  “Send that to your next-door neighbour.” At the battle of Talavera, when the hill on the left of the British line had been retaken from the enemy, after the most obstinate and bloody fighting, the French continued to throw shells upon it with most destructive precision. One of those terrible instruments of death fell close to a party of grenadiers belonging to the 45th regiment, who were standing on the summit of the hill. The fusee was burning rapidly, and a panic struck upon the minds of the soldiers, for they could not move away from the shell on account of the compact manner in which the troops stood: it was nearly consumed—every rapidly succeeding spark from it promised to be the last—all expected instant death—when Tom Geraghty, a tall raw-boned Irishman, ran towards the shell, crying out, “By J——, I'll have a kick for it, if it was to be my last;” and with a determined push from his foot, sent the load of death whirling off the height. It fell amongst a close column of men below, while Geraghty, leaning over the verge from whence it fell, with the most vehement and good-natured energy, bawled out “Mind your heads, boys, mind your heads!” Horror!—the shell burst!—it was over in a moment. At least twenty men were shattered to pieces by the explosion! Geraghty was wholly unconscious of having done any mischief. It was a courageous impulse of the moment, which operated upon him in the first instance; and the injury to the service was not worse than if the shell had remained where it first fell. Self-preservation is positively in favour of the act, considering that there was no other way of escaping from destruction. Very serious consequences would have still attended the matter, had it not been for the active exertions of the officers; for the men of the regiment, among which the shell was thrown, and who had escaped, were with difficulty prevented from mounting the hill and executing summary punishment upon the grenadiers, from whom the unwelcome messenger had been so unceremoniously despatched. Thus they would have increased to an alarming degree the evil consequences of Geraghty's kick. An unexpected shower of admiration and flattery, like the sudden possession of great and unexpected wealth, produces evil effects upon a weak head. The perilous kick, instead of exalting Geraghty's fortunes, as it would have done had he been a prudent man, produced the very opposite consequences. He was talked of throughout the regiment—nay, the whole division, for this intrepid act; every body, officers and all, complimented him upon his coolness and courage; and the general who commanded his regiment (Sir John Doyle) gave him the most flattering encouragement. All this was lost upon Geraghty; he was one of those crazy fellows whom nothing but the weight of adversity could bring to any tolerable degree of steadiness; and instead of profiting by his reputed bravery, he gave way to the greatest excesses. Finding that he was tolerated in one, he would indulge in another, until it became necessary to check the exuberance of his folly. He gave way completely to drunkenness: when under the effects of liquor, although a most inoffensive being when sober, he would try to “carry all before him,” as the phrase goes; and having succeeded in this so frequently, amongst the privates and non-commissioned officers of his regiment, the excitement of the excess began to lose its pungency in his imagination, and he determined to extend his enjoyments amongst the officers: this very soon led him to most disagreeable results. It had been ordered that the privates should not walk upon a certain part of the parade in Colchester Barracks. Geraghty, however, thought proper to kick against it as determinedly as he formerly did against the shell. Charged with strong rum, he one day strutted across it in a manner becoming a hero of Talavera (as he thought), and was seen by two of his officers, ensigns, who sent the orderly to desire him to move off the forbidden ground; but Geraghty declined obedience, and told the orderly to “be off to the devil out o' that.” The ensigns, on being informed of the disobedience, proceeded to the delinquent, and renewed their orders, which were not only disregarded, but accompanied by a violent assault from Geraghty. The refractory giant seized an ensign in each hand, and having lifted both off the ground, dashed their heads together. This was seen by some other officers and soldiers of the regiment, who all ran instantly to rescue the sufferers from Geraghty's gripe. None could, however, secure him; he raged and threatened vengeance on all who came within the length of his long arms; nor would he have surrendered had it not been for a captain in the regiment, under whose eye he pulled many a trigger against the enemy. This officer approached with a stick, seized him by the collar, and began to lay on in good style. “Leather away,” cried Geraghty, “I'll submit to you, Captain, and will suffer any thing; flog me, if you like. You are a good sodger, an' saw the enemy; but by J——, I'll not be insulted by brats o' boys who never smelt powdther.” The consequences of this violence of course led to punishment: Geraghty was flogged for the mutiny; he received six hundred and fifty lashes, laid heavily on; yet he never uttered a groan during the whole of this suffering; and when taken down, although bleeding, bruised, and doubtless greatly exhausted, assumed an air of insolent triumph; put on his shirt, and boldly walked off to the hospital. The body of the man was overcome,—the pallid cheek, the bloodshot eye, the livid lip, the clammy mouth—all declared it; but the spirit was wholly untouched by the lash: nothing on earth could touch it. The 87th was subsequently quartered in Guernsey: here the sheriff, a little powdered personage of the forensic faculty, was the immediate cause of another punishment to Geraghty, by having preferred a complaint against him. The deepest enmity towards the civic officer arose in Geraghty's breast, and he vowed vengeance against him. It happened that after long looking out for the fulfilment of his vow, he met the sheriff one dark night in a narrow way: a moment so precious could not be wasted; so Geraghty, with an oath like the thunder of Jupiter, seized his victim by the collar of his coat and the posterior portion of his pantaloons, and having twirled him in the air just as he would a monkey, flung him “neck and crop” (as the flinger said) over the church-yard wall, which stood full seven feet high, beside the road. The sheriff received several bruises and a dislocation of the shoulder by the fall, but managed to creep home, after a little rest taken on a grave, quite as much frightened as he was hurt. Of course the necessary steps were taken next day to bring Geraghty to justice; but at the trial the sheriff failed in his evidence, having none but his own oath, while the prisoner proved that he was in bed when the roll was called, and also that he was on parade at six in the morning: the court was of opinion that the sheriff might have been mistaken, and therefore acquitted the graceless grenadier. General Doyle, however, was not quite convinced of the prisoner's innocence, and although acquitted, he received a private reprimand from the General, who also addressed the regiment publicly upon the necessity of behaving with decorum towards the inhabitants, giving Mr. Geraghty many severe hints upon the sheriff's affair, which showed that Sir John Doyle was not one of those who doubted his delinquency. “Eighty-seventh,” said the General to the regiment in a loud voice, “you have always distinguished yourselves in the field, and have never disgraced yourselves in your quarters: you have fought with the enemies of your country, and not against your countrymen. I trust you will continue to respect the civilian, and thereby respect yourselves. An occurrence has taken place lately which I am shocked at, and if I thought the 87th regiment would practise such gross conduct against the worthy inhabitants of this island, it would break my heart.” This natural appeal had a powerful effect: every man felt as if his own father addressed him, and Geraghty amongst the rest participated in the respectful homage paid to the parent of the corps; for he then was sober, and consequently rational and kind-hearted. A short time after this the General held a levee, and Geraghty happened to be the sentry on his house. The sheriff having attended, was returning from the doors, the General and several friends in the balcony above, elevated at no greater distance than that within which every word spoken at the door could be distinctly heard by them: the sheriff passed close to Geraghty, who, not thinking that there was anybody within hearing, seized the little gentleman by the buttonhole, and forcibly detained him while he addressed him in the following impressive manner: “Come here, you little rascal:”—the petrified civilian trembling, looked up and listened,—“I tell you what; by J——, if it wasn't that I'd brake the poor owld General's heart, I'd just take an' I'd smash every bone in your skin this minute; so ger out o' my sight, and never come near me again while you've breath in your little body.” Sir John heard the whole of this address, and saw the sheriff hasten to obey the commands of the sentry. He did not bring him to court-martial, for he wisely thought that punishment was wholly useless: however, he procured his discharge, as the only means of securing the regiment against the farther consequences of Geraghty's kick. |
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