Charles O'Malley, The Irish Dragoon Volume Ii Part 31

"Oh, no; nothing of consequence. A most absurd blunder of my rascally servant."

"The Irish fellow yonder?"

"The same."

"He seems to take it easily, however."

"Oh, confound him! he does not know what trouble he has involved me in; not that he'll care much when he does."

"Why, he does not seem to be of a very desponding temperament. Listen to the fellow! I'll be hanged, if he's not singing!"

"I'm devilishly disposed to spoil his mirth. They tell me, however, he always keeps the troop in good humor; and see, the fellows are actually cleaning his horses for him, while he is sitting on the bank!"

"Faith, O'Malley, that fellow knows the world. Just hear him."

Mr. Free was, as described, most leisurely reposing on a bank, a mug of something drinkable beside him, and a pipe of that curtailed proportion which an Irishman loves held daintily between his fingers. He appeared to be giving his directions to some soldiers of the troop, who were busily cleaning his horses and accoutrements for him.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MR. FREE PIPES WHILE HIS FRIENDS PIPE-CLAY.]

"That's it, Jim! Rub 'em down along the hocks; he won't kick; it's only play. Scrub away, honey; that's the devil's own carbine to get clean."

"Well, I say, Mr. Free, are you going to give us that ere song?"

"Yes. I'll be danged if I burnish your sabre, if you don't sing."

"Tear an' ages! ain't I composing it? Av I was Tommy Moore, I couldn't be quicker."

"Well, come along, my hearty; let's hear it."

"Oh, murther!" said Mike, draining the pot to its last few drops, which he poured pathetically upon the gra.s.s before him; and then having emptied the ashes from his pipe, he heaved a deep sigh, as though to say life had no pleasures in store for him. A brief pause followed, after which, to the evident delight of his expectant audience, he began the following song, to the popular air of "Paddy O'Carroll":--

BAD LUCK TO THIS MARCHING.

Air,--_Paddy O'Carroll_.

Bad luck to this marching, Pipe-claying, and starching, How neat one must be to be killed by the French, I'm sick of parading, Through wet and cowld wading, Or standing all night to be shot in a trench.

To the tune of a fife They dispose of your life, You surrender your soul to some illigant lilt; Now, I like Garryowen, When I hear it at home, But it's not half so sweet when you're going to be kilt.

Then, though up late and early, Our pay comes so rarely, The devil a farthing we've ever to spare; They say some disaster Befell the paymaster; On my conscience, I think that the money's not there.

And just think what a blunder, They won't let us plunder, While the convents invite us to rob them, 'tis clear; Though there isn't a village, But cries, "Come and pillage,"

Yet we leave all the mutton behind for Mounseer.

Like a sailor that's nigh land, I long for that island Where even the kisses we steal if we please; Where it is no disgrace If you don't wash your face, And you've nothing to do but to stand at your ease.

With no sergeant t'abuse us, We fight to amuse us; Sure, it's better bate Christians than kick a baboon.

How I'd dance like a fairy To see ould Dunleary, And think twice ere I'd leave it to be a dragoon!

"There's a sweet little bit for you," said Mike, as he concluded; "thrown off as aisy as a game at football."

"I say, Mr. Free, the captain's looking for you; he's just received despatches from the camp, and wants his horses."

"In that case, gentlemen, I must take my leave of you; with the more regret, too, that I was thinking of treating you to a supper this evening.

You needn't be laughing; it's in earnest I am. Coming, sir, coming!"

shouted he, in a louder tone, answering some imaginary call, as an excuse for his exit.

When he appeared before me, an air of most business-like alacrity had succeeded to his late appearance, and having taken my orders to get the horses in readiness, he left me at once, and in less than half an hour we were upon the road.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

MONSOON IN TROUBLE.

As I rode along towards Fuentes d'Onoro, I could not help feeling provoked at the absurd circ.u.mstances in which I was involved. To be made the subject of laughter for a whole army was by no means a pleasant consideration; but what I felt far worse was the possibility that the mention of my name in connection with a reprimand might reach the ears of those who knew nothing of the cause.

Mr. Free himself seemed little under the influence of similar feelings; for when, after a silence of a couple of hours, I turned suddenly towards him with a half-angry look, and remarked, "You see, sir, what your confounded blundering has done," his cool reply was,--

"Ah, then! won't Mrs. M'Gra be frightened out of her life when she reads all about the killed and wounded in your honor's report? I wonder if they ever had the manners to send my own letter afterwards, when they found out their mistake!"

"_Their_ mistake, do you say? rather _yours!_ You appear to have a happy knack of shifting blame from your own shoulders. And do you fancy that they've nothing else to do than to trouble their heads about your absurd letters?"

"Faith, it's easily seen you never saw my letter, or you wouldn't be saying that. And sure, it's not much trouble it would give Colonel Fitzroy or any o' the staff that write a good hand just to put in a line to Mrs. M'Gra, to prevent her feeling alarmed about that murthering paper. Well, well; it's G.o.d's blessing! I don't think there's anybody of the name of Mickey Free high up in the army but myself; so that the family won't be going into mourning for me on a false alarm."

I had not patience to partic.i.p.ate in this view of the case; so that I continued my journey without speaking. We had jogged along for some time after dark, when the distant twinkle of the-watch-fires announced our approach to the camp. A detachment of the Fourteenth formed the advanced post, and from the officer in command I learned that Power was quartered at a small mill about half a mile distant; thither I accordingly turned my steps, but finding that the path which led abruptly down to it was broken and cut up in many places, I sent Mike back with the horses, and continued my way alone on foot.

The night was deliciously calm; and as I approached the little rustic mill, I could not help feeling struck with Power's taste in a billet.

A little vine-clad cottage, built close against a rock, nearly concealed by the dense foliage around it, stood beside a clear rivulet whose eddying current supplied water to the mill, and rose in a dew-like spray which sparkled like gems in the pale moonlight. All was still within, but as I came nearer I thought I could detect the chords of a guitar. "Can it be,"

thought I, "that Master Fred has given himself up to minstrelsy; or is it some little dress rehearsal for a serenade? But no," thought I, "that certainly is not Power's voice." I crept stealthily down the little path, and approached the window; the lattice lay open, and as the curtain waved to and fro with the night air, I could see plainly all who were in the room.

Close beside the window sat a large, dark-featured Spaniard, his hands crossed upon his bosom and his head inclined heavily forward, the att.i.tude perfectly denoting deep sleep, even had not his cigar, which remained pa.s.sively between his lips, ceased to give forth its blue smoke wreath. At a little distance from him sat a young girl, who, even by the uncertain light, I could perceive was possessed of all that delicacy of form and gracefulness of carriage which characterize her nation.

Her pale features--paler still from the contrast with her jet black hair and dark costume--were lit up with an expression of animation and enthusiasm as her fingers swept rapidly and boldly across the strings of a guitar.

"And you're not tired of it yet?" said she, bending her head downwards towards one whom I now for the first time perceived.

Reclining carelessly at her feet, his arm leaning upon her chair, while his hand occasionally touched her taper fingers, lay my good friend, Master Fred Power. An undress jacket, thrown loosely open, and a black neck-cloth, negligently knotted, bespoke the easy _nonchalance_ with which he prosecuted his courtship.

"Do sing it again?" said he, pressing her fingers to his lips.

What she replied, I could not catch; but Fred resumed: "No, no; he never wakes. The infernal clatter of that mill is his lullaby."

"But your friend will be here soon," said she. "Is it not so?"

"Oh, poor Charley! I'd almost forgotten him. By-the-bye, you mustn't fall in love with him. There now, do not look angry; I only meant that, as I knew he'd be desperately smitten, you shouldn't let him fancy he got any encouragement."