MIKE’S MISTAKE.

An hour before daybreak the Guerillas were in motion, and having taken a most ceremonious leave of us, they mounted their horses and set out upon their journey. I saw their gaunt figures wind down the valley, and watched them till they disappeared in the distance. “Yes, brigands though they be,” thought I, “there is something fine, something heroic in the spirit of their unrelenting vengeance.” The sleuth-hound never sought the lair of his victim with a more ravening appetite for blood than they track the retreating columns of the enemy. Hovering around the line of march, they sometimes swoop down in masses, and carry off a part of the baggage, or the wounded. The wearied soldier, overcome by heat and exhaustion, who drops behind his ranks, is their certain victim; the sentry on an advanced post is scarcely less so. Whole pickets are sometimes attacked and carried off to a man; and when traversing the lonely passes of some mountain gorge, or defiling through the dense shadows of a wooded glen, the stoutest heart has felt a fear, lest from behind the rock that frowned above him, or from the leafy thicket whose branches stirred without a breeze, the sharp ring of a Guerilla carbine might sound his death-knell.

It was thus in the retreat upon Corunna fell Colonel Lefebvre. Ever foremost in the attack upon our rear-guard, this gallant youth (he was scarce six-and-twenty), a colonel of his regiment, and decorated with the Legion of Honor, he led on every charge of his bold “sabreurs,” riding up to the very bayonets of our squares, waving his hat above his head, and seeming actually to court his death-wound; but so struck were our brave fellows with his gallant bearing, that they cheered him as he came on.

It was in one of these moments as, rising high in his stirrups, he bore down upon the unflinching ranks of the British infantry, the shrill whistle of a ball strewed the leaves upon the roadside, the exulting shout of a Guerilla followed it, and the same instant Lefebvre fell forward upon his horse’s mane, a deluge of blood bursting from his bosom. A broken cry escaped his lips,—a last effort to cheer on his men; his noble charger galloped forward between our squares, bearing to us our prisoner, the corpse of his rider.

“Captain O’Malley,” said a mounted dragoon to the advanced sentry at the bottom of the little hill upon which I was standing. “Despatches from headquarters, sir,” delivering into my hands a large sealed packet from the adjutant-general’s office. While he proceeded to search for another letter of which he was the bearer, I broke the seal and read as follows:—

“What the devil can this mean?” said I to myself, as I read the lines over again and again. “What have I done lately, or what have I left undone to involve me in this scrape? Ah!” thought I, “to be sure, it can be nothing else. Lord Wellington did recognize me that unlucky morning, and has determined not to let me pass unpunished. How unfortunate. Scarcely twenty-four hours have elapsed since fortune seemed to smile upon me from every side, and now the very destiny I most dreaded stares me fully in the face.” A reprimand, or the sentence of a court-martial, I shrank from with a coward’s fear. It mattered comparatively little from what source arising, the injury to my pride as a man and my spirit as a soldier would be almost the same.

“This is the letter, sir,” said the orderly, presenting me with a packet, the address of which was in Power’s hand-writing. Eagerly tearing it open, I sought for something which might explain my unhappy position. It bore the same date as the official letter, and ran thus:—

2 [ For the information of my unmilitary readers, I may remark that this sobriquet was applied to the 50th Regiment.]

“Godwin,” said I, as I closed the letter, “I find myself in a scrape at headquarters; you are to take the command of the detachment, for I must set out at once.”

“Nothing serious, I hope. O’Malley?”

“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.

“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 grass 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”:—

“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.