MONSOON IN TROUBLE.

As I rode along towards Fuentes d’Onoro, I could not help feeling provoked at the absurd circumstances in which I was involved. To be made the subject of laughter for a whole army was by no means a pleasant consideration; but what I felt far worse was the possibility that the mention of my name in connection with a reprimand might reach the ears of those who knew nothing of the cause.

Mr. Free himself seemed little under the influence of similar feelings; for when, after a silence of a couple of hours, I turned suddenly towards him with a half-angry look, and remarked, “You see, sir, what your confounded blundering has done,” his cool reply was,—

“Ah, then! won’t Mrs. M’Gra be frightened out of her life when she reads all about the killed and wounded in your honor’s report? I wonder if they ever had the manners to send my own letter afterwards, when they found out their mistake!”

“Their mistake, do you say? rather yours! You appear to have a happy knack of shifting blame from your own shoulders. And do you fancy that they’ve nothing else to do than to trouble their heads about your absurd letters?”

“Faith, it’s easily seen you never saw my letter, or you wouldn’t be saying that. And sure, it’s not much trouble it would give Colonel Fitzroy or any o’ the staff that write a good hand just to put in a line to Mrs. M’Gra, to prevent her feeling alarmed about that murthering paper. Well, well; it’s God’s blessing! I don’t think there’s anybody of the name of Mickey Free high up in the army but myself; so that the family won’t be going into mourning for me on a false alarm.”

I had not patience to participate in this view of the case; so that I continued my journey without speaking. We had jogged along for some time after dark, when the distant twinkle of the-watch-fires announced our approach to the camp. A detachment of the Fourteenth formed the advanced post, and from the officer in command I learned that Power was quartered at a small mill about half a mile distant; thither I accordingly turned my steps, but finding that the path which led abruptly down to it was broken and cut up in many places, I sent Mike back with the horses, and continued my way alone on foot.

The night was deliciously calm; and as I approached the little rustic mill, I could not help feeling struck with Power’s taste in a billet.

A little vine-clad cottage, built close against a rock, nearly concealed by the dense foliage around it, stood beside a clear rivulet whose eddying current supplied water to the mill, and rose in a dew-like spray which sparkled like gems in the pale moonlight. All was still within, but as I came nearer I thought I could detect the chords of a guitar. “Can it be,” thought I, “that Master Fred has given himself up to minstrelsy; or is it some little dress rehearsal for a serenade? But no,” thought I, “that certainly is not Power’s voice.” I crept stealthily down the little path, and approached the window; the lattice lay open, and as the curtain waved to and fro with the night air, I could see plainly all who were in the room.

Close beside the window sat a large, dark-featured Spaniard, his hands crossed upon his bosom and his head inclined heavily forward, the attitude perfectly denoting deep sleep, even had not his cigar, which remained passively between his lips, ceased to give forth its blue smoke wreath. At a little distance from him sat a young girl, who, even by the uncertain light, I could perceive was possessed of all that delicacy of form and gracefulness of carriage which characterize her nation.

Her pale features—paler still from the contrast with her jet black hair and dark costume—were lit up with an expression of animation and enthusiasm as her fingers swept rapidly and boldly across the strings of a guitar.

“And you’re not tired of it yet?” said she, bending her head downwards towards one whom I now for the first time perceived.

Reclining carelessly at her feet, his arm leaning upon her chair, while his hand occasionally touched her taper fingers, lay my good friend, Master Fred Power. An undress jacket, thrown loosely open, and a black neck-cloth, negligently knotted, bespoke the easy nonchalance with which he prosecuted his courtship.

“Do sing it again?” said he, pressing her fingers to his lips.

What she replied, I could not catch; but Fred resumed: “No, no; he never wakes. The infernal clatter of that mill is his lullaby.”

“But your friend will be here soon,” said she. “Is it not so?”

“Oh, poor Charley! I’d almost forgotten him. By-the-bye, you mustn’t fall in love with him. There now, do not look angry; I only meant that, as I knew he’d be desperately smitten, you shouldn’t let him fancy he got any encouragement.”

“What would you have me do?” said she, artlessly.

“I have been thinking over that, too. In the first place, you’d better never let him hear you sing; scarcely ever smile; and as far as possible, keep out of his sight.”

“One would think, Senhor, that all these precautions were to be taken more on my account than on his. Is he so very dangerous, then?”

“Not a bit of it! Good-looking enough he is, but, only a boy; at the same time, a devilish bold one! And he’d think no more of springing through that window and throwing his arms round your neck, the very first moment of his arrival, than I should of whispering how much I love you.”

“How very odd he must be! I’m sure I should like him.”

“Many thanks to both for your kind hints; and now to take advantage of them.” So saying, I stepped lightly upon the window-sill, cleared the miller with one spring, and before Power could recover his legs or Margeritta her astonishment, I clasped her in my arms, and kissed her on either cheek.

“Charley! Charley! Damn it, man, it won’t do!” cried Fred; while the young lady, evidently more amused at his discomfiture than affronted at the liberty, threw herself into a seat, and laughed immoderately.

“Ha! Hilloa there! What is’t?” shouted the miller, rousing himself from his nap, and looking eagerly round. “Are they coming? Are the French coming?”

A hearty renewal of his daughter’s laughter was the only reply; while Power relieved his anxiety by saying,—

“No, no, Pedrillo, not the French; a mere marauding party,—nothing more. I say, Charley,” continued he, in a lower tone, “you had better lose no time in reporting yourself at headquarters. We’ll walk up together. Devilish awkward scrape, yours.”

“Never fear, Fred; time enough for all that. For the present, if you permit me, I’ll follow up my acquaintance with our fair friend here.”

“Gently, gently!” said he, with a look of most imposing seriousness. “Don’t mistake her; she’s not a mere country girl: you understand?—been bred in a convent here,—rather superior kind of thing.”

“Come, come, Fred, I’m not the man to interfere with you for a moment.”

“Good-night, Senhor,” said the old miller, who had been waiting patiently all this time to pay his respects before going.

“Yes, that’s it!” cried Power, eagerly. “Good-night, Pedrillo.”

“Buonos noches,” lisped out Margeritta, with a slight curtsy.

I sprang forward to acknowledge her salutation, when Power coolly interposed between us, and closing the door after them, placed his back against it.

“Master Charley, I must read you a lesson—”

“You inveterate hypocrite, don’t attempt this nonsense with me. But come, tell me how long you have been here?”

“Just twenty-four of the shortest hours I ever passed at an outpost. But listen,—do you know that voice? Isn’t it O’Shaughnessy?”

“To be sure it is. Hear the fellow’s song.”

“Ah, then, Mister Power, it’s twice I’d think of returning your visit, if I knew the state of your avenue. If there’s a grand jury in Spain, they might give you a presentment for this bit of road. My knees are as bare as a commissary’s conscience, and I’ve knocked as much flesh off my shin-bones as would make a cornet in the hussars!”

A regular roar of laughter from both of us apprized Dennis of our vicinity.

“And it’s laughing ye are? Wouldn’t it be as polite just to hold a candle or lantern for me in this confounded watercourse?”

“How goes it, Major?” cried I, extending my hand to him through the window.

“Charley—Charley O’Malley, my son! I’m glad to see you. It’s a hearty laugh you gave us this morning. My friend Mickey’s a pleasant fellow for a secretary-at-war. But it’s all settled now; Crawfurd arranged it for you this afternoon.”

“You don’t say so! Pray tell me all about it.”

“That’s just what I won’t; for ye see I don’t know it; but I believe old Monsoon’s affair has put everything out of their heads.”

“Monsoon’s affair! What is that? Out with it, Dennis.”

“Faith, I’ll be just as discreet about that as your own business. All I can tell you is, that they brought him up to headquarters this evening with a sergeant’s guard, and they say he’s to be tried by court-martial; and Picton is in a blessed humor about it.”

“What could it possibly have been? Some plundering affair, depend on it.”

“Faith, you may swear it wasn’t for his little charities, as Dr. Pangloss calls them, they’ve pulled him up,” cried Power.

“Maurice is in high feather about it,” said Dennis. “There are five of them up at Fuentes, making a list of the charges to send to Monsoon; for Bob Mahon, it seems, heard of the old fellow’s doings up the mountains.”

“What glorious fun!” said Tower. “Let’s haste and join them, boys.”

“Agreed,” said I. “Is it far from this?”

“Another stage. When we’ve got something to eat,” said the major, “if Power has any intentions that way—”

“Well, I really did begin to fear Fred’s memory was lapsing; but somehow, poor fellow, smiles have been more in his way than sandwiches lately.”

An admonishing look from Power was his only reply, as he walked towards the door. Bent upon teasing him, however, I continued,—

“My only fear is, he may do something silly.”

“Who? Monsoon, is it?”

“No, no. Not Monsoon; another friend of ours.”

“Faith, I scarcely thought your fears of old Monsoon were called for. He’s a fox—the devil a less.”

“No, no, Dennis. I wasn’t thinking of him. My anxieties were for a most soft-hearted young gentleman,—one Fred Power.”

“Charley, Charley!” said Fred, from the door, where he had been giving directions to his servant about supper. “A man can scarce do a more silly thing than marry in the army; all the disagreeables of married life, with none of its better features.”

“Marry—marry!” shouted O’Shaughnessy, “upon my conscience, it’s incomprehensible to me how a man can be guilty of it. To be sure, I don’t mean to say that there are not circumstances,—such as half-pay, old age, infirmity, the loss of your limbs, and the like; but that, with good health and a small balance at your banker’s, you should be led into such an embarrassment—”

“Men will flirt,” said I, interrupting; “men will press taper fingers, look into bright eyes, and feel their witchery; and although the fair owners be only quizzing them half the time, and amusing themselves the other, and though they be the veriest hackneyed coquettes—”

“Did you ever meet the Dalrymple girls, Dennis?” said Fred, with a look I shall never forget.

What the reply was I cannot tell. My shame and confusion were overwhelming, and Power’s victory complete.

“Here comes the prog,” cried Dennis, as Power’s servant entered with a very plausible-looking tray, while Fred proceeded to place before us a strong army of decanters.

Our supper was excellent, and we were enjoying ourselves to the utmost, when an orderly sergeant suddenly opened the door, and raising his hand to his cap, asked if Major Power was there.

“A letter for you, sir.”

“Monsoon’s writing, by Jove! Come, boys, let us see what it means. What a hand the old fellow writes! The letters look all crazy, and are tumbling against each other on every side. Did you ever see anything half so tipsy as the crossing of that t?”

“Read it. Read it out, Fred!”

We resolved to finish our evening with the major; so that, each having armed himself with a bottle or two, and the remnants of our supper, we set out towards his quarters, under the guidance of the orderly. After a sharp walk of half an hour, we reached a small hut, where two sentries of the Eighty-eighth were posted at the door.

O’Shaughnessy procured admittance for us, and in we went. At a small table, lighted by a thin tallow candle, sat old Monsoon, who, the weather being hot, had neither coat nor wig on; an old cracked china tea-pot, in which as we found afterwards he had mixed a little grog, stood before him, and a large mass of papers lay scattered around on every side,—he himself being occupied in poring over their contents, and taking occasional draughts from his uncouth goblet.

As we entered noiselessly, he never perceived us, but continued to mumble over, in a low tone, from the documents before him:—

“Upon my life, it’s like a dream to me! What infernal stuff this brandy is!”

“Destroy the harmony! Bless their hearts! How little they know of it! I’ve never passed a jollier night in the Peninsula! The prior’s a trump, and as for the bolero, he would dance it. I hope they say nothing about my hornpipe.”

“Well, I’m afraid I was rather sharp on the alcalde, but we did him no harm except the fright. What sherry the fellow had! ‘t would have been a sin to let it fall into the hands of the French.”

“Lord, how good it was! I shall never forget the old alcalde! One of my fellows fastened a dead lamb round his neck, and told him it was the golden fleece. The commander-in-chief would have laughed himself if he had been there. Picton’s much too grave,—never likes a joke.”

“Didn’t I lay about me before they got it! Who’s that? Who’s laughing there? Ah, boys, I’m glad to see you! How are you, Fred? Well, Charley, I’ve heard of your scrape; very sad thing for so young a fellow as you are. I don’t think you’ll be broke; I’ll do what I can. I’ll see what I can do with Picton; we are very old friends, were at Eton together.”

“Many thanks, Major; but I hear your own affairs are not flourishing. What’s all this court-martial about?”

“A mere trifle; some little insubordination in the legion. Those Portuguese are sad dogs. How very good of you, Fred, to think of that little supper.”

While the major was speaking, his servant, with a dexterity the fruit of long habit, had garnished the table with the contents of our baskets, and Monsoon, apologizing for not putting on his wig, sat down among us with a face as cheerful as though the floor was not covered with the charges of the court-martial to be held on him.

As we chatted away over the campaign and its chances, Monsoon seemed little disposed to recur to his own fortunes. In fact, he appeared to suffer much more from what he termed my unlucky predicament than from his own mishaps. At the same time, as the evening wore on, and the sherry began to tell upon him, his heart expanded into its habitual moral tendency, and by an easy transition, he was led from the religious association of convents to the pleasures of pillaging them.

“What wine they have in their old cellars! It’s such fun drinking it out of great silver vessels as old as Methuselah. ‘There’s much treasure in the house of the righteous,’ as David says; and any one who has ever sacked a nunnery knows that.”

“I should like to have seen that prior dancing the bolero,” said Power.

“Wasn’t it good, though! He grew jealous of me, for I performed a hornpipe. Very good fellow the prior; not like the alcalde,—there was no fun in him. Lord bless him! he’ll never forget me.”

“What did you do with him, Major?”

“Well, I’ll tell you; but you mustn’t let it be known, for I see they have not put it in the court-martial. Is there no more sherry there? There, that will do; I’m always contented. ‘Better a dry morsel with quietness,’ as Moses says. Ay, Charley, never forget that ‘a merry heart is just like medicine.’ Job found out that, you know.”

“Well, but the alcalde, Major.”

“Oh! the alcalde, to be sure. These pious meditations make me forget earthly matters.”

“This old alcalde at Banos, I found out, was quite spoiled by Lord Wellington. He used to read all the general orders, and got an absurd notion in his head that because we were his allies, we were not allowed to plunder. Only think, he used to snap his fingers at Beresford, didn’t care twopence about the legion, and laughed outright at Wilson. So, when I was ordered down there, I took another way with him. I waited till night-fall, ordered two squadrons to turn their jackets, and sent forward one of my aides-de-camp, with a few troopers, to the alcalde’s house. They galloped into the courtyard, blowing trumpets and making an infernal hubbub. Down came the alcalde in a passion. ‘Prepare quarters quickly, and rations for eight hundred men.’

“‘Who dares to issue such an order?’ said he.

“The aide-de-camp whispered one word in his ear, and the old fellow grew pale as death. ‘Is he here; is he coming,—is he coming?’ said he, trembling from head to foot.

“I rode in myself at this moment looking thus,—

“‘OÙ est le malheureux?’ said I, in French,—you know I speak French like Portuguese.”

“Devilish like, I’ve no doubt,” muttered Power.

“‘Pardon, gracias eccellenza!’ said the alcalde, on his knees.”

“Who the deuce did he take you for, Major?”

“You shall hear; you’ll never guess, though. Lord, I shall never forget it! He thought I was Marmont; my aide-de-camp told him so.”

One loud burst of laughter interrupted the major at this moment, and it was some considerable time before he could continue his narrative.

“And do you really mean,” said I, “that you personated the Duke de Raguse?”

“Did I not, though? If you had only seen me with a pair of great mustaches, and a drawn sabre in my hand, pacing the room up and down in presence of the assembled authorities. Napoleon himself might have been deceived. My first order was to cut off all their heads; but I commuted the sentence to a heavy fine. Ah, boys, if they only understood at headquarters how to carry on a war in the Peninsula, they’d never have to grumble in England about increased taxation! How I’d mulet the nunneries! How I’d grind the corporate towns! How I’d inundate the country with exchequer bills! I’d sell the priors at so much a head, and put the nuns up to auction by the dozen.”

“You sacrilegious old villain! But continue the account of your exploits.”

“Faith, I remember little more. After dinner I grew somewhat mellow, and a kind of moral bewilderment, which usually steals over me about eleven o’clock, induced me to invite the alcalde and all the aldermen to come and sup. Apparently, we had a merry night of it, and when morning broke, we were not quite clear in our intellects. Hence came that infernal procession; for when the alcalde rode round the town with a paper cap, and all the aldermen after him, the inhabitants felt offended, it seems, and sent for a large Guerilla force, who captured me and my staff, after a very vigorous resistance. The alcalde fought like a trump for us, for I promised to make him Prefect of the Seine; but we were overpowered, disarmed, and carried off. The remainder you can read in the court-martial, for you may think that after sacking the town, drinking all night, and fighting in the morning, my memory was none of the clearest.”

“Did you not explain that you were not the marshal-general?”

“No, faith, I know better than that; they’d have murdered me had they known their mistake. They brought me to headquarters in the hope of a great reward, and it was only when they reached this that they found out I was not the Duke de Raguse; so you see, boys, it’s a very complicated business.”

“‘Gad, and so it is,” said Power, “and an awkward one, too.”

“He’ll be hanged, as sure as my name’s Dennis!” vociferated O’Shaughnessy, with an energy that made the major jump from his chair. “Picton will hang him!”

“I’m not afraid,” said Monsoon; “they know me so well. Lord bless you, Beresford couldn’t get on without me!”

“Well, Major,” said I, “in any case, you certainly take no gloomy nor desponding view of your case.”

“Not I, boy. You know what Jeremiah says: ‘a merry heart is a continual feast;’ and so it is. I may die of repletion, but they’ll never find me starved with sorrow.”

“And, faith, it’s a strange thing!” muttered O’Shaughnessy, thinking aloud; “a most extraordinary thing! An honest fellow would be sure to be hanged; and there’s that old rogue, that’s been melting down more saints and blessed Virgins than the whole army together, he’ll escape. Ye’ll see he will!”

“There goes the patrol,” said Fred; “we must start.”

“Leave the sherry, boys; you’ll be back again. I’ll have it put up carefully.”

We could scarcely resist a roar of laughter as we said, “Good-night.”

“Adieu, Major,” said I; “we shall meet soon.”

So saying, I followed Power and O’Shaughnessy towards their quarters.

“Maurice has done it beautifully!” said Power. “Pleasant revelations the old fellow will make on the court-martial, if he only remembers what we’ve heard to-night! But here we are, Charley; so good-night, and remember, you breakfast with me to-morrow.”