THE BIVOUAC.

When I contrasted the gay and lively tone of the conversation which ran on around our bivouac fire, with the dry monotony and prosaic tediousness of my first military dinner at Cork, I felt how much the spirit and adventure of a soldier’s life can impart of chivalrous enthusiasm to even the dullest and least susceptible. I saw even many who under common circumstances, would have possessed no interest nor excited any curiosity, but now, connected as they were with the great events occurring around them, absolutely became heroes; and it was with a strange, wild throbbing of excitement I listened to the details of movements and marches, whose objects I knew not, but in which the magical words, Corunna, Vimeira, were mixed up, and gave to the circumstances an interest of the highest character. How proud, too, I felt to be the companion-in-arms of such fellows! Here they sat, the tried and proved soldiers of a hundred fights, treating me as their brother and their equal. Who need wonder if I felt a sense of excited pleasure? Had I needed such a stimulant, that night beneath the cork-trees had been enough to arouse a passion for the army in my heart, and an irrepressible determination to seek for a soldier’s glory.

“Fourteenth!” called out a voice from the wood behind; and in a moment after, the aide-de-camp appeared with a mounted orderly.

“Colonel Merivale?” said he, touching his cap to the stalwart, soldier-like figure before him.

The colonel bowed.

“Sir Stapleton Cotton desires me to request that at an early hour to-morrow you will occupy the pass, and cover the march of the troops. It is his wish that all the reinforcements should arrive at Oporto by noon. I need scarcely add that we expect to be engaged with the enemy.”

These few words were spoken hurriedly, and again saluting our party, he turned his horse’s head and continued his way towards the rear.

“There’s news for you, Charley,” said Power, slapping me on the shoulder. “Lucy Dashwood or Westminster Abbey!”

“The regiment was never in finer condition, that’s certain,” said the colonel, “and most eager for a brush with the enemy.”

“How your old friend, the count, would have liked this work!” said Hixley. “Gallant fellow he was.”

“Come,” cried Power, “here’s a fresh bowl coming. Let’s drink the ladies, wherever they be; we most of us have some soft spot on that score.”

“Yes,” said the adjutant, singing,—

“And,” sang Power, interrupting,—

“Come, come, Fred, no more quizzing on that score. It’s the only thing ever gives me a distaste to the service,—the souvenir of that adventure. When I reflect what I might have been, and think what I am; when I contrast a Brussels carpet with wet grass, silk hangings with a canvas tent, Sneyd’s claret with ration brandy, and Sir Arthur for a Commander-in-Chief vice Boggs, a widow—”

“Stop there!” cried Hixley. “Without disparaging the fair widow, there’s nothing beats campaigning, after all. Eh, Fred?”

“And to prove it,” said the colonel, “Power will sing us a song.”

Power took his pencil from his pocket, and placing the back of a letter across his shako, commenced inditing his lyric, saying, as he did so, “I’m your man in five minutes. Just fill my glass in the mean time.”

“That fellow beats Dibdin hollow,” whispered the adjutant. “I’ll be hanged if he’ll not knock you off a song like lightning.”

“I understand,” said Hixley, “they have some intention at the Horse Guards of having all the general orders set to popular tunes, and sung at every mess in the service. You’ve heard that, I suppose, Sparks?”

“I confess I had not before.”

“It will certainly come very hard upon the subalterns,” continued Hixley, with much gravity. “They’ll have to brush up their sol mi fas. All the solos are to be their part.”

“What rhymes with slaughter?” said Power.

“Brandy-and-water,” said the adjutant.

“Now, then,” said Power, “are you all ready?”

“Ready.”

“You must chorus, mind; and mark me, take care you give the hip-hip-hurra well, as that’s the whole force of the chant. Take the time from me. Now for it. Air, ‘Garryowen,’ with spirit, but not too quick.

“Gloriously done, Fred!” cried Hixley. “If I ever get my deserts in this world, I’ll make you Laureate to the Forces, with a hogshead of your own native whiskey for every victory of the army.”

“A devilish good chant,” said Merivale, “but the air surpasses anything I ever heard,—thoroughly Irish, I take it.”

“Irish! upon my conscience, I believe you!” shouted O’Shaughnessy, with an energy of voice and manner that created a hearty laugh on all sides. “It’s few people ever mistook it for a Venetian melody. Hand over the punch,—the sherry, I mean. When I was in the Clare militia, we always went in to dinner to ‘Tatter Jack Walsh,’ a sweet air, and had ‘Garryowen’ for a quick-step. Ould M’Manus, when he got the regiment, wanted to change: he said, they were damned vulgar tunes, and wanted to have ‘Rule Britannia,’ or the ‘Hundredth Psalm;’ but we would not stand it; there would have been a mutiny in the corps.”

“The same fellow, wasn’t he, that you told the story of, the other evening, in Lisbon?” said I.

“The same. Well, what a character he was! As pompous and conceited a little fellow as ever you met with; and then, he was so bullied by his wife, he always came down to revenge it on the regiment. She was a fine, showy, vulgar woman, with a most cherishing affection for all the good things in this life, except her husband, whom she certainly held in due contempt. ‘Ye little crayture,’ she’d say to him with a sneer, ‘it ill becomes you to drink and sing, and be making a man of yourself. If you were like O’Shaughnessy there, six foot three in his stockings—‘Well, well, it looks like boasting; but no matter. Here’s her health, anyway.”

“I knew you were tender in that quarter,” said Power, “I heard it when quartered in Limerick.”

“May be you heard, too, how I paid off Mac, when he came down on a visit to that county?”

“Never: let’s hear it now.”

“Ay, O’Shaughnessy, now’s your time; the fire’s a good one, the night fine, and liquor plenty.”

“I’m convanient,” said O’Shaughnessy, as depositing his enormous legs on each side of the burning fagots, and placing a bottle between his knees he began his story:—

“It was a cold rainy night in January, in the year ‘98, I took my place in the Limerick mail, to go down for a few days to the west country. As the waiter of the Hibernian came to the door with a lantern, I just caught a glimpse of the other insides; none of whom were known to me, except Colonel M’Manus, that I met once in a boarding-house in Molcsworth Street. I did not, at the time, think him a very agreeable companion; but when morning broke, and we began to pay our respects to each other in the coach, I leaned over, and said, ‘I hope you’re well, Colonel M’Manus,’ just by way of civility like. He didn’t hear me at first; so that I said it again, a little louder.

“I wish you saw the look he gave me; he drew himself up to the height of his cotton umbrella, put his chin inside his cravat, pursed up his dry, shrivelled lips, and with a voice he meant to be awful, replied:—

“‘You appear to have the advantage of me.’

“‘Upon my conscience, you’re right,’ said I, looking down at myself, and then over at him, at which the other travellers burst out a laughing,—‘I think there’s few will dispute that point.’ When the laugh was over, I resumed,—for I was determined not to let him off so easily. ‘Sure I met you at Mrs. Cayle’s,’ said I; ‘and, by the same token, it was a Friday, I remember it well,—may be you didn’t pitch into the salt cod? I hope it didn’t disagree with you?’

“‘I beg to repeat, sir, that you are under a mistake,’ said he.

“‘May be so, indeed,’ said I. ‘May be you’re not Colonel M’Manus at all; may be you wasn’t in a passion for losing seven-and-sixpence at loo with Mrs. Moriarty; may be you didn’t break the lamp in the hall with your umbrella, pretending you touched it with your head, and wasn’t within three foot of it; may be Counsellor Brady wasn’t going to put you in the box of the Foundling Hospital, if you wouldn’t behave quietly in the streets—’

“Well, with this the others laughed so heartily, that I could not go on; and the next stage the bold colonel got outside with the guard and never came in till we reached Limerick. I’ll never forget his face, as he got down at Swinburne’s Hotel. ‘Good-by, Colonel,’ said I; but he wouldn’t take the least notice of my politeness, but with a frown of utter defiance, he turned on his heel and walked away.

“‘I haven’t done with you yet,’ says I; and, faith, I kept my word.

“I hadn’t gone ten yards down the street, when I met my old friend Darby O’Grady.

“‘Shaugh, my boy,’ says he,—he called me that way for shortness,—‘dine with me to-day at Mosey’s; a green goose and gooseberries; six to a minute.’

“‘Who have you?’ says I.

“‘Tom Keane and the Wallers, a counsellor or two, and one M’Manus, from Dublin.’

“‘The colonel?’

“‘The same,’ said he.

“‘I’m there, Darby!’ said I; ‘but mind, you never saw me before.’

“‘What?’ said he.

“‘You never set eyes on me before; mind that.’

“‘I understand,’ said Darby, with a wink; and we parted.

“I certainly was never very particular about dressing for dinner, but on this day I spent a considerable time at my toilet; and when I looked in my glass at its completion, was well satisfied that I had done myself justice. A waistcoat of brown rabbit-skin with flaps, a red worsted comforter round my neck, an old gray shooting-jacket with a brown patch on the arm, corduroys, and leather gaiters, with a tremendous oak cudgel in my hand, made me a most presentable figure for a dinner party.

“‘Will I do, Darby?’ says I, as he came into my room before dinner.

“‘If it’s for robbing the mail you are,’ says he, ‘nothing could be better. Your father wouldn’t know you!’

“‘Would I be the better of a wig?’

“‘Leave your hair alone,’ said he. ‘It’s painting the lily to alter it.’

“‘Well, God’s will be done,’ says I, ‘so come now.’

“Well, just as the clock struck six I saw the colonel coming out of his room, in a suit of most accurate sable, stockings, and pumps. Down-stairs he went, and I heard the waiter announce him.

“‘Now’s my time,’ thought I, as I followed slowly after.

“When I reached the door I heard several voices within, among which I recognized some ladies. Darby had not told me about them. ‘But no matter,’ said I; ‘it’s all as well;’ so I gave a gentle tap at the door with my knuckles.

“‘Come in,’ said Darby.

“I opened the door slowly, and putting in only my head and shoulders took a cautious look round the room.

“‘I beg pardon, gentlemen,’ said I, ‘but I was only looking for one Colonel M’Manus, and as he is not here—’

“‘Pray walk in, sir,’ said O’Grady, with a polite bow. ‘Colonel M’Manus is here. There’s no intrusion whatever. I say, Colonel,’ said he turning round, ‘a gentleman here desires to—’

“‘Never mind it now,’ said I, as I stepped cautiously into the room, ‘he’s going to dinner; another time will do just as well.’

“‘Pray come in!’

“‘I could not think of intruding—’

“‘I must protest,’ said M’Manus, coloring up, ‘that I cannot understand this gentleman’s visit.’

“‘It is a little affair I have to settle with him,’ said I, with a fierce look that I saw produced its effect.

“‘Then perhaps you would do me the very great favor to join him at dinner,’ said O’Grady. ‘Any friend of Colonel M’Manus—’

“‘You are really too good,’ said I; ‘but as an utter stranger—’

“‘Never think of that for a moment. My friend’s friend, as the adage says.’

“‘Upon my conscience, a good saying,’ said I, ‘but you see there’s another difficulty. I’ve ordered a chop and potatoes up in No. 5.’

“‘Let that be no obstacle,’ said O’Grady. ‘The waiter shall put it in my bill; if you will only do me the pleasure.’

“‘You’re a trump,’ said I. ‘What’s your name?’

“‘O’Grady, at your service.’

“‘Any relation of the counsellor?’ said I. ‘They’re all one family, the O’Gradys. I’m Mr. O’Shaughnessy, from Ennis; won’t you introduce me to the ladies?’

“While the ceremony of presentation was going on I caught one glance at M’Manus, and had hard work not to roar out laughing. Such an expression of surprise, amazement, indignation, rage, and misery never was mixed up in one face before. Speak he could not; and I saw that, except for myself, he had neither eyes, ears, nor senses for anything around him. Just at this moment dinner was announced, and in we went. I never was in such spirits in my life; the trick upon M’Manus had succeeded perfectly; he believed in his heart that I had never met O’Grady in my life before, and that upon the faith of our friendship, I had received my invitation. As for me, I spared him but little. I kept up a running fire of droll stories, had the ladies in fits of laughing, made everlasting allusions to the colonel; and, in a word, ere the soup had disappeared, except himself, the company was entirely with me.

“‘O’Grady,’ said I, ‘forgive the freedom, but I feel as if we were old acquaintances.’

“‘As Colonel M’Manus’s friend,’ said he, ‘you can take no liberty here to which you are not perfectly welcome.’

“‘Just what I expected,’ said I. ‘Mac and I,’—I wish you saw his face when I called him Mac,—‘Mac and I were schoolfellows five-and-thirty years ago; though he forgets me, I don’t forget him,—to be sure it would be hard for me. I’m just thinking of the day Bishop Oulahan came over to visit the college. Mac was coming in at the door of the refectory as the bishop was going out. “Take off your caubeen, you young scoundrel, and kneel down for his reverence to bless you,” said one of the masters, giving his hat a blow at the same moment that sent it flying to the other end of the room, and with it, about twenty ripe pears that Mac had just stolen in the orchard, and had in his hat. I wish you only saw the bishop; and Mac himself, he was a picture. Well, well, you forget it all now, but I remember it as if it was only yesterday. Any champagne, Mr. O’Grady? I’m mighty dry.’

“‘Of course,’ said Darby. ‘Waiter, some champagne here.’

“‘Ah, it’s himself was the boy for every kind of fun and devilment, quiet and demure as he looks over there. Mac, your health. It’s not every day of the week we get champagne.’

“He laid down his knife and fork as I said this; his face and temples grew deep purple; his eyes started as if they would spring from his head; and he put both his hands to his forehead, as if trying to assure himself that it was not some horrid dream.

“‘A little slice more of the turkey,’ said I, ‘and then, O’Grady, I’ll try your hock. It’s a wine I’m mighty fond of, and so is Mac there. Oh, it’s seldom, to tell you the truth, it troubles us. There, fill up the glass; that’s it. Here now, Darby,—that’s your name, I think,—you’ll not think I’m taking a liberty in giving a toast? Here then, I’ll give M’Manus’s health, with all the honors; though it’s early yet, to be sure, but we’ll do it again, by-and-by, when the whiskey comes. Here’s M’Manus’s good health; and though his wife, they say, does not treat him well, and keeps him down—’

“The roar of laughing that interrupted me here was produced by the expression of poor Mac’s face. He had started up from the table, and leaning with both his hands upon it, stared round upon the company like a maniac,—his mouth and eyes wide open, and his hair actually bristling with amazement. Thus he remained for a full minute, gasping like a fish in a landing-net. It seemed a hard struggle for him to believe he was not deranged. At last his eyes fell upon me; he uttered a deep groan, and with a voice tremulous with rage, thundered out,—

“‘The scoundrel! I never saw him before.’

“He rushed from the room, and gained the street. Before our roar of laughter was over he had secured post-horses, and was galloping towards Ennis at the top speed of his cattle.

“He exchanged at once into the line; but they say that he caught a glimpse of my name in the army list, and sold out the next morning; be that as it may, we never met since.”

I have related O’Shaughnessy’s story here, rather from the memory I have of how we all laughed at it at the time, than from any feeling as to its real desert; but when I think of the voice, look, accent, and gesture of the narrator, I can scarcely keep myself from again giving way to laughter.