Charles O'Malley, The Irish Dragoon Volume I Part 39

"'Devil's luck to ye, it's the gla.s.ses you'll be breaking with your awkward elbow!'

"'Then, why don't ye leave the way? Ain't I your suparior?'

"'Ain't I the captain's own man?'

"'Ay, and if you war. Don't I belong to his betters? Isn't my master the two liftenants?'

"This, strange as it may sound, was so far true, as I held a commission in an African corps, with my lieutenancy in the 5th.

"'Be-gorra, av he was six--There now, you done it!'

"At the same moment, a tremendous crash took place and the large dish fell in a thousand pieces on the pavement, while the spiced round rolled pensively down the yard.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE RIVAL FLUNKIES.]

"Scarcely was the noise heard when, with one vigorous kick, the tray of gla.s.ses was sent spinning into the air, and the next moment the disputants were engaged in b.l.o.o.d.y battle. It was at this moment that our attention was first drawn towards them, and I need not say with what feelings of interest we looked on.

"'Hit him, Pat--there, Jem, under the guard! That's it--go in! Well done, left hand! By Jove! that was a facer! His eye's closed--he's down! Not a bit of it-how do you like that? Unfair, unfair! No such thing! I say it was! Not at all--I deny it!'

"By this time we had approached the combatants, each man patting his own fellow on the back, and encouraging him by the most lavish promises. Now it was, but in what way I never could exactly tell, that I threw out my right hand to stop a blow that I saw coming rather too near me, when, by some unhappy mischance, my doubled fist lighted upon Tom O'Reilly's nose. Before I could express my sincere regret for the accident, the blow was returned with double force, and the next moment we were at it harder than the others. After five minutes' sharp work, we both stopped for breath, and incontinently burst out a-laughing. There was Tom, with a nose as large as three, a huge cheek on one side, and the whole head swinging round like a harlequin's; while I, with one eye closed, and the other like a half-shut c.o.c.kle-sh.e.l.l, looked scarcely less rueful. We had not much time for mirth, for at the same instant a sharp, full voice called out close beside us--

"To your quarters, sirs. I put you both under arrest, from which you are not to be released until the sentence of a court-martial decide if conduct such as this becomes officers and gentlemen.'

"I looked round, and saw the old fellow in the queue.

"'Wolfe Tone, by all that's unlucky!' said I, with an attempt at a smile.

"'The rector of Tyrrell's Pa.s.s,' cried out Tom, with a snuffle; 'the worst preacher in Ireland--eh, Fred?'

"We had not much time for further commentaries upon our friend, for he at once opened his frock coat, and displayed to our horrified gaze the uniform of a general officer.

"'Yes, sir, General Johnson, if you will allow me to present him to your acquaintance; and now, guard, turn out.'

"In a few minutes more the orders were issued, and poor Tom and myself found ourselves fast confined to our quarters, with a sentinel at the door, and the pleasant prospect that, in the s.p.a.ce of about ten days, we should be broke, and dismissed the service; which verdict, as the general order would say, the commander of the forces has been graciously pleased to approve.

"However, when morning came the old general, who was really a trump, inquired a little further into the matter, saw it was partly accidental, and after a severe reprimand, and a caution about Loughrea whiskey after the sixth tumbler, released us from arrest, and forgave the whole affair."

CHAPTER x.x.xI.

THE VOYAGE CONTINUED.

Ugh, what a miserable thing is a voyage! Here we are now eight days at sea, the eternal sameness of all around growing every hour less supportable.

Sea and sky are beautiful things when seen from the dark woods and waving meadows on sh.o.r.e; but their picturesque effect is sadly marred from want of contrast. Besides that, the "_toujours_ pork," with crystals of salt as long as your wife's fingers; the potatoes that seemed varnished in French polish; the tea seasoned with geological specimens from the basin of London, ycleped maple sugar; and the b.u.t.ter--ye G.o.ds, the b.u.t.ter! But why enumerate these smaller features of discomfort and omit the more glaring ones?--the utter selfishness which blue water suggests, as inevitably as the cold fit follows the ague. The good fellow that shares his knapsack or his last guinea on land, here forages out the best corner to hang his hammock; jockeys you into a comfortless crib, where the uncalked deck-b.u.t.t filters every rain from heaven on your head; votes you the corner at dinner, not only that he may place you with your back to the thorough-draught of the gangway ladder, but that he may eat, drink, and lie down before you have even begun to feel the qualmishness that the dinner of a troop-ship is well calculated to suggest; cuts his pencil with your best razor; wears your shirts, as washing is scarce; and winds up all by having a good story of you every evening for the edification of the other "sharp gentlemen," who, being too wide awake to be humbugged themselves, enjoy his success prodigiously. This, gentle reader, is neither confession nor avowal of mine. The pa.s.sage I have here presented to you I have taken from the journal of my brother officer, Mr. Sparks, who, when not otherwise occupied, usually employed his time in committing to paper his thoughts upon men, manners, and things at sea in general; though, sooth to say, his was not an idle life. Being voted by unanimous consent "a junior," he was condemned to offices that the veriest f.a.g in Eton or Harrow had rebelled against. In the morning, under the pseudonym of _Mrs_. Sparks, he presided at breakfast, having previously made tea, coffee, and chocolate for the whole cabin, besides boiling about twenty eggs at various degrees of hardness; he was under heavy recognizances to provide a plate of b.u.t.tered toast of very alarming magnitude, fried ham, kidneys, etc., to no end.

Later on, when others sauntered about the deck, vainly endeavoring to fix their attention upon a novel or a review, the poor cornet might be seen with a white ap.r.o.n tucked gracefully round his spare proportions, whipping eggs for pancakes, or, with upturned shirt-sleeves, fashioning dough for a pudding. As the day waned, the cook's galley became his haunt, where, exposed to a roasting fire, he inspected the details of a _cuisine_; for which, whatever his demerits, he was sure of an ample remuneration in abuse at dinner. Then came the dinner itself, that dread ordeal, where nothing was praised and everything censured. This was followed by the punch-making, where the tastes of six different and differing individuals were to be exclusively consulted in the self-same beverage; and lastly, the supper at night, when Sparkie, as he was familiarly called, towards evening grown quite exhausted, became the subject of unmitigated wrath and most unmeasured reprobation.

"I say, Sparks, it's getting late. The spatch-c.o.c.k, old boy. Don't be slumbering."

"By-the-bye, Sparkie, what a mess you made of that pea-soup to-day! By Jove, I never felt so ill in my life!"

"Na, na; it was na the soup. It was something he pit in the punch, that's burning me ever since I tuk it. Ou, man, but ye're an awfu' creture wi'

vittals!"

"He'll improve, Doctor; he'll improve. Don't discourage him; the boy's young. Be alive now, there. Where's the toast?--confound you, where's the toast?"

"There, Sparks, you like a drumstick, I know. Mustn't muzzle the ox, eh?

Scripture for you, old boy. Eat away; hang the expense. Hand him over the jug. Empty--eh, Charley? Come, Sparkie, bear a hand; the liquor's out."

"But won't you let me eat?"

"Eat! Heavens, what a fellow for eating! By George, such an appet.i.te is clean against the articles of war! Come, man, it's drink we're thinking of.

There's the rum, sugar, limes; see to the hot water. Well, Skipper, how are we getting on?"

"Lying our course; eight knots off the log. Pa.s.s the rum. Why, Mister Sparks!"

"Eh, Sparks, what's this?"

"Sparks, my man, confound it!"

And then, _omnes_ chorussing "Sparks!" in every key of the gamut, the luckless fellow would be obliged to jump up from his meagre fare and set to work at a fresh brewage of punch for the others. The bowl and the gla.s.ses filled, by some little management on Power's part our friend the cornet would be _drawn out_, as the phrase is, into some confession of his early years, which seemed to have been exclusively spent in love-making,--devotion to the fair being as integral a portion of his character as tippling was of the worthy major's.

Like most men who pa.s.s their lives in over-studious efforts to please,--however ungallant the confession be,--the amiable Sparks had had little success. His love, if not, as it generally happened, totally unrequited, was invariably the source of some awkward catastrophe, there being no imaginable error he had not at some time or other fallen into, nor any conceivable mischance to which he had not been exposed. Inconsolable widows, attached wives, fond mothers, newly-married brides, engaged young ladies were by some _contretemps_ continually the subject of his attachments; and the least mishap which followed the avowal of his pa.s.sion was to be heartily laughed at and obliged to leave the neighborhood.

Duels, apologies, actions at law, compensations, etc., were of every-day occurrence, and to such an extent, too, that any man blessed with a smaller b.u.mp upon the occiput would eventually have long since abandoned the pursuit, and taken to some less expensive pleasure. But poor Sparks, in the true spirit of a martyr, only gloried the more, the more he suffered; and like the worthy man who continued to purchase tickets in the lottery for thirty years, with nothing but a succession of blanks, he ever imagined that Fortune was only trying his patience, and had some cool forty thousand pounds of happiness waiting his perseverance in the end. Whether this prize ever did turn up in the course of years, I am unable to say; but certainly, up to the period of his history I now speak of, all had been as gloomy and unrequiting as need be. Power, who knew something of every man's adventures, was aware of so much of poor Sparks's career, and usually contrived to lay a trap for a confession that generally served to amuse us during an evening,--as much, I acknowledge, from the manner of the recital as anything contained in the story. There was a species of serious matter-of-fact simplicity in his detail of the most ridiculous scenes that left you convinced that his bearing upon the affair in question must have greatly heightened the absurdity,--nothing, however comic or droll in itself, ever exciting in him the least approach to a smile. He sat with his large light-blue eyes, light hair, long upper lip, and retreating chin, lisping out an account of an adventure, with a look of Listen about him that was inconceivably amusing.

"Come, Sparks," said Power, "I claim a promise you made me the other night, on condition we let you off making the oyster-patties at ten o'clock; you can't forget what I mean." Here the captain knowingly touched the tip of his ear, at which signal the cornet colored slightly, and drank off his wine in a hurried, confused way. "He promised to tell us, Major, how he lost the tip of his left ear. I have myself heard hints of the circ.u.mstance, but would much rather hear Sparks's own version of it."

"Another love story," said the doctor, with a grin, "I'll be bound."

"Shot off in a duel?" said I, inquiringly. "Close work, too."

"No such thing," replied Power; "but Sparks will enlighten you. It is, without exception, the most touching and beautiful thing I ever heard. As a simple story, it beats the 'Vicar of Wakefield' to sticks."

"You don't say so?" said poor Sparks, blushing.

"Ay, that I do; and maintain it, too. I'd rather be the hero of that little adventure, and be able to recount it as you do,--for, mark me, that's no small part of the effect,--than I'd be full colonel of the regiment. Well, I am sure I always thought it affecting. But, somehow, my dear friend, you don't know your powers; you have that within you would make the fortune of half the periodicals going. Ask Monsoon or O'Malley there if I did not say so at breakfast, when you were grilling the old hen,--which, by-the-bye, let me remark, was not one of your _chefs-d'oeuvre_."

"A tougher beastie I never put a tooth in."

"But the story, the story," said I.

"Yes," said Power, with a tone of command, "the story, Sparks."

"Well, if you really think it worth telling, as I have always felt it a very remarkable incident, here goes."