Book: Handy Andy, Vol. 2

S >> Samuel Lover >> Handy Andy, Vol. 2




"That was very original certainly," said the Squire.

"But did you ever hear of his adventure with the Duke of Wellington?" said
the doctor.

"The Duke!" they all exclaimed.

"Yes--that is, when he was only Sir Arthur Wellesley. Well, I'll tell
you."

"Stop," said the Squire, "a fresh story requires a fresh bottle. Let me
ring for some claret."




CHAPTER XXXII


The servant who brought in the claret announced at the same time the
arrival of a fresh guest in the person of "Captain Moriarty," who was
welcomed by most of the party by the name of Randal. The Squire regretted
he was too late for dinner, inquiring at the same time if he would like to
have something to eat at the side-table; but Randal declined the offer,
assuring the Squire he had got some refreshment during the day while he
had been out shooting; but as the sport led, him near Merryvale, and "he
had a great thirst upon him," he did not know a better house in the
country wherein to have "that same" satisfied.

"Then you're just in time for some cool claret," said the Squire; "so sit
down beside the doctor, for he must have the first glass and broach the
bottle, before he broaches the story he's going to tell us--that's only
fair."

The doctor filled his glass, and tasted. "What a nice _'chateau,'
'Margaux'_ must be," said he, as he laid down his glass. "I should like
to be a tenant-at-will there, at a small rent."

"And no taxes," said Dick.

"Except my duty to the claret," replied the doctor.

'My favourite chateau,
Is that of Margaux.'

"By-the-bye, talking of _chateau_, there's the big brewer over at the
town, who is anxious to affect gentility, and he heard some one use the
word _chapeau_, and having found out it was the French for _hat_,
he determined to show off on the earliest possible occasion, and selected
a public meeting of some sort to display his accomplishment. Taking some
cause of objection to the proceedings, as an excuse for leaving the
meeting, he said, 'Gentlemen, the fact is I can't agree with you, so I may
as well take my _chateau_ under my arm at once, and walk.'"

[Illustration: Tom Organ Loftus and the Duke]

"Is not that an invention of your own, doctor?" said the Squire.

"I heard it for fact," said Growling.

"And 't is true," added Murphy, "for I was present when he said it. And at
an earlier part of the proceedings he suggested that the parish clerk
should read the resolutions, because he had a good '_laudable_
voice.'"

"A parish clerk ought to have," said the doctor--"eh, Father Phil?--
'_Laudamus!_'"

"Leave your Latin," said Dick, "and tell us that story you promised about
the Duke and Tom Loftus."

"Right, Misther Dick," said Father Phil.

"The story, doctor," said the Squire.

"Oh, don't make such bones about it," said Growling; "'tis but a trifle
after all; only it shows you what a queer and reckless rascal Tom is. I
told you he was called '_Organ_' Loftus by his friends, in
consequence of the imitation he makes of that instrument; and it certainly
is worth hearing and seeing, for your eyes have as much to do with the
affair as your ears. Tom plants himself on a high office-stool, before one
of those lofty desks with long rows of drawers down each side and a hole
between to put your legs under. Well, sir, Tom pulls out the top drawers,
like the stops of an organ, and the lower ones by way of pedals: and then
he begins thrashing the desk like the finger-board of an organ with his
hands, while his feet kick away at the lower drawers as if he were the
greatest pedal performer out of Germany, and he emits a rapid succession
of grunts and squeaks, producing a ludicrous reminiscence of the
instrument, which I defy any one to hear without laughing. Several sows
and an indefinite number of sucking pigs could not make a greater noise,
and Tom himself declares he studied the instrument in a pigsty, which he
maintains gave the first notion of an organ. Well, sir, the youths in the
office assist in 'doing the service,' as they call it, that is, making an
imitation of the chanting and so forth in St. Patrick's Cathedral."

"Oh, the haythens!" said Father Phil.

"One does Spray, and another Weyman, and another Sir John Stevenson, and
so on; and they go on responsing and singing 'Amen' till the Ordnance
Office rings again."

"Have they nothing better to do?" asked the Squire.

"Very little but reading the papers," said the doctor.

"Well--Tom--you must know, sir--was transferred some time ago, by the
interest of many influential friends, to the London department; and the
fame of his musical powers had gone before him from some of the English
clerks in Ireland who had been advanced to the higher posts in Dublin, and
kept up correspondence with their old friends in London; and it was not
long until Tom was requested to go through an anthem on the great office-
desk. Tom was only too glad to be asked, and he kept the whole office in a
roar for an hour with all the varieties of the instrument--from the
diapason to the flute-stop--and the devil a more business was done in the
office _that_ day, and Tom before long made the sober English fellows
as great idlers as the chaps in Dublin. Well--it was not long until a
sudden flush of business came upon the department, in consequence of the
urgent preparations making for supplies to Spain, at the time the Duke was
going there to take the command of the army, and organ-playing was set
aside for some days; but the fellows, after a week's abstinence, began to
yearn for it and Tom was requested to 'do the service.' Tom, nothing
loath, threw aside his official papers, set up a big ledger before him,
and commenced his legerdemain, as he called it, pulled out his stops, and
began to work away like a weaver, while every now and then he swore at the
bellows-blower for not giving him wind enough, whereupon the choristers
would kick the bellows-blower to accelerate his flatulency. Well, sir,
they were in the middle of the service, and all the blackguards making the
responses in due season, when, just as Tom was quivering under a
portentous grunt, which might have shamed the principal diapason of
Harlaem, and the subs were drawing out a resplendent 'A-a-a-men,' the door
opened, and in walked a smart-looking gentleman, with rather a large nose
and quick eye, which latter glanced round the office, where a sudden
endeavour was made by everybody to get back to his place. The smart
gentleman seemed rather surprised to see a little fat man blowing at a
desk instead of the fire, and long Tom kicking, grunting, and squealing
like mad. The bellows-blower was so taken by surprise he couldn't stir,
and Tom, having his back to them, did not see what had taken place, and
went on as if nothing had happened, till the smart gentleman went up to
him, and tapping on Tom's desk with a little riding-whip, he said, 'I'm
sorry to disturb you, sir, but I wish to know what you're about.' 'We're
doing the service, sir,' said Tom, no ways abashed at the sight of the
stranger, for he did not know it was Sir Arthur Wellesley was talking to
him. 'Not the _public_ service, sir,' said Sir Arthur. 'Yes, sir,'
said Tom, 'the service as by law established in the second year of the
reign of King Edward the Sixth,' and he favoured the future hero of
Waterloo with a touch of the organ. 'Who is the head of this office?'
inquired Sir Arthur. Tom, with a very gracious bow, replied, 'I am
principal organist, sir, and allow me to introduce you to the principal
bellows-blower'--and he pointed to the poor little man who let the
bellows fall from his hand as Sir Arthur fixed his eyes on him. Tom
did not perceive till now that all the clerks were taken with a sudden fit
of industry, and were writing away for the bare life; and he cast a look
of surprise round the office while Sir Arthur was looking at the bellows-
blower. One of the clerks made a wry face at Tom, which showed him all was
not right. 'Is this the way His Majesty's service generally goes on here?'
said Sir Arthur, sharply. No one answered; but Tom saw, by the long faces
of the clerks and the short question of the visitor, that he was
_somebody_.

"'Some transports are waiting for ordnance stores, and I am referred to
this office,' said Sir Arthur; 'can any one give me a satisfactory
answer?'

"The senior clerk present (for the head of the office was absent) came
forward and said, 'I believe, sir----'

"'You _believe_, but you don't _know_,' said Sir Arthur; 'so I
must wait for stores while you are playing tomfoolery here. I'll report
this.' Then producing a little tablet and a pencil, he turned to Tom and
said, 'Favour me with your name, sir?'

"'I give you my honour, sir,' said Tom.

"'I'd rather you'd give me the stores, sir,--I'll trouble you for your
name?'

"'Upon my honour, sir,' said Tom, again.

"'You seem to have a great deal of that article on your hands, sir,' said
Sir Arthur: 'you're an Irishman, I suppose?'

"'Yes, sir,' said Tom.

"'I thought so. Your name?'

"'Loftus, sir.'

"'Ely family?'

"'No, sir.'

"'Glad of it.'

"He put up his tablet after writing the name.

"'May I beg the favour to know, sir,' said Tom, 'to whom I have the honour
of addressing myself?' "'Sir Arthur Wellesley, sir.'

"'Oh! J---s!' cried Tom, 'I'm done!'

"Sir Arthur could not help laughing at the extraordinary change in Tom's
countenance; and Tom, taking advantage of this relaxation in his iron
manner, said in a most penitent tone, 'Oh, Sir Arthur Wellesley, only
forgive me this time, and 'pon my _sowl_ says he--with the richest
brogue--'I'll play a _Te Deum_ for the first licking you give the
French.' Sir Arthur smiled and left the office."

"Did he report as he threatened?" asked the Squire.

"'Faith, he did."

"And Tom?" inquired Dick.

"Was sent back to Ireland, sir."

"That was hard, after the Duke smiled at him," said Murphy.

"Well, he did not let him suffer in pocket; he was transferred at as a
good a salary to a less important department, but you know the Duke has
been celebrated all his life for never overlooking a breach of duty."

"And who can blame him?" said Moriarty.

"One great advantage of the practice has been," said the Squire, "that no
man has been better served. I remember hearing a striking instance of
what, perhaps, might be called severe justice, which he exercised on a
young and distinguished officer of artillery in Spain; and though one
cannot help pitying the case of the gallant young fellow who was the
sacrifice, yet the question of strict duty, _to the very word_, was
set at rest for ever under the Duke's command, and it saved much
_after_-trouble by making every officer satisfied, however fiery his
courage or tender his sense of being suspected of the white feather, that
implicit obedience was the course he _must_ pursue. The case was
this:--the army was going into action----" "What action was it?" inquired
Father Phil, with that remarkable alacrity which men of peace evince in
hearing the fullest particulars about war, perhaps because it is forbidden
to their cloth; one of the many instances of things acquiring a fictitious
value by being interdicted--just as Father Phil himself might have been a
Protestant only for the penal laws.

"I don't know what action it was," said the Squire, "nor the officer's
name--for I don't set up for a military chronicler; but it was, as I have
been telling you, going into action that the Duke posted an officer, with
his six guns, at a certain point, telling him to remain there until he had
orders from _him_. Away went the rest of the army, and the officer
was left doing nothing at all, which he didn't like; for he was one of
those high-blooded gentlemen who are never so happy as when they are
making other people miserable, and he was longing for the head of a French
column to be hammering away at. In half an hour or so he heard the distant
sound of action, and it approached nearer and nearer, until he heard it
close behind him; and he wondered rather that he was not invited to take a
share in it, when, pat to his thought, up came an _aide-de-camp_ at full
speed, telling him that General Somebody ordered him to bring up his guns.
The officer asked did not the order come from Lord Wellington? The
_aide-de-camp_ said no, but from the General, whoever he was. The officer
explained that he was placed there by Lord Wellington, under command not
to move, unless by _an order from himself_. The _aide-de-camp_ stated
that the General's entire brigade was being driven in and must be
annihilated without the aid of the guns, and asked, 'would he let a whole
brigade be slaughtered?' in a tone which wounded the young soldier's pride,
savouring, as he thought it did, of an imputation on his courage.
He immediately ordered his guns to move and joined battle with the General;
but while he was away, an _aide-de-camp_ from Lord Wellington rode up to
where the guns _had been posted,_ and, of course, no gun was to be had for
the service which Lord Wellington required. Well, the French were repulsed,
as it happened; but the want of those six guns seriously marred a
preconcerted movement of the Duke's, and the officer in command of them was
immediately brought to a court-martial, and would have lost his commission
but for the universal interest made in his favour by the general officers
in consideration of his former meritorious conduct and distinguished
gallantry, and under the peculiar circumstances of the case. They did not
break him, but he was suspended, and Lord Wellington sent him home to
England. Almost every general officer in the army endeavoured to get his
sentence revoked, lamenting the fate of a gallant fellow being sent away
for a slight error in judgment while the army was in hot action but
Lord Wellington was inexorable saying he must make an example to secure
himself in the perfect obedience of officers to their orders; and it had
the effect."

"Well, that's what I call hard!" said Dick.

"My dear Dick," said the Squire, "war is altogether a hard thing, and a
man has no business to be a General who isn't as hard as his own round
shot."

"And what became of the _dear_ young man?" said Father Phil, who
seemed much touched by the readiness with which the _dear_ young man
set off to mow down the French.

"I can tell you," said Moriarty, "for I served with him afterwards in the
Peninsula. He was let back after a year or so, and became so thorough a
disciplinarian, that he swore, when once he was at his post 'They might
kill _his father_ before his face and he wouldn't budge until he had
orders.'"

"A most Christian resolution," said the doctor.

"Well, I can tell you," said Moriarty, "of a Frenchman, who made a greater
breach of discipline, and it was treated more leniently. I heard the story
from the man's own lips, and if I could only give you his voice and
gesture and manner it would amuse you. What fellows those Frenchmen are,
to be sure, for telling a story! they make a shrug or a wink have twenty
different meanings, and their claws are most eloquent--one might say they
talk on their fingers--and their broken English, I think, helps them."

"Then give the story, Randal, in his manner," said Dick. "I have heard you
imitate a Frenchman capitally."

"Well, here goes," said Moriarty "but let me wet my whistle with a glass
of claret before I begin--a French story should have French wine." Randal
tossed off one glass, and filled a second by way of reserve, and then
began the French officer's story.

"You see, sare, it vos ven in _Espagne_ de bivouac vos vairy ard
indeet 'pon us, vor we coot naut get into de town at all, nevair, becos
you dam Ingelish keep all de town to yoursefs--vor we fall back at dat
time becos we get not support--no _corps de reserve_, you perceive--
so ve mek _retrograde_ movement--not _retreat_--no, no--but
_retrograde_ movement. Vell--von night I was wit my picket guart, and
it was raining like de devil, and de vind vos vinding up de valley, so
cold as noting at all, and de dark vos vot you could not see--no--not your
nose bevore your face. Vell, I hear de tramp of horse, and I look into de
dark--for ve vere vairy moche on the _qui vive_, because ve expec de
Ingelish to attaque de next day--but I see noting; but de tramp of horse
come closer and closer, and at last I ask, 'Who is dere?' and de tramp of
de horse stop. I run forward, and den I see Ingelish offisair of
cavallerie. I address him, and tell him he is in our lines, but I do not
vant to mek him prisonair--for you must know dat he _vos_ prisonair,
if I like, ven he vos vithin our line. He is very polite--he says,
'_Bien oblige--bon enfant_;' and we tek off our hat to each
ozer. 'I aff lost my roat,' he say; and I say, 'Yais'--bote I vill
put him into his roat, and so I ask for a moment pardon, and go back
to my _caporal_, and tell him to be on de _qui vive_ till I come back.
De Ingelish offisair and me talk very plaisant vile we go togezer down de
leetel roat, and ven we come to de turn, I say, '_Bon soir_, Monsieur le
Capitaine--dat is your vay.' He den tank me, vera moche like gentilman,
and vish he coot mek me some return for my generosite, as he please to say
--and I say, '_Bah!_ Ingelish gentilman vood do de same to French offisair
who lose his vay.' 'Den come here,' he say, '_bon enfant_, can you leave
your post for 'aff an hour?' 'Leave my post?' I say. 'Yais,' said he, 'I
know your army has not moche provision lately, and maybe you are ongrie?'
'_Ma foi_, yais,' said I; 'I aff naut slips to my eyes, nor meat to my
stomach, for more dan fife days.' 'Veil, _bon enfant_,' he say, 'come vis
me, and I vill gif you good supper, goot vine, and goot velcome.' 'Coot I
leave my post?' I say. He say, '_Bah! Caporal_ take care till you come
back.' By gar, I coot naut resist--_he_ vos so _vairy_ moche gentilman and
_I_ vos so ongrie--I go vis him--not fife hunder yarts--_ah! bon Dieu_
--how nice! In de corner of a leetel ruin chapel dere is nice bit
of fire, and hang on a string before it de half of a kid--_oh ciel!_
de smell of de _ros-bif_ was so nice--I rub my hands to de fire--I
sniff de _cuisine_--I see in anozer corner a couple bottles of wine--
_sacre_! it vos all watair in my mouts! Ve sit down to suppair--I nevair
did ate so moche in my life. Ve did finish de bones, and vosh down
all mid ver good wine--_excellent!_ Ve drink de toast--_a la gloire_--
and we talk of de campaign. Ve drink _a la Patrie_, and den _I_ tink of
_la belle France_ and _ma douce amie_--and _he_ fissel, 'Got safe de king.'
Ve den drink _a l'amitie_, and shek hands over dat fire in good frainship
--dem two hands that might cross de swords in de morning. Yais, sair,
dat was fine--'t was _galliard_--'t was _la vrai chivalrie_--two sojair
ennemi to share de same kid, drink de same wine, and talk like two
friends. Vell, I got den so sleepy, dat my eyes go blink, blink, and my
goot friend says to me, 'Sleep, old fellow; I know you aff got hard fare
of late, and you are tired; sleep, all is quiet for to-night, and I will
call you before dawn.' Sair, I vos _so_ tired, I forgot my duty, and fall
down fast asleep. Veil, sair, in de night de pickets of de two armie get
so close, and mix up, dat some shot gets fired, and in one moment all in
confusion. I am shake by de shoulder--I wake like from dream--I heard
sharp _fusillade_--my friend cry, 'Fly to your post, it is attack!' We
exchange one shek of de hand, and I run off to my post. _Oh, ciel!_--it is
driven in--I see dem fly. _Oh, mon desespoir a ce moment-la!_ I am ruin--
_deshonore_--I rush to de front--I rally _mes braves_--ve stand!--ve
advance!!--ve regain de post!!!--I am safe!!!! De _fusillade_ cease--it is
only an affair of outposts. I tink I am safe--I tink I am very fine fellow
--but Monsieur _l'Aide-Major_ send for me and speak, 'Vere vos you last
night, sair?' 'I mount guard by de mill.' 'Are you sure?' '_Oui,
monsieur._' 'Vere vos you when your post vos attack?' I saw it vos no use
to deny any longair, so I confess to him everyting. 'Sair,' said he, 'you
rally your men very good, _or you should be shot!_ Young man, remember,'
said he--I will never forget his vorts--'young man, _vine is goot--slip is
goot--goat is goot--but honners is betters!'"_

"A capital story, Randal," cried Dick; "but how much of it did you
invent?"

"'Pon my life, it is as near the original as possible."

"Besides, that is not a fair way of using a story," said the doctor. "You
should take a story as you get it, and not play the dissector upon it,
mangling its poor body to discover the bit of embellishment; and as long
as a _raconteur_ maintains _vraisemblance_, I contend you are
bound to receive the whole as true."

"A most author-like creed, doctor," said Dick; "you are a story-teller
yourself, and enter upon the defence of your craft with great spirit."

"And justice, too," said the Squire; "the doctor is quite right."

"Don't suppose I can't see the little touches of the artist," said the
doctor; "but so long as they are in keeping with the picture, I enjoy
them; for instance, my friend Randal's touch of the Englishman
'_fissling Got safe de King'_ is very happy--quite in character."

"Well, good or bad, the story in substance is true," said Randal, "and
puts the Englishman in a fine point of view--a generous fellow, sharing
his supper with his enemy whose sword may be through his body in the next
morning's 'affair.'"

"But the Frenchman was generous to him first," remarked the Squire.

"Certainly--I admit it," said Randal. "In short, they were both fine
fellows."

"Oh, sir," said Father Phil, "the French are not deficient in a chivalrous
spirit. I heard once a very pretty little bit of anecdote about the way
they behaved to one of our regiments on a retreat in Spain."

"_Your_ regiments!" said Moriarty, who was rather fond of hitting
hard at a priest when he could; "a regiment of friars is it?"

"No, captain, but of soldiers; and it's going through a river they were,
and the French, taking advantage of their helpless condition, were
peppering away at them hard and fast."

"Very generous indeed!" said Moriarty, laughing.

"Let me finish my story, captain, before you quiz it. I say they were
peppering them sorely while they were crossing the river, until some
women--the followers of the camp--ran down (poor creatures) to the shore,
and the stream was so deep in the middle they could scarcely ford it; so
some dragoons who were galloping as hard as they could out of the fire
pulled up on seeing the condition of the women-kind, and each horseman
took up a woman behind him, though it diminished his own power of speeding
from the danger. The moment the French saw this act of manly courtesy,
they ceased firing, gave the dragoons a cheer, and as long as the women
were within gunshot, not a trigger was pulled in the French line, but
volleys of cheers instead of ball-cartridge was sent after the brigade
till all the women were over. Now wasn't that generous?"

"'T was a handsome thing!" was the universal remark.

"And 'faith I can tell you, Captain Moriarty, the army took advantage of
it; for there was a great struggle to have the pleasure of the ladies'
company over the river."

"I dare say, Father Phil," said the Squire, laughing.

"Throth, Squire," said the _padre_, "fond of the girls as the
soldiers have the reputation of being, they never liked them better than
that same day."

"Yes, yes," said Moriarty, a little piqued, for he rather affected the
"dare-devil,"

"I see you mean to insinuate that we soldiers fear fire."

"I did not say 'fear,' captain--but they'd like to get out of it, for all
that, and small blame to them--aren't they flesh and blood like
ourselves?"

"Not a bit like you," said Moriarty. "You sleek and smooth gentlemen who
live in luxurious peace know little of a soldier's danger or feelings."

"Captain, we all have our dangers to go through; and may be a priest has
as many as a soldier; and we only show a difference of taste, after all,
in the selection."

"Well, Father Blake, all I know is, that a true soldier fears nothing!"
said Moriarty with energy.

"Maybe so," answered Father Phil, quietly. "It is quite clear, however,"
said Murphy, "that war, with all its horrors, can call out occasionally
the finer feelings of our natures; but it is only such redeeming traits as
those we have heard which can reconcile us to it. I remember having heard
an incident of war, myself, which affected me much," said Murphy, who
caught the infection of military anecdote which circled the table; and
indeed there is no more catching theme can be started among men, for it
may be remarked that whenever it is broached it flows on until it is
rather more than time to go to the ladies.

"It was in the earlier portion of the memorable day of Waterloo," said
Murphy, "that a young officer of the Guards received a wound which brought
him to the ground. His companions rushed on to seize some point which
their desperate valour was called on to carry, and he was left, utterly
unable to rise, for the wound was in his foot. He lay for some hours with
the thunder of that terrible day ringing around him, and many a rush of
horse and foot had passed close beside him. Towards the close of the day
he saw one of the Black Brunswick dragoons approaching, who drew rein as
his eye caught the young Guardsman, pale and almost fainting, on the
ground. He alighted, and finding he was not mortally wounded, assisted him
to rise, lifted him into his saddle, and helped to support him there while
he walked beside him to the English rear. The Brunswicker was an old man;
his brow and moustache were grey; despair was in his sunken eye, and from
time to time he looked up with an expression of the deepest yearning into
the face of the young soldier, who saw big tears rolling down the
veteran's cheek while he gazed upon him. 'You seem in bitter sorrow, my
kind friend,' said the stripling. 'No wonder,' answered the old man, with
a hollow groan. 'I and my three boys were in the same regiment--they were
alive the morning of Ligny--I am childless to-day. But I have revenged
them!' he said fiercely, and as he spoke he held out his sword, which
was literally red with blood. 'But, oh! that will not bring me back
my boys!' he exclaimed, relapsing into his sorrow. 'My three gallant
boys!'--and again he wept bitterly, till clearing his eyes from the tears,
and looking up in the young soldier's handsome face, he said tenderly,
'You are like my youngest one, and I could not let you lie on the field.'"

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