“A band of gallant souls, who knew
The olive wood, the mountain blue,
The ration rum, the biscuit black,
The long bleak road, the bivouac,
The cannon's thunder, and the bays
That wave o'er glorious victories,
Better than city's midnight dress,
Her luxuries, and gaudiness.”

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Scene—the mess-room of an Infantry regiment.

By way of introduction to the present number of “Mess-Table Chat,” a short description of the scene, as well as the actors in it, will not be amiss; it will assist the reader very considerably in the conception of the picture.

Let him, then, imagine a spacious apartment well-carpeted, containing a large sideboard, on which are spread all the shining accompaniments of good eating and good drinking; the windows richly curtained; a large blazing fire at one extremity of the room (the season requiring it); an oblong table, at which are seated about eight-and-twenty officers, all in their full regimentals;—scarlet coat, yellow facings buttoned back on the breast; the field officers (a colonel and two majors) having two rich silver epaulettes each; the staff (three surgeons, one pay-master, and one quarter-master) in single-breasted coats without epaulettes; and all the other officers (three of the grenadiers and three of the light company excepted—they having two wings instead) wearing one epaulette each on the right shoulder; white pantaloons, and Hessian boots on all; sashes (except with the staff) but no swords.

Let the reader also imagine the countenances of the officers; the greatest number well tanned by the sunshine of foreign climes, and exhibiting the marks of various ages from thirty to fifty, amongst them, of course, a few “young hands,” ensigns and lieutenants, with youthful and good-looking faces, in which might be discovered a peculiarity that promised well to honour, at a future period, the more advanced ages of the corps by assuming their present uniformity of “phiz.”

Waiting upon the group, let the reader also imagine six or eight servants, in as many different liveries (all men from the ranks) standing “attention” behind their respective masters' chairs, or assisting in the table service under the “chief command” of the mess waiter general,—a fusty old privileged rear-rank man, in a green livery, faced with red, his person exhibiting evident marks of good living, and indicating thereby the difference between his former barrack-room mess and his present mess-kitchen morsels: upon the table, the dessert profusely spread; the board laughing with light; corks chirping; glasses sparkling; and the band in the passage without, playing in their best style the beautiful melody of “Go where glory waits thee.” This is the Mess-Room of a happy regiment.

I cannot decorate my heroes with that highly esteemed badge “the medal,” because the regiment I describe never

“Smelt Waterloo's pink-ribbon'd shot.”

Yet are they not the worse for that: many fought at the immortal engagement commemorated by the medal, whose battle account, if scrutinized, would be found to fall short of theirs—perhaps one twentieth part.

The members of the mess are partly English, partly Irish, and partly Scotch: I will not here mention their names, but let them “fall in” just as the dialogue may call them up.

Time about seven o'clock.—Cloth just removed.

Capt. Ball (president for the day). Gentlemen, fill.

Major Swordly (“vice” for the day). We are all ready at this end of the table.

Capt. Ball (looking through a full glass). “The King! God bless him!”

[All drink bumpers to the toast. “God bless him!” “God bless him!” passing from one end of “the line” to the other, while the band without change to the royal and national anthem. The Mess in under-tones chat to each other.]

Capt. Ball. Gentlemen, I'll give you another toast:—The revered and cherished Memory of the late Duke of York, the Father of the Army.

[All rise and drink the toast in solemn silence, after which they resume their seats, and a slight pause ensues.]

Capt. Killdragon. Heaven bless his memory! it will be a long time before we forget him.

Col. Shell. I think we may say with Shakspeare—

Capt. Killdragon. Yet kind, generous, good, and great as he was, men were not wanting to revile him.

Major Mc Rocket. Men! did ye say? mere like deevils.

Capt. Killdragon. Devils, indeed! Mc Rocket, and my own country devils too: sorry am I to say it.

Dr. Slaughtery. Yes, yes, Killdragon; but this was not worse than the English conspiracy formed against him some years ago: the attack made upon him by Mr. Shiel was the effect of the unfortunate party feeling which prevails in Ireland. I do not speak so because I am myself an Irishman, but because I am convinced that so long as the violence of party exists in that country, you will have such things.

Capt. Killdragon. Oh! doctor, you have too much of the milk of human kindness about you. I (as you all know, Gentlemen) am a Catholic—I hope yet to see the members of my religion emancipated from their grating chains; but is it by such firebrands as now inflame the Irish, we are to be liberated? No; those can only make our chains red-hot, and weld them firmer—those are but the evil tools of their own selfish purposes, and to be the idols of a mob, would lead it to its perdition the while. However, let the motives be what they may, the conduct in this affair was detestable. The man who would draw aside the curtains of the death-bed, that the rabble which followed him might mock the dying, while he himself stood by it, displaying his venomous teeth, and mixing with the prayers of his helpless victim his own horrid yells—is a monster, which I had thought was only to be imagined, until a demagogue, my countryman and fellow Catholic, embodied the horrid conception.

Dr. Slaughtery. But he neutralized it by the amende honorable.

Capt. Killdragon. Ay, ay, neutralized it, indeed; that is, he added an alkali to his acid—such union, we know, produces froth—insipid—nay, disgusting froth. The fact is, the patching only made things worse; for the Duke was in articulo mortis, (as you would say, Doctor,) when the cold-blooded and heartless declaimer apologized for his wanton brutality. Besides, he found that he disgusted even his own partisans, and therefore feared the loss of his all—his popularity—his brief popularity.

Major Mc Rocket. By G—! yir raight, Killdragon; an' ye speak the feelings o' us a'.

Dr. Slaughtery. I do not defend the act: it certainly was bad; but I think it arose from party violence.

Several Voices. It admits of no excuse.

Col. Shell. And the Doctor thinks so too; but he loves argument as dearly as he does his country, and only wishes now to draw you out, Killdragon.

Dr. Slaughtery. Thank you, Colonel; I have drawn him out, and now I'll draw in my horns.

All the Mess. Bravo! bravo!

Capt. Ball. Gentlemen, as we are on the subject of the Commander-in-Chief's death, I beg to mention that Mr. Steel, my worthy young Sub here on my left, has written a song upon the occasion, and set it to music. You all know how he sings, and what do you say to hearing it? The band can accompany the song, for they have learnt the music of it.

[This announcement was received with enthusiasm, and Ensign Steel, although blushing under his honours and opposing “the motion,” was obliged to yield to the general request. The band having been ordered to accompany the song, now played a fine impressive symphony, and the Ensign sung with great effect the following:—

LAMENT OF THE CHIEF.

I.

Soldiers! the chief that you loved is gone
To the tomb where his fathers sleep,
Where the mighty rest,—but there is not one
Like him in its holy keep.
The dead where he lies wear diadems,—
His crown is the soldier's love;—
Not a thing of gold nor of costly gems,
But a glory that's brought from above.

II.

Soldiers! the heart that was good and great,
Is still, and its warmth is past;
For you and your weal its first pulses beat—
For you and your weal its last.
In the midst of the forest of lofty pines
Thus drops the parent stem,
Thus a father whose hope in his children shines—
All blessing, and blessed by them.

III.

Soldiers! go plant a branch by his tomb,
From the wreath which to you he gave,
And high may it grow, and spread, and bloom,
And long may it over him wave!
Oh, yes, it will bloom when past are ye,
And age shall not number its years,
For the smiles of your orphans shall sun the tree,
And your widows shall wet it with tears.

[The warmest applause followed this song, while the countenances of all the listeners glowed with the indescribable sensations which the union of the sentiment with fine voice and melody produced. The harmony was well executed, and Mr. Steel's admirable taste gave great effect to the whole.]

Col. Shell. The last lines, I presume, allude to the Duke's patronage of the Orphan School at Chelsea.

Ensign Steel. Yes, Sir.

Major Mc Rocket. An' a lasting monument it is, Colonel.

Col. Shell. Yet this, great as it is, is only a part of the good he has done to the army.

Capt. Killdragon. I, as an individual, can bear testimony of his paternal kindness. You all know I was cashiered on account of that cowardly dragoon, who first insulted me (then a mere boy), and afterwards refused to give satisfaction. I applied to the Duke, and presented the memorial myself. When the Aid-de-camp bowed me in, “Ensign Killdragon,” my heart was in my mouth—I didn't know whether I was on my head or my heels; but when I saw the fine, smiling, good-natured GENTLEMAN, standing with his back to the fire, as careless as if he had been only a head clerk, I was relieved from my fears. I gave the paper into his own hands, and he, in the kindest manner, told me he would read the proceedings of the court martial, desiring me to call on the following levee-day. I did: he had read the proceedings, and asked me several questions relating to the matter. At length he said, “You shall have an answer.” I withdrew, delighted with the affability of the Royal Duke, at the same time doubtful of success; “but,” thought I, “if I am refused, it will be like a gentleman.” I got a letter in four days after, informing me that I was reinstated. 'Faith! I drank a bottle to the Duke's health that night, and now I'll drink another to his memory.

Col. Shell. This is only one in thousands of instances. Whenever he could grant a request, consistent with his duty, he did so.

Major Mc Rocket. The Duke o' Wellington has noo got the command, an' I have nae doobt that he'll gi'e us a' satisfaction. The army is a wee bit afraid o' him, because he is sic a disciplinarian, but in my opinion that's a' for the better; an' I'll wager ony mon in England a dozen o' claret, that the Duke will be as gude an officer at the heed o' the army as he was afore. Ye see he hasn't changed a single man in the office; but has already done a gude thing for the country, in uniting the Ordnance Department to his ain.

Capt. Ball. There is none like him; he is a good soldier, a prudent general, and a kind man. He was strict and severe while in the Peninsula, but he could have done nothing had he not been so; not only his own private interests, but his country's hopes and glory, depended upon his success. Gentlemen, I'll give you “The Duke of Wellington and the Army.”

[This toast was drunk standing, and with “three times three,” and the band played “Rule Britannia” in the finest style.]

Capt. Killdragon. By Gad! Wellington is the boy that made work-men of us at any rate.

Major Mc Rocket. Yir nae far oot there, Killdragon; an' if we tak the field again, I hope he'll gang wi' us.

Major Swordly. Mr. President, the paymaster on your right there, is neglecting his accounts very much:—bring him to book, and send the decanter this way.

Mr. Cashly. Don't fear, Major; I'll take a receipt in full now:—À votre santÉ.

Major Swordly. Mr. Quartermaster Sharp, you should keep to the allowance,—come, fill!

Mr. Sharp. I assure you, Major, I like a full ration.

Dr. Slaughtery. So do we all; and if we go out again, Sharp, my boy, we'll keep you to your word.

Mr. Sharp. I don't care how soon this may happen; another campaign would do the regiment no harm, particularly as regards these young subalterns here.

Ensign Steel. Heaven grant we may have another breeze!

Major Mc Rocket. Tak care, mun; it may come a bit too soon.

Ensign Steel. No, Major, not a minute too soon. I don't like home service; give me the field. I wish I had it in my power to volunteer to-night for the storming of a breach at daybreak.

Capt. Ball. You might have too much of that too, my boy; like young O'Connel, a lad of about eighteen—your own age. He volunteered on the storming-party at Badajoz, for his ensigncy in the 59th, and escaped; he then volunteered on the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo, and there also escaped,—got his Lieutenancy. Again, at the storming of St. Sebastian he would volunteer, against the advice of all his brother officers. God knows! to have stormed twice as he had done, was enough for any one, but he was determined, and like a hero mounted the breach.

Capt. Killdragon. I saw him that day almost at the head of the column, smiling with as much confidence as if he thought the balls knew him and would run away from him.

Capt. Ball. Poor lad! he was made a riddle of. I counted sixteen ball-wounds in his body.

Capt. Killdragon. Rashness is very often the bane of courage. There was a countryman of mine at Badajoz, a young Ensign; he, with the men, was ordered to lie down, so as to conceal themselves from the view of the batteries on the ramparts. The young fellow was rash enough to put up the colours which he carried, in order (as he says himself) that it might receive a ball or two, and thus afford evidence of his danger. The consequence was, that a tremendous shower of cannon-ball was directed to the spot where the fool-hardy Ensign was: one struck him on the hip, and carried away the whole of the fleshy part of the thigh: then a musket-ball hit him in the breast. The rashness of this officer is greatly to be regretted, for many men fell beside him, from the fire in which he himself was mutilated. He is still alive, and on the half-pay of the Queen's Germans. I saw him in town a few weeks ago.

Col. Shell. This was not true courage, but hair-brained folly. Mr. Steel, I'll give you an instance of steady bravery:—When Colonel Higgins was a cornet (I think in the 18th), and in Holland, the Duke of Cambridge wished to send a despatch to a certain point, the way to which was cannonaded heavily by grape-shot. His Royal Highness asked, if there was any dragoon officer near him who would volunteer for the duty? Young Higgins immediately presented himself—he took the despatch—gallopped off: the Duke could see him from where he stood, the whole of the distance. When about half way, and in the thick of the fire, Higgins dropped his helmet: he coolly pulled up his horse, alighted, put his helmet upon his head, mounted again, and continued his course. The young officer returned through the same danger safely, and his Royal Highness was so pleased with his steady courage, that he appointed him to his personal staff, and he is his Royal Highness's private secretary at this day.

Ensign Steel. That I think, certainly, of different character from the conduct of the Ensign, although both might be equally brave. What regiment did Mr. O'Connel belong to, Captain Ball?

Capt. Ball. The 59th.

Major Swordly. That regiment had a vast deal to do on the last campaign in Spain.

Capt. Killdragon. It behaved nobly at Vittoria, although a great part of it were very young soldiers. At a little village on the left of the town, the French made a most desperate effort to prevent our troops crossing the little river. (I was Brigade Major at the time, and so could see those things.) They had two field-pieces planted close to the bridge, which was not wide enough to permit two carts to pass abreast, and their infantry defended this pass for a long time. The men were butting each other in a dense mass on the bridge, after they had been tired of the bayonet; and caps, and muskets, and bodies were heaved over the sides into the stream, till they almost choked the arches beneath. The 59th came up to the bridge, after a repulse, commanded by Colonels Fane and Weare, and the fire upon them was thick and destructive—grape and musketry. The young fellows began to dip their heads and straggle, when Colonel Weare rode back to them, and cried out,—“59th! for shame, for shame!” This was like magic; the men dashed on steadily, but at the instant he received a ball in the spine. Colonel Fane, who headed the battalion, now rode up to Colonel Weare; and perceiving his state, shook hands with him, and then gave directions for his removal: there was not an instant to lose—the men were advancing like lions to the bridge—“God bless you, Weare!” was all that the Colonel had time to say, and he then rode on with the regiment; but in the next minute he received a shot himself in the groin, and was obliged to leave the men to themselves. They did their duty, and carried the bridge. Poor Fane was dead before his friend Weare, with whom he shook hands, in the belief that he would not be an hour alive. Both died of their wounds in a few days, and I attended both their funerals in the town of Vittoria. A finer picture of a hero in death, than the naked body of Weare on his cold bed was, no man ever beheld—noble fellow! A letter just arrived at the regiment the day after he died, to say that his wife and family had landed at Lisbon with the view of joining him: sad was the answer to that letter!... Colonel Fane was the brother of General Fane, you know, and a finer or more gallant fellow never fought. Both these leaders were buried in a yard behind the Hospital, while a French General was, at the same time, entombed within the walls of the principal Church; but this was because the Frenchman was a Roman Christian, and the others English Christians. It grieved me to see it; and never did I feel the folly and absurdity of such religious differences so forcibly as on that melancholy occasion. The Spanish priests regretted (and sincerely too) that they had it not in their power to honour the remains of their allies as they, from Christian charity, did the remains of their enemy.

Col. Shell. I knew both Fane and Weare well, and better officers could not be.

Ensign Young. Captain Killdragon, was it Colonel Fane's horse that gallopped into the enemy's ranks, as you were telling us the other evening?

Capt. Killdragon. No, no. That was at the battle of Salamanca. It occurred with the 5th Dragoon Guards.

Mr. Cashly. What was that? I was in the brigade at the time.

Capt. Killdragon. The horse that lost his rider, and—

Mr. Cashly. Oh! yes, yes, yes. I know.

Major Swordly. Let us hear it.

Capt. Killdragon. When the regiment charged the French on the plain, one of the men was thrown off his horse: the animal dashed into the enemy's lines, and after the regiment to which he belonged had retired from the charge, he was seen scampering about amongst the French infantry, kicking and frolicking. The 5th was ordered to renew the charge, which they did; and as they were approaching the enemy, the horse in question gallopped over to them, regularly fell into the ranks, as if a dragoon had been upon his back: he continued in rank during the operation of the charge, and returned in line with his troop, to the astonishment of his rider, and the admiration of all who saw him.

Mr. Cashly. It is a fact, I know it to be so.

Capt. Ball. Mess-waiter, look to the decanters!—gentlemen, I have a proposal to make: we cannot be more harmonious than we are; but by way of diversifying our happiness, suppose Killdragon favours us with his “British Bayoneteers.” It will bring back the recollections of the “work” as he calls it.

[All now warmly called on Captain Killdragon, who was not a man that required much pressing; so, having filled his glass and put on a regular corporal countenance, he sang the following song, in a fine bold voice, and all the Mess joined in merry chorus:—

THE BRITISH BAYONETEERS.

I.

Eyes right! my jolly field boys,
Who British bayonets bear,
To teach your foes to yield, boys,
When British steel they dare!
Now fill the glass, for the toast of toasts
Shall be drunk with the cheer of cheers:—
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
For the British Bayoneteers!
Then fill the glass, for the toast of toasts, &c.

II.

Great guns have shot and shell, boys,
Dragoons have sabres bright,
Th' artillery's fire's like hell, boys,
And the horse like devils fight;
But neither light nor heavy horse,
Nor thundering cannoneers,
Can stem the tide of the foeman's pride,
Like the British Bayoneteers.
Then fill the glass, for the toast of toasts, &c.

III.

See, see, red Battle raging,
In wild and bloody strife;
His burning thirst assuaging
In the smoking tide of life!
From the shower of balls our men give way—
But the rank of steel appears:
They charge!—Hurrah! Hurrah! for the day
Is the British Bayoneteers!
Then fill the glass, for the toast of toasts, &c.

IV.

The English arm is strong, boys,
The Irish arm is tough,
The Scotchman's blow, the French well know,
Is struck by sterling stuff;
And when, before the enemy,
Their shining steel appears—
Good by'e! Good by'e!—How they run! How they fly
From the British Bayoneteers!
Then fill the glass, for the toast of toasts, &c.

Loud applause followed this song, for the wine had pretty freely circulated before it was sung. A deviled turkey was now brought in, the decanters were all replenished, and several jolly songs sung. It was a festival day; therefore did the young subs leave off the everyday rule of quitting the mess-table after the “second allowance,” and indulged ad libitum. In short, a merrier set of fellows, from the Colonel to the Quarter-master, never broke up from a happy mess-table, than they, at half-past 12 o'clock, A. M.

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