Chapter XXVI: Conclusion

Little now remains for me to add. My tale of war and its attendant dangers and enjoyments in this part of the world is told; and I have nothing left to notice except a few of the most prominent of the adventures which befell between the period of my quitting one scene of hostile operations and my arrival at another. These are soon narrated.

Early on the morning of the 28th of April 1814, the whole of the Allied troops encamped about Bayonne drew up, in various lines, to witness the hoisting of the white flag upon the ramparts of that city. The standards of Britain, Spain, Portugal, and of the Bourbons, already waved together from the summit of every eminence in our camp. Up to this date, however, the tricolor still kept its place upon the flagstaff of the citadel; to-day it was to be torn down, and the "drapeau-blanc" substituted in its room. To us, no doubt, the spectacle promised to be one of triumph and rejoicing; for we thought of the gigantic efforts of our country, which alone, of all the nations in Europe, had uniformly refused to acknowledge the sovereignty of the usurper; but by the French it was very differently regarded. Even among the country people not a spark of enthusiasm could be traced; whilst by the garrison no secret was made of their abhorrence of the new state of things, and their undiminished attachment to their former master. But there was no help for it. "La fortune de la guerre," said a French officer to me one day, as we talked of these matters; but he shrugged his shoulders as he spoke, and gave no proof that he was satisfied with its results.

We had stood in our ranks about an hour, dressed in our best attire, and having our muskets loaded with powder only, when a signal-gun was fired from one of the batteries of the town, and a magnificent tricolored flag, which had hitherto waved proudly in the breeze, was gradually lowered. For perhaps half a minute the flagstaff stood bare; and then a small white standard, dirty, and, if my eyes deceived me not, a little torn, was run up. Immediately the guns from every quarter of the city fired a salute. By such of our people as kept guard at the outposts that day, it was asserted that each gun was crammed with sand and mud, as if this turbulent garrison had been resolved to insult, as far as they could, an authority to which they submitted only because they were compelled to do so. On our parts the salute was answered with a _feu-de-joie_ from all the infantry, artillery, and gunboats; and then a hearty shout being raised, we filed back to our respective stations and dismissed the parade.

From this date till the general breaking up of the camp, nothing like friendly or familiar intercourse took place between us and our former enemies. We were suffered, indeed, by two at a time, to enter the city with passports; and some half-dozen French officers would occasionally wander down to Boucaut and mingle in the crowd which filled its market-place. But they came with no kindly intention. On the contrary, all our advances were met with haughtiness; and it seemed as if they were anxious to bring on numerous private quarrels, now that the quarrel between the countries was at an end. Nor were these always refused them. More duels were fought than the world in general knows anything about; and vast numbers were prevented only by a positive prohibition on the part of the two generals, and a declaration that whoever violated the order should be placed in arrest and tried by court-martial.

We were still in our camp by the Adour, when various bodies of Spanish troops passed through on their return from Toulouse to their own country. Than some of those battalions I have never beheld a finer body of men; indeed, many of them were as well clothed, armed, and appointed as any battalions in the world. But they were, one and all, miserably officered. Their inferior officers, in particular, seemed to be mean and ungentlemanly in their appearance; and they possessed little or no authority over their men. Yet they were full of boasting, and gave themselves on all occasions as many absurd airs as if their valour had delivered Spain and dethroned Napoleon.

Like my companions, I embraced every opportunity that was afforded of visiting Bayonne, and examining the nature of its works. Of the town itself I need say no more than that it was as clean and regularly built as a fortified place can well be, where the utmost is to be made of a straitened boundary; and houses obtain in altitude what may be wanting in the extent of their fronts. Neither is it necessary that I should enter into a minute description of the defences, sufficient notice having been taken of them elsewhere. But of the inhabitants I cannot avoid remarking that I found them uncivil and unfriendly in the extreme, as if they took their tone from the troops in garrison, and were nowise thankful that events had preserved them from the horrors of an assault.

Our visits to the town, which were not very frequent, inasmuch as they generally subjected us to insult from a brutal garrison, we varied with other and more agreeable occupations. The trout began to stir in the Adour, and the fishing-rods of such as came provided with tackle of the sort were brought into play. A race-course was marked out on the sands, near the river's mouth, and the speed of our horses, we ourselves riding, was tried with excellent effect. We established balls in the village, whereat the bands of the different regiments performed; and ladies of all ranks--from the towns and villages near--favoured us with their company. But never could we thaw the ice that seemed to have gathered round the hearts of the French officers. They embraced every opportunity of bringing on personal quarrels, and, as I have already hinted, though reluctant to accede to the matter at the outset, we came by degrees to see the necessity of indulging them; and I am inclined to think that they sometimes got enough of it.

Such was the general tenor of my life from the 20th of April till the 8th of May. On the latter day the regiment struck its tents, and marched one day's journey to the rear, where it remained in quiet till the arrival of the order which sent it first to the neighbourhood of Bourdeaux, and afterwards to North America.

* * * * *

Thus ends the narrative of the adventures of a single year in the life of a subaltern officer. Whatever may be thought of it by the public, it has not been compiled without considerable satisfaction by the narrator; for the year referred to is one on which he now looks back, and probably shall ever look back, with the melancholy satisfaction which accompanies a retrospect of happiness gone by. If ever there existed an enthusiastic lover of the profession of arms, I believe that I was one. But the times were unfavourable; and he must live for very little purpose who knows not that enthusiasm of any kind rarely survives our youth. I loved my profession as long as it gave full occupation to my bodily and mental powers; but the peace came, and I loved it no longer. Perhaps, indeed, the kind of feeling which I had taught myself to encourage was not such as, in the present state of society, any prudent person is justified in encouraging; for I care not to conceal that the brightest hopes of my boyhood have all faded, and that manhood has produced none capable of taking their place. The friend who shared with me so many dangers and hardships fell at my side by the hand of an unworthy enemy. The walk of life which I pursued for a while so merrily has been abandoned; my sabre hangs rusty upon the wall; and my poor old faithful dog is gathered to her fathers. She lies under the green sod in a little lawn, on the surface of which she used to stretch her limbs many a day in the noon-tide sun, after age had begun to stiffen them. Well, well, all this is as it ought to be. It is quite right that we should learn the folly of fixing our affections too strongly upon anything in a scene so shifting and uncertain as human life; and I suspect that there are few persons who are not taught that lesson, at least occasionally, long before their prime be past.

Let it not, however, be supposed, that he who thus expresses himself must therefore be discontented with his lot, or that he murmurs against the Providence which has cast it for him. By no means. If in my new mode of existence there be less of excitement and of wild enjoyment than in my old, at least there is more of calm and quiet gratification. Other ties, likewise, are around me, different in kind, indeed, but not less tender than those which time has severed; and if there be nothing in the future calculated to stir up ambitious longing, there is still sufficient to defend against discontent. At all events, I am certain that my present occupations are such as will prove more permanently and vitally beneficial to others than those which preceded them; and let me add, that a man need not be accused of fanaticism who is convinced that to look back upon a life not uselessly spent is the only thing which will bring him peace at the last.

But enough of moralising, when, in the Minstrel's words, I wish to such as have honoured my tale with a perusal--

"To all, to each, a fair good-night,
And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light."

POSTSCRIPT.

Soon after the first appearance of "The Subaltern" in 'Blackwood's Magazine,' there were published, in the same able work, lines to the memory of my faithful dog, which sorrow for the loss of a creature so dear to me had called forth.

They do not appear to myself to be worthy of republication; but as others have thought differently, I cannot refuse to give a place to them in a volume which, indirectly at least, has told how long and how faithfully Juno served me. I therefore subjoin

MY DOG'S EPITAPH.

Sleep on, sleep on, thou gentle one!
Light lie the turf upon thy breast;
Thy toil is o'er, thy race is run--
Sleep on, and take thy rest!
In vain for thee were the 'larum note
Poured from the bugle's brazen throat--
The rolling drum thou heedest not,
Nor noise of signal-gun.
Let charger tramp or warrior tread
Over the place of thy narrow bed,
They will not wake thee from the dead--
Thy mortal strife is done!

Sleep on, sleep on, thou faithful slave!
Unmindful though thy master keep
His vigils by thy nameless grave,
And think of thee and weep;
Not even his voice, beloved of yore,
That stirred thee when the cannon's roar
Hath failed to rouse, shall rouse thee more
Out of thy slumbers deep!
No more for thee his whistle shrill
Shall sound through wood, o'er moor and hill--
Thy cry is mute, thy limbs are still
In everlasting sleep!
Sleep on, sleep on! no morrow's sun
Shall light thee to the battle back;
Thy fight hath closed, thy laurels won,
And this thy bivouac.
On tented field or bloody plain,
For thee the watch-fire flares in vain--
Thou wilt not share its warmth again
With him who loved thee well;
Nor when with toil and danger spent,
He rests beneath the firmament,
Thine eye upon his form be bent,
Thou trusty sentinel!

Sleep on, thou friend and comrade tried,
In battle, broil, and peaceful bower!
Thou hast left for once thy master's side,
But never in danger's hour.
Not thus inactive wert thou laid,
On that night of perilous ambuscade,
When levelled tube and brandished blade
Were at thy master's throat;
Then fierce and forward was thy bound,
And proud thy footstep pressed the ground,
While the tangled greenwood echoed round
With thy loud warning-note.

Sleep on, sleep on! it is not now
The soldier's cloak, a covering meet
For that kind head--no more art thou
Couched at a soldier's feet.
What boots it thee if storms be high,
Or summer breezes fan the sky?
Unheeded both will pass thee by,
They cannot reach thee there;
Hunger and thirst assail thee not--
Peril and pain alike forgot--
Be foul or fair thy master's lot,
That lot thou canst not share.

Then sleep; though gladly would I give
Half of the life preserved by thee,
Couldst thou, once more, my comrade, live
Thy short space o'er with me.
Vain wish, and impotent as vain;
'Tis but a mockery of pain,
To dream that aught may bring again
The spirit that hath flown.
But years steal by, and they who mourn
Another's fate, each in his turn
Shall tread one path, and reach one bourne,--
Then, faithful friend, sleep on!

THE END.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.