AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.

“Mr. O’Malley,” said a voice, as my door opened, and an officer in undress entered,—“Mr. O’Malley, I believe you received your appointment last night on General Picton’s staff?”

I bowed in reply, as he resumed:—

“Sir Thomas desires you will proceed to Courtrai with these despatches in all haste. I don’t know if you are well mounted, but I recommend you, in any case, not to spare your cattle.”

So saying, he wished me a good-morning, and left me, in a state of no small doubt and difficulty, to my own reflections. What the deuce was I to do? I had no horse; I knew not where to find one. What uniform should I wear? For, although appointed on the staff, I was not gazetted to any regiment that I knew of, and hitherto had been wearing an undress frock and a foraging cap; for I could not bring myself to appear as a civilian among so many military acquaintances. No time was, however, to be lost; so I proceeded to put on my old Fourteenth uniform, wondering whether my costume might not cost me a reprimand in the very outset of my career. Meanwhile I despatched Mike to see after a horse, caring little for the time, the merits, or the price of the animal provided he served my present purpose.

In less than twenty minutes my worthy follower appeared beneath my window, surrounded by a considerable mob, who seemed to take no small interest in the proceedings.

“What the deuce is the matter?” cried I, as I opened the sash and looked out.

“Mighty little’s the matter, your honor; it’s the savages, here, that’s admiring my horsemanship,” said Mike, as he belabored a tall, scraggy-looking mule with a stick which bore an uncommon resemblance to a broom-handle.

“What do you mean to do with that beast?” said I. “You surely don’t expect me to ride a mule to Courtrai?”

“Faith, and if you don’t, you are likely to walk the journey; for there isn’t a horse to be had for love or money in the town; but I am told that Mr. Marsden is coming up to-morrow with plenty, so that you may as well take the journey out of the soft horns as spoil a better; and if he only makes as good use of his fore-legs as he does of his hind ones, he’ll think little of the road.”

A vicious lash out behind served in a moment to corroborate Mike’s assertion, and to scatter the crowd on every side.

However indisposed to exhibit myself with such a turn-out, my time did not admit of any delay; and so, arming myself with my despatches, and having procured the necessary information as to the road, I set out from the Belle Vue, amidst an ill-suppressed titter of merriment from the mob, which nothing but fear of Mike and his broomstick prevented becoming a regular shout of laughter.

It was near night-fall as, tired and weary of the road, I entered the little village of Halle. All was silent and noiseless in the deserted streets; nor a lamp threw its glare upon the pavement, nor even a solitary candle flickered through the casement. Unlike a town, garrisoned by troops, neither sentry nor outpost was to be met with; nothing gave evidence that the place was held by a large body of men; and I could not help feeling struck, as the footsteps of my mule were echoed along the causeway, with the silence almost of desolation around me. By the creaking of a sign, as it swung mournfully to and fro, I was directed to the door of the village inn, where, dismounting, I knocked for some moments, but without success. At length, when I had made an uproar sufficient to alarm the entire village, the casement above the door slowly opened, and a head enveloped in a huge cotton nightcap—so, at least, it appeared to me from the size—protruded itself. After muttering a curse in about the most barbarous French I ever heard, he asked me what I wanted there; to which I replied, most nationally, by asking in return, where the British dragoons were quartered.

“They have left for Nivelle this morning, to join some regiments of your own country.”

“Ah! ah!” thought I, “he mistakes me for a Brunswicker;” to which, by the uncertain light, my uniform gave me some resemblance. As it was now impossible for me to proceed farther, I begged to ask where I could procure accommodation for the night.

“At the burgomaster’s. Turn to your left at the end of this street, and you will soon find it. They have got some English officers there, who, I believe in my soul, never sleep.”

This was, at least, pleasant intelligence, and promised a better termination to my journey than I had begun to hope for; so wishing my friend a good-night, to which he willingly responded, I resumed my way down the street. As he closed the window, once more leaving me to my own reflections, I began to wonder within myself to what arm of the service belonged these officers to whose convivial gifts he bore testimony. As I turned the corner of the street, I soon discovered the correctness of his information. A broad glare of light stretched across the entire pavement from a large house with a clumsy stone portico before it. On coming nearer, the sound of voices, the roar of laughter, the shouts of merriment that issued forth, plainly bespoke that a jovial party were seated within. The half-shutter which closed the lower part of the windows prevented my obtaining a view of the proceedings; but having cautiously approached the casement, I managed to creep on the window-sill and look into the room.

There the scene was certainly a curious one. Around a large table sat a party of some twenty persons, the singularity of whose appearance may be conjectured when I mention that all those who appeared to be British officers were dressed in the robes of the Échevins (or aldermen) of the village; while some others, whose looks bespoke them as sturdy Flemings, sported the cocked hats and cavalry helmets of their associates. He who appeared the ruler of the feast sat with his back towards me, and wore, in addition to the dress of burgomaster, a herald’s tabard, which gave him something the air of a grotesque screen at its potations. A huge fire blazed upon the ample hearth, before which were spread several staff uniforms, whose drabbled and soaked appearance denoted the reason of the party’s change of habiliments. Every imaginable species of drinking-vessel figured upon the board, from the rich flagon of chased silver to the humble cruche we see in a Teniers picture. As well as I could hear, the language of the company seemed to be French, or, at least, such an imitation of that language as served as a species of neutral territory for both parties to meet in.

He of the tabard spoke louder than the others, and although, from the execrable endeavors he made to express himself in French, his natural voice was much altered, there was yet something in his accents which seemed perfectly familiar to me.

“Mosheer l’Abbey,” said he, placing his arm familiarly on the shoulder of a portly personage, whose shaven crown strangely contrasted with a pair of corked moustachios,—“Mosheer l’Abbey, nous sommes frÈres, et moi, savez-vous, suis ÉvÈque,—‘pon my life it’s true; I might have been Bishop of Saragossa, if I only consented to leave the Twenty-third. Je suis bong Catholique. Lord bless you, if you saw how I loved the nunneries in Spain! J’ai tres jolly souvenirs of those nunneries; a goodly company of little silver saints; and this waistcoat you see—mong gilet—was a satin petticoat of our Lady of Loretto.”

Need I say, that before this speech was concluded, I had recognized in the speaker nobody but that inveterate old villain, Monsoon himself.

“Permettez, votre Excellence,” said a hale, jolly-looking personage on his left, as he filled the major’s goblet with obsequious politeness.

“Bong engfong,” replied Monsoon, tapping him familiarly on the head. “Burgomaster, you are a trump; and when I get my promotion, I’ll make you prefect in a wine district. Pass the lush, and don’t look sleepy! ‘Drowsiness,’ says Solomon, ‘clothes a man in rags;’ and no man knew the world better than Solomon. Don’t you be laughing, you raw boys. Never mind them, Abbey; ils sont petits garÇongs—fags from Eton and Harrow; better judges of mutton broth than sherry negus.”

“I say, Major, you are forgetting this song you promised us.”

“Yes, yes,” said several voices together; “the song, Major! the song!”

“Time enough for that; we’re doing very well as it is. Upon my life, though, they hold a deal of wine. I thought we’d have had them fit to bargain with before ten, and see, it’s near midnight; and I must have my forage accounts ready for the commissary-general by to-morrow morning.”

This speech having informed me the reason of the Major’s presence there, I resolved to wait no longer a mere spectator of their proceedings; so dismounting from my position, I commenced a vigorous attack upon the door.

It was some time before I was heard; but at length the door was opened, and I was accosted by an Englishman, who, in a strange compound of French and English, asked, “What the devil I meant by all that uproar?” Determining to startle my old friend the major, I replied, that “I was aide-de-camp to General Picton, and had come down on very unpleasant business.” By this time the noise of the party within had completely subsided, and from a few whispered sentences, and their thickened breathing, I perceived that they were listening.

“May I ask, sir,” continued I, “if Major Monsoon is here?”

“Yes,” stammered out the ensign, for such he was.

“Sorry for it, for his sake,” said I; “but my orders are peremptory.”

A deep groan from within, and a muttered request to pass down the sherry, nearly overcame my gravity; but I resumed:—

“If you will permit me, I will make the affair as short as possible. The major, I presume, is here?”

So saying, I pushed forward into the room, where now a slight scuffling noise and murmur of voices had succeeded silence. Brief as was the interval of our colloquy, the scene within had, notwithstanding, undergone considerable change. The English officers, hastily throwing off their aldermanic robes, were busily arraying themselves in their uniforms, while Monsoon himself, with a huge basin of water before him, was endeavoring to wash the cork from his countenance in the corner of his tabard.

“Very hard upon me, all this; upon my life, so it is! Picton is always at me, just as if we had not been school-fellows. The service is getting worse every day. Regardez-moi, Curey, mong face est propre? Eh? There, thank you. Good fellow the Curey is, but takes a deal of fluid. Oh, Burgomaster! I fear it is all up with me! No more fun, no more jollification, no more plunder—and how I did do it. Nothing like watching one’s little chances! ‘The poor is hated even by his neighbor.’ Oui, Curey, it is Solomon says that, and they must have had a heavy poor-rate in his day to make him say so. Another glass of sherry!”

By this time I approached the back of the chair, and slapping him heartily on the shoulder, called out,—

“Major, old boy, how goes it?”

“Eh?—what—how!—who is this? It can’t be—egad, sure it is, though. Charley! Charley O’Malley, you scapegrace, where have you been? When did you join?”

“A week ago, Major. I could resist it no longer. I did my best to be a country gentleman, and behave respectably, but the old temptation was too strong for me. Fred Power and yourself, Major, had ruined my education; and here I am once more among you.”

“And so Picton and the arrest and all that, was nothing but a joke?” said the old fellow, rolling his wicked eyes with a most cunning expression.

“Nothing more, Major, set your heart at rest.”

“What a scamp you are,” said he, with another grin. “Il est mon fils—il est mon fils, Curey,” presenting me, as he spoke, while the burgomaster, in whose eyes the major seemed no inconsiderable personage, saluted me with profound respect.

Turning at once towards this functionary, I explained that I was the bearer of important despatches, and that my horse—I was ashamed to say my mule—having fallen lame, I was unable to proceed.

“Can you procure me a remount, Monsieur?” said I, “for I must hasten on to Courtrai.”

“In half an hour you shall be provided, as well as with a mounted guide for the road. Le fils de son Excellence,” said he, with emphasis, bowing to the major as he spoke; who, in his turn, repaid the courtesy with a still lower obeisance.

“Sit down, Charley; here is a clean glass. I am delighted to see you, my boy! They tell me you have got a capital estate and plenty of ready. Lord, we so wanted you, as there’s scarcely a fellow with sixpence among us. Give me the lad that can do a bit of paper at three months, and always be ready for a renewal. You haven’t got a twenty-pound note?” This was said sotto voce. “Never mind; ten will do. You can give me the remainder at Brussels. Strange, is it not, I have not seen a bit of clean bank paper like this for above a twelvemonth!” This was said as he thrust his hand into his pocket, with one of those peculiar leers upon his countenance which, unfortunately, betrayed more satisfaction at his success than gratitude for the service. “You are looking fat—too fat, I think,” said he, scrutinizing me from head to foot; “but the life we are leading just now will soon take that off. The slave-trade is luxurious indolence compared to it. Post haste to Nivelle one day; down to Ghent the next; forty miles over a paved road in a hand-gallop, and an aide-de-camp with a watch in his hand at the end of it, to report if you are ten minutes too late. And there is Wellington has his eye everywhere. There is not a truss of hay served to the cavalry, nor a pair of shoes half-soled in the regiment, that he don’t know of it. I’ve got it over the knuckles already.”

“How so, Major? How was that?”

“Why, he ordered me to picket two squadrons of the Seventh, and a supper was waiting. I didn’t like to leave my quarters, so I took up my telescope and pitched upon a sweet little spot of ground on a hill; rather difficult to get up, to be sure, but a beautiful view when you’re on it. ‘There is your ground, Captain,’ said I, as I sent one of my people to mark the spot. He did not like it much; however, he was obliged to go. And, would you believe it?—so much for bad luck!—there turned out to be no water within two miles of it—not a drop, Charley; and so, about eleven at night, the two squadrons moved down into Grammont to wet their lips, and what is worse, to report me to the commanding officer. And only think! They put me under arrest because Providence did not make a river run up a mountain!”

Just as the major finished speaking, the distant clatter of horses’ feet and the clank of cavalry was heard approaching. We all rushed eagerly to the door; and scarcely had we done so, when a squadron of dragoons came riding up the street at a fast trot.

“I say, good people,” cried the officer, in French, “where does the burgomaster live here?”

“Fred Power, ‘pon my life!” shouted the major.

“Eh, Monsoon, that you? Give me a tumbler of wine, old boy; you are sure to have some, and I am desperately blown.”

“Get down, Fred, get down! We have an old friend here.”

“Who the deuce d’ye mean?” said he, as throwing himself from the saddle he strode into the room. “Charley O’Malley, by all that’s glorious!”

“Fred, my gallant fellow!” said I.

“It was but this morning, Charley, that I so wished for you here. The French are advancing, my lad. They have crossed the frontier; Zeithen’s corps have been attacked and driven in; Blucher is falling back upon Ligny; and the campaign is opened. But I must press forward. The regiment is close behind me, and we are ordered to push for Brussels in all haste.”

“Then these despatches,” said I, showing my packet, “‘tis unnecessary to proceed with?”

“Quite so. Get into the saddle and come back with us.”

The burgomaster had kept his word with me; so mounted upon a strong hackney, I set out with Power on the road to Brussels. I have had occasion more than once to ask pardon of my reader for the prolixity of my narrative, so I shall not trespass on him here by the detail of our conversation as we jogged along. Of me and my adventures he already knows enough—perhaps too much. My friend Power’s career, abounding as it did in striking incidents, and all the light and shadow of a soldier’s life, yet not bearing upon any of the characters I have presented to your acquaintance, except in one instance,—of that only shall I speak.

“And the senhora, Fred; how goes your fortune in that quarter?”

“Gloriously, Charley! I am every day expecting the promotion in my regiment which is to make her mine.”

“You have heard from her lately, then?”

“Heard from her! Why, man, she is in Brussels.”

“In Brussels?”

“To be sure. Don Emanuel is in high favor with the duke, and is now commissary-general with the army; and the senhora is the belle of the Rue Royale, or at least, it’s a divided sovereignty between her and Lucy Dashwood. And now, Charley, let me ask, what of her? There, there, don’t blush, man. There is quite enough moonlight to show how tender you are in that quarter.”

“Once for all, Fred, pray spare me on that subject. You have been far too fortunate in your affaire de coeur, and I too much the reverse, to permit much sympathy between us.”

“Do you not visit, then; or is it a cut between you?” “I have never met her since the night of the masquerade of the villa—at least, to speak to—”

“Well, I must confess, you seem to manage your own affairs much worse than your friends’; not but that in so doing you are exhibiting a very Irish feature of your character. In any case, you will come to the ball? Inez will be delighted to see you; and I have got over all my jealousy.”

“What ball? I never heard of it.”

“Never heard of it! Why, the Duchess of Richmond’s, of course. Pooh, pooh, man! Not invited?—of course you are invited; the staff are never left out on such occasions. You will find your card at your hotel on your return.”

“In any case, Fred—”

“I shall insist upon your going. I have no arriÈre pensÉe about a reconciliation with the Dashwoods, no subtle scheme, on my honor; but simply I feel that you will never give yourself fair chances in the world, by indulging your habit of shrinking from every embarrassment. Don’t be offended, boy. I know you have pluck enough to storm a battery; I have seen you under fire before now. What avails your courage in the field, if you have not presence of mind in the drawing-room? Besides, everything else out of the question, it is a breach of etiquette towards your chief to decline such an invitation.”

“You think so?”

“Think so?—no; I am sure of it.”

“Then, as to uniform, Fred?”

“Oh, as to that, easily managed. And now I think of it, they have sent me an unattached uniform, which you can have; but remember, my boy, if I put you in my coat, I don’t want you to stand in my shoes. Don’t forget also that I am your debtor in horseflesh, and fortunately able to repay you. I have got such a charger; your own favorite color, dark chestnut, and except one white leg, not a spot about him; can carry sixteen stone over a five-foot fence, and as steady as a rock under fire.”

“But, Fred, how are you—”

“Oh, never mind me; I have six in my stable, and intend to share with you. The fact is, I have been transferred from one staff to another for the last six months, and four of my number are presents. Is Mike with you? Ah, glad to hear it; you will never get on without that fellow. Besides, it is a capital thing to have such a connecting link with one’s nationality. No fear of your ever forgetting Ireland with Mr. Free in your company. You are not aware that we have been correspondents. A fact, I assure you. Mike wrote me two letters; and such letters they were! The last was a Jeremiad over your decline and fall, with a very ominous picture of a certain Miss Baby Blake.”

“Confound the rascal!”

“By Jove, though, Charley, you were coming it rather strong with Baby. Inez saw the letter, and as well as she could decipher Mike’s hieroglyphics, saw there was something in it; but the name Baby puzzled her immensely, and she set the whole thing down to your great love of children. I don’t think that Lucy quite agreed with her.”

“Did she tell it to Miss Dashwood?” I inquired, with fear and trembling.

“Oh, that she did; in fact, Inez never ceases talking of you to Lucy. But come, lad, don’t look so grave. Let’s have another brush with the enemy; capture a battery of their guns; carry off a French marshal or two; get the Bath for your services, and be thanked in general orders,—and I will wager all my chÂteau en Espagne that everything goes well.”

Thus chatting away, sometimes over the past, of our former friends and gay companions, of our days of storm and sunshine; sometimes indulging in prospects for the future, we trotted along, and as the day was breaking, mounted the ridge of low hills, from whence, at the distance of a couple of leagues, the city of Brussels came into view.