Chapter III

Soldiers! go plant a branch by his tomb,
From the wreath which to you he gave,
And high may it grow, and spread, and bloom,
And long may it over him wave!
Oh, yes, it will bloom when past are ye,
And age shall not number its years,
For the smiles of your orphans shall sun the tree,
And your widows shall wet it with tears.

[_The warmest applause followed this song, while the
countenances of all the listeners glowed with the
indescribable sensations which the union of the
sentiment with fine voice and melody produced. The
harmony was well executed, and Mr. Steel's admirable
taste gave great effect to the whole._]

_Col. Shell._ The last lines, I presume, allude to the Duke's patronage of the Orphan School at Chelsea.

_Ensign Steel._ Yes, Sir.

_Major Mc Rocket._ An' a lasting monument it is, Colonel.

_Col. Shell._ Yet this, great as it is, is only a part of the good he has done to the army.

_Capt. Killdragon._ I, as an individual, can bear testimony of his paternal kindness. You all know I was cashiered on account of that cowardly dragoon, who first insulted me (then a mere boy), and afterwards refused to give satisfaction. I applied to the Duke, and presented the memorial myself. When the Aid-de-camp bowed me in, “ENSIGN KILLDRAGON,” my heart was in my mouth—I didn't know whether I was on my head or my heels; but when I saw the fine, smiling, good-natured GENTLEMAN, standing with his back to the fire, as careless as if he had been only a head clerk, I was relieved from my fears. I gave the paper into his own hands, and he, in the kindest manner, told me he would read the proceedings of the court martial, desiring me to call on the following levee-day. I did: he _had_ read the proceedings, and asked me several questions relating to the matter. At length he said, “You shall have an answer.” I withdrew, delighted with the affability of the Royal Duke, at the same time doubtful of success; “but,” thought I, “if I am refused, it will be like a gentleman.” I got a letter in four days after, informing me that I was reinstated. 'Faith! I drank a bottle to the Duke's health that night, and now I'll drink another to his memory.

_Col. Shell._ This is only one in thousands of instances. Whenever he _could_ grant a request, consistent with his duty, he did so.

_Major Mc Rocket._ The Duke o' Wellington has noo got the command, an' I have nae doobt that he'll gi'e us a' satisfaction. The army is a wee bit afraid o' him, because he is sic a disciplinarian, but in my opinion that's a' for the better; an' I'll wager ony mon in England a dozen o' claret, that the Duke will be as gude an officer at the heed o' the army as he was afore. Ye see he hasn't changed a single man in the office; but has already done a gude thing for the country, in uniting the Ordnance Department to his ain.

_Capt. Ball._ There is none like him; he is a good soldier, a prudent general, and a kind man. He was strict and severe while in the Peninsula, but he could have done nothing had he not been so; not only his own private interests, but his country's hopes and glory, depended upon his success. Gentlemen, I'll give you “The Duke of Wellington and the Army.”

[_This toast was drunk standing, and with “three times three,”
and the band played “Rule Britannia” in the finest style._]

_Capt. Killdragon._ By Gad! Wellington is the boy that made _work_-men of us at any rate.

_Major Mc Rocket._ Yir nae far oot there, Killdragon; an' if we tak the field again, I hope he'll gang wi' us.

_Major Swordly._ Mr. President, the paymaster on your right there, is neglecting his _accounts_ very much:—bring him to _book_, and send the decanter this way.

_Mr. Cashly._ Don't fear, Major; I'll take a _receipt in full now:—à votre santé_.

_Major Swordly._ Mr. Quartermaster Sharp, you should keep to the _allowance_,—come, fill!

_Mr. Sharp._ I assure you, Major, I like a _full ration_.

_Dr. Slaughtery._ So do we all; and if we go out again, Sharp, my boy, we'll keep you to your word.

_Mr. Sharp._ I don't care how soon this may happen; another campaign would do the regiment no harm, particularly as regards these young subalterns here.

_Ensign Steel._ Heaven grant we may have another breeze!

_Major Mc Rocket._ Tak care, mun; it may come a bit too soon.

_Ensign Steel._ No, Major, not a minute too soon. I don't like home service; give me the field. I wish I had it in my power to volunteer to-night for the storming of a breach at daybreak.

_Capt. Ball._ You might have too much of that too, my boy; like young O'Connel, a lad of about eighteen—your own age. He volunteered on the storming-party at Badajoz, for his ensigncy in the 59th, and escaped; he then volunteered on the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo, and there also escaped,—got his Lieutenancy. Again, at the storming of St. Sebastian he _would_ volunteer, against the advice of all his brother officers. God knows! to have stormed twice as he had done, was enough for any _one_, but he was determined, and like a hero mounted the breach.

_Capt. Killdragon._ I saw him that day almost at the head of the column, smiling with as much confidence as if he thought the balls knew him and would run away from him.

_Capt. Ball._ Poor lad! he was made a riddle of. I counted sixteen ball-wounds in his body.

_Capt. Killdragon._ Rashness is very often the bane of courage. There was a countryman of mine at Badajoz, a young Ensign; he, with the men, was ordered to lie down, so as to conceal themselves from the view of the batteries on the ramparts. The young fellow was rash enough to put up the colours which he carried, in order (as he says himself) that it might receive a ball or two, and thus afford evidence of his danger. The consequence was, that a tremendous shower of cannon-ball was directed to the spot where the fool-hardy Ensign was: one struck him on the hip, and carried away the whole of the fleshy part of the thigh: then a musket-ball hit him in the breast. The rashness of this officer is greatly to be regretted, for many men fell beside him, from the fire in which he himself was mutilated. He is still alive, and on the half-pay of the Queen's Germans. I saw him in town a few weeks ago.

_Col. Shell._ This was not true courage, but hair-brained folly. Mr. Steel, I'll give you an instance of steady bravery:—When Colonel Higgins was a cornet (I think in the 18th), and in Holland, the Duke of Cambridge wished to send a despatch to a certain point, the way to which was cannonaded heavily by grape-shot. His Royal Highness asked, if there was any dragoon officer near him who would volunteer for the duty? Young Higgins immediately presented himself—he took the despatch—gallopped off: the Duke could see him from where he stood, the whole of the distance. When about half way, and in the thick of the fire, Higgins dropped his helmet: he coolly pulled up his horse, alighted, put his helmet upon his head, mounted again, and continued his course. The young officer returned through the same danger safely, and his Royal Highness was so pleased with his steady courage, that he appointed him to his personal staff, and he is his Royal Highness's private secretary at this day.

_Ensign Steel._ That I think, certainly, of different character from the conduct of the Ensign, although both might be equally brave. What regiment did Mr. O'Connel belong to, Captain Ball?

_Capt. Ball._ The 59th.

_Major Swordly._ That regiment had a vast deal to do on the last campaign in Spain.

_Capt. Killdragon._ It behaved nobly at Vittoria, although a great part of it were very young soldiers. At a little village on the left of the town, the French made a most desperate effort to prevent our troops crossing the little river. (I was Brigade Major at the time, and so could see those things.) They had two field-pieces planted close to the bridge, which was not wide enough to permit two carts to pass abreast, and their infantry defended this pass for a long time. The men were butting each other in a dense mass on the bridge, after they had been tired of the bayonet; and caps, and muskets, and bodies were heaved over the sides into the stream, till they almost choked the arches beneath. The 59th came up to the bridge, after a repulse, commanded by Colonels Fane and Weare, and the fire upon them was thick and destructive—grape and musketry. The _young_ fellows began to dip their heads and straggle, when Colonel Weare rode back to them, and cried out,—“_59th! for shame, for shame!_” This was like magic; the men dashed on steadily, but at the instant he received a ball in the spine. Colonel Fane, who headed the battalion, now rode up to Colonel Weare; and perceiving his state, shook hands with him, and then gave directions for his removal: there was not an instant to lose—the men were advancing like lions to the bridge—“_God bless you, Weare!_” was all that the Colonel had time to say, and he then rode on with the regiment; but in the next minute he received a shot himself in the groin, and was obliged to leave the men to themselves. They did their duty, and carried the bridge. Poor Fane was dead before his friend Weare, with whom he shook hands, in the belief that he would not be an hour alive. Both died of their wounds in a few days, and I attended both their funerals in the town of Vittoria. A finer picture of a hero in death, than the naked body of Weare on his cold bed was, no man ever beheld—noble fellow! A letter just arrived at the regiment the day after he died, to say that his wife and family had landed at Lisbon with the view of joining him: sad was the answer to that letter!... Colonel Fane was the brother of General Fane, you know, and a finer or more gallant fellow never fought. Both these leaders were buried in a _yard behind the Hospital_, while a French General was, at the same time, entombed _within the walls of the principal Church_; but this was because the Frenchman was a _Roman Christian_, and the others _English Christians_. It grieved me to see it; and never did I feel the folly and absurdity of such religious differences so forcibly as on that melancholy occasion. The Spanish priests regretted (and sincerely too) that they had it not in their power to honour the remains of their _allies_ as they, from Christian charity, did the remains of their _enemy_.

_Col. Shell._ I knew both Fane and Weare well, and better officers could not be.

_Ensign Young._ Captain Killdragon, was it Colonel Fane's horse that gallopped into the enemy's ranks, as you were telling us the other evening?

_Capt. Killdragon._ No, no. That was at the battle of Salamanca. It occurred with the 5th Dragoon Guards.

_Mr. Cashly._ What was that? I was in the brigade at the time.

_Capt. Killdragon._ The horse that lost his rider, and—

_Mr. Cashly._ Oh! yes, yes, yes. I know.

_Major Swordly._ Let us hear it.

_Capt. Killdragon._ When the regiment charged the French on the plain, one of the men was thrown off his horse: the animal dashed into the enemy's lines, and after the regiment to which he belonged had retired from the charge, he was seen scampering about amongst the French infantry, kicking and frolicking. The 5th was ordered to renew the charge, which they did; and as they were approaching the enemy, the horse in question gallopped over to them, regularly fell into the ranks, as if a dragoon had been upon his back: he continued in rank during the operation of the charge, and returned in line with his troop, to the astonishment of his rider, and the admiration of all who saw him.

_Mr. Cashly._ It is a fact, I know it to be so.

_Capt. Ball._ Mess-waiter, look to the decanters!—gentlemen, I have a proposal to make: we cannot be more harmonious than we are; but by way of diversifying our happiness, suppose Killdragon favours us with his “_British Bayoneteers_.” It will bring back the recollections of the “_work_” as he calls it.

[_All now warmly called on Captain Killdragon, who was not
a man that required much pressing; so, having filled his
glass and put on a regular corporal countenance, he sang
the following song, in a fine bold voice, and all the Mess
joined in merry chorus_:—

THE BRITISH BAYONETEERS.