, who were ready to form up and pour in their shot, while the others were in turn retreating, forming, and loading. This plan was very effectual; for the French in the pursuit lost scarcely any men, while we had a church and a large house full of wounded, besides several killed. In this way were the enemy followed up and driven into the very gates of Flushing: and such was the panic which seized the garrison of that town, that the 14th and the 82nd regiments, it is supposed, had they attempted it, would have carried the place by assault. They drove their bayonets against the walls of the fortress, yet retired without the loss of a single man, although close under the range of the heavy guns from the ramparts.