Literature on the Age of Napoleon Website



Digital Napoleonic Fiction & Drama

Stories of Waterloo;
and Other Tales.

by

William Hamilton Maxwell


London: Henry Colburn & Richard Bentley
1829

Vol. 1.

———



Chapter 4

The Route.



WHEN the captain-commandant of the garrison of Woodford retired from the mess-table, the worthy president, Doctor Mac Splint, and the other gentlemen of the sword, evinced no intention of imitating the example. Their curiosity was unsatisfied, but that was no reason why their thirst should be left in a similar predicament. Accordingly the chairman's mandate for uncorking a fresh cooper was received without a dissentient voice; and Phil Boyle, the master of the revels, being summoned to the presence, orders for the immediate preparation of a broiled bone were issued, as also for the production of "mountain dew," it being deemed a proper concomitant for the same.

  After exchanging his dress, which bore marks of the evening fray, Kennedy sought the prison of the outlaw. His orders had been strictly obeyed, and Dwyer comfortably lodged inside the guard-room. On opening the door, the wanderer was discovered lying on the bed undressed, buried in profound repose. Without disturbing him, Kennedy left the guard-house, and knowing from past experience that going to bed for the purpose of sleeping would be perfectly useless, with Doctor Mac Splint president, and Captain Mac Carthy his guest, he determined to join the revellers and resume his seat at the table.

  Short as his absence had been, the worthy group he had deserted appeared not to have been unemployed. The reeling eye of the croupier, and the drunken wisdom concentrated in the chairman's look, fully attested that the last cooper had done its duty. One of the party alone appeared unshaken. The elder dragoon sat as steadily in his chair as if the dinner had been just removed, and seemed a man on whose intellects wine could make no ravages. His was a splendid-looking figure; strength and symmetry were there combined, and when some years younger, his face must have been strikingly handsome. He had yet scarcely reached the middle age, but dissipation more than time bespoke his "wild youth passed." The hair once black as a raven's wing, was slightly grizzled, and the healthy hue of manhood had given place to the deeper flush of constant and severe debauches. Mac Carthy possessed all that makes a soldier the idol of a regiment and a mess—boundless good-humour, inexhaustible anecdote, and a fine voice, united to considerable musical acquirements; his courage was proverbial, his honour chivalrous, and yet he was at the same time loved and dreaded. The life of society, the arbiter on every point of disputed honour, "courted and caressed" by all. The anxious mother warned her boy against the effect of his example, and more than one cautious parent declined a cornetcy in the Enniskillen Dragoons, fearing that Maurice Mac Carthy would lead his unschooled boy into late hours and military dissipation.

  It was said that this wild soldier had his moments of thought and melancholy. Under a plea of indisposition, at times he shut himself up and retired from society; but no physician was admitted, no friend called in; and as this self-seclusion was annually repeated, many strange and vague conjectures were afloat as to the probable cause of this singular custom. Attempts, originating in curiosity and attachment, had been made by his companions to solve the mystery which involved their comrade's conduct:—the former had been fiercely and rudely repulsed—the latter firmly but decidedly rejected; and as the dragoon was no man to trifle with, none presumed to urge the point farther.

  Mac Carthy appeared now to have reached that "sweet hour i' th' night" when care and the world are forgotten. If ever Melancholy had "marked him for her own," she left no trace of her stern hand on his bold and joyous face; and obeying the call of his companions to sing, he finished his bumper of claret, and with a sweet and powerful voice chanted the following martial ditty: —


THE CAPTAIN'S SONG.
Comrade wake! The sun is high — Hurrah! my boys , the world's before us; The charger stamps, our banners fly, While woman's tears to stay implore us. Hark! 'tis the signal gun resounding — March! Each bosom's wildly bounding, The drum is struck, the bugle's sounding Hurrah!—a soldier's life for me.
CHORUS.
Hurrah! — a soldier's life for me. Comrade, why that pensive eye? Hurrah! my boys, the world's before us; Why for one woman waste a sigh, When more are waiting to adore us? The soldier's breast should own no care, Light be his range from fair to fair! Does Chloris frown? Pshaw — leave her there. Hurray!—a soldier's life for me.
CHORUS.
Hurrah! — a soldier's life for me. Leaves will fall and soldiers too — Hurrah! my boys, the world's before us; Why then of death make much ado, When beauty's streaming eyes deplore us? List! — 'tis the battle's rising cry — List! — 'tis the cheer of victory — Come, glorious hour! Who fears to die? Hurray! — a soldier's life for me.
CHORUS.
Hurrah! — a soldier's life for me.

  The bold dragoon ceased amid the plaudits of his companions as Kennedy came forward. The grilled and devilled bones were quickly despatched, and the glasses again and again replenished. There was a general anxiety manifested to hear from the captain of grenadiers a narrative of the night's adventures; and, to the horror of Mac Splint, and the astonishment of all, he detailed the particulars of his perilous excursion to the mountain lough.

  "Frank!" cried the dragoon with mock gravity, as he concluded his story, "thou wilt be a great man yet, and may even attain the rank of major-general. What! after escaping being pinked at Badajoz—and being blown up tonight, in company of Johnny Gibbons and the red distiller! Thy life's a charmed one; but where is the honest gentleman who saved you in the nick of time?"

  "Fast asleep, poor fellow!—sound as a watchman. He seems to feel his present security. 'Tis many a long day, I suppose, since he rested without dreaming of gyves and gibbets."

  "An' God guide us all!—Kennedy, boy," said Mac Splint, "what will ye do with this wild cretur? ye'll surely not let him out upon the world?"

  "No, my dear fellow, certainly not. I have struck out, I think, a good plan for him already: he can be profitable to himself, and useful to the community."

  "An' what's that, Francie, boy?"

  "Make him hospital sergeant," rejoined Kennedy, with perfect gravity. "I found out, Duncan, in our walk home, that in his youth he had mixed boluses for an apothecary in Loughva. You want an assistant; I heard you say so this morning."

  "Put him in my hospital!—ha! ha! Gad, if I vexed him, he wouldna stop to brain me with my ain spatula. Na, Francie: the fellow's tall enough: tak him to yerself, man: he'll match your squad well. Since we've recruited in Ireland, if I'm not in dread walkin my own wards! Sich a set of deevils and desperados!—why, I shake like an aspen when I'm called to examine a recruit:—all rapparees and ribbon-men, through other!"

  "Why, thou slanderous Skeyman! thou true descendant of Celtic robber and northern pirate! how durst you libel 'the land that gave Patrick his birth?' and five of his progeny present! Hallo, Maurice! what does he deserve?"

  "Hanging, at least!" roared the dragoon.

  "Oh! Hang him, certainly," hiccupped the vice-president, awaking from a sound sleep.

  "Hang him, certainly!" shouted the lieutenant of light infantry, springing from the chair, and seizing a sash from the wall. In vain Mac Splint, who often suffered from the mad pranks of his drunken comrades, remonstrated. The loop was already over his neck, and Mac Carthy was selecting a peg for the suspension, when a noise was heard in the street: the centinel's challenge was answered; the guard turned out, and the gate was unbarred.

  "Stop!" said Kennedy. "Who the deuce is come?"

  "'Tis a horseman," said Mansell.

  "One of our own," cried Mac Carthy, looking from the window.

  The dragoon has now dismounted, and ushered in by the sergeant of the guard, advanced, and delivered his dispatch to "the officer commanding at Woodford."

  Kennedy broke the seal.—"The route, by Heaven!"

  "The route!" was responded by all:—"where? where?"

  "Here is a note for you, Maurice."

  "Hurrah! orders for readiness for us too!" exclaimed the dragoon. "This looks like business. Mansell, send for your servant. I must be off to head-quarters: get your squad ready; you'll be called in to-morrow."

  "Won't you stay till morning, Maurice?"

  "Is it not morning already, boy?" replied the dragoon. "A cool ride of three hours at cock-crow, is just the thing after a warm night, Ned. Kennedy, you'll march through Old Bridge, and you all dine with us, of course. Execution is respited for the present on Duncan; but we'll finish it there."

  "Ay; and so you may if ye catch me. Na, na, Mac: ye'll not send me home agen on a door, carried by sax dragoons, and the bugles blowin' afore me."

  "But," said the dragoon, "does not Napoleon deserve to be canonised? Here we might have remained till doom'sday, and not 'le petit caporal,' as the French fellows call him, given his watch the slip from Elba, and taken off our embargo. Hurrah!—service for ever!"

  "Via! Rouse thee, man," roared the captain of grenadiers. "Out with a couple of corks. Boyle, fresh glasses. Come, lads, a round to the old trade.—Service for ever! and damn still-hunting!"

  Again the revelry was renewed: "fast and furious" the drinking recommenced. Mansell fell off his chair, and was carried to bed. Mac Splint staggered out with apparent difficulty, muttering his intention of "takin an hoor's sleep before he would move the hospital." "The lads," as he called the lieutenants, crawled off after him, endeavouring, with the assistance of their servants, to find their way to their rooms; while Mac Carthy, having given orders to have his horse brought to the door in an hour, sat down with Kennedy tête-à-tête.

  "By the way, Frank, what's to be done with the mountain man you were so kind as to introduce to us last night?"

  "By Jove, Maurice, this route puzzles me; I hardly know what to do with him. I am ignorant of his crimes, or what cause it might be, which sent him wandering through the hills."

  "What, suppose we send for him?"

  "With all my heart. Duncan is gone, and we can now hear his story without risking the loss of our accomplished doctor, through fear and terror. Ring; the bell is at your elbow."

  The sergeant of the guard being sent for, was directed to bring in the prisoner; and in a few minutes returned, accompanied by the peasant. The large coat which had concealed him was laid aside, and a fine, handsome young man presented himself. His countenance was open and intelligent; his figure tall, and admirably proportioned; and his whole appearance bespoke him to be above the common description of the Irish peasantry.

  "Dwyer," said Kennedy, addressing him, when the sergeant had left the room, "we have unexpectedly got the route, and march in a day or two, when relieved by the veterans. I am anxious to discharge my debt to you;—how can I best do it?"

  The peasant bowed gratefully.

  "If I knew the particulars of your story," resumed Kennedy, "I might probably be more serviceable; but if there is any thing connected with your case which it may be imprudent to make public, conceal it; for I only generally inquire to find the way which I can befriend you."

  Dwyer was silent for a time. "Captain Kennedy," said he, at length, "there is no act of my humble life for which I have cause to be ashamed. My fate has been as unfortunate, as my birth lowly. If the detail of events connected with a peasant's life would not tire you, and the other gentleman, I would tell you my humble history, as truly as if I knelt at the confessional."

  While the soldiers, struck with the stranger's manner, listened with attention, the latter thus commenced.


To the Next Chapter of
Stories of Waterloo


Return to the Menu


Copyright © 2000-2005 P.A. Teter
Terms of use of this web site