Handy Andy Volume Ii Part 16

"One does Spray, and another Weyman, and another Sir John Stevenson, and so on; and they go on responsing and singing 'Amen' till the Ordnance Office rings again."

"Have they nothing better to do?" asked the Squire.

"Very little but reading the papers," said the doctor.

"Well--Tom--you must know, sir--was transferred some time ago, by the interest of many influential friends, to the London department; and the fame of his musical powers had gone before him from some of the English clerks in Ireland who had been advanced to the higher posts in Dublin, and kept up correspondence with their old friends in London; and it was not long until Tom was requested to go through an anthem on the great office- desk. Tom was only too glad to be asked, and he kept the whole office in a roar for an hour with all the varieties of the instrument--from the diapason to the flute-stop--and the devil a more business was done in the office _that_ day, and Tom before long made the sober English fellows as great idlers as the chaps in Dublin. Well--it was not long until a sudden flush of business came upon the department, in consequence of the urgent preparations making for supplies to Spain, at the time the Duke was going there to take the command of the army, and organ-playing was set aside for some days; but the fellows, after a week's abstinence, began to yearn for it and Tom was requested to 'do the service.' Tom, nothing loath, threw aside his official papers, set up a big ledger before him, and commenced his legerdemain, as he called it, pulled out his stops, and began to work away like a weaver, while every now and then he swore at the bellows-blower for not giving him wind enough, whereupon the choristers would kick the bellows-blower to accelerate his flatulency. Well, sir, they were in the middle of the service, and all the blackguards making the responses in due season, when, just as Tom was quivering under a portentous grunt, which might have shamed the princ.i.p.al diapason of Harlaem, and the subs were drawing out a resplendent 'A-a-a-men,' the door opened, and in walked a smart-looking gentleman, with rather a large nose and quick eye, which latter glanced round the office, where a sudden endeavour was made by everybody to get back to his place. The smart gentleman seemed rather surprised to see a little fat man blowing at a desk instead of the fire, and long Tom kicking, grunting, and squealing like mad. The bellows-blower was so taken by surprise he couldn't stir, and Tom, having his back to them, did not see what had taken place, and went on as if nothing had happened, till the smart gentleman went up to him, and tapping on Tom's desk with a little riding-whip, he said, 'I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but I wish to know what you're about.' 'We're doing the service, sir,' said Tom, no ways abashed at the sight of the stranger, for he did not know it was Sir Arthur Wellesley was talking to him. 'Not the _public_ service, sir,' said Sir Arthur. 'Yes, sir,'

said Tom, 'the service as by law established in the second year of the reign of King Edward the Sixth,' and he favoured the future hero of Waterloo with a touch of the organ. 'Who is the head of this office?'

inquired Sir Arthur. Tom, with a very gracious bow, replied, 'I am princ.i.p.al organist, sir, and allow me to introduce you to the princ.i.p.al bellows-blower'--and he pointed to the poor little man who let the bellows fall from his hand as Sir Arthur fixed his eyes on him. Tom did not perceive till now that all the clerks were taken with a sudden fit of industry, and were writing away for the bare life; and he cast a look of surprise round the office while Sir Arthur was looking at the bellows- blower. One of the clerks made a wry face at Tom, which showed him all was not right. 'Is this the way His Majesty's service generally goes on here?'

said Sir Arthur, sharply. No one answered; but Tom saw, by the long faces of the clerks and the short question of the visitor, that he was _somebody_.

"'Some transports are waiting for ordnance stores, and I am referred to this office,' said Sir Arthur; 'can any one give me a satisfactory answer?'

"The senior clerk present (for the head of the office was absent) came forward and said, 'I believe, sir----'

"'You _believe_, but you don't _know_,' said Sir Arthur; 'so I must wait for stores while you are playing tomfoolery here. I'll report this.' Then producing a little tablet and a pencil, he turned to Tom and said, 'Favour me with your name, sir?'

"'I give you my honour, sir,' said Tom.

"'I'd rather you'd give me the stores, sir,--I'll trouble you for your name?'

"'Upon my honour, sir,' said Tom, again.

"'You seem to have a great deal of that article on your hands, sir,' said Sir Arthur: 'you're an Irishman, I suppose?'

"'Yes, sir,' said Tom.

"'I thought so. Your name?'

"'Loftus, sir.'

"'Ely family?'

"'No, sir.'

"'Glad of it.'

"He put up his tablet after writing the name.

"'May I beg the favour to know, sir,' said Tom, 'to whom I have the honour of addressing myself?' "'Sir Arthur Wellesley, sir.'

"'Oh! J---s!' cried Tom, 'I'm done!'

"Sir Arthur could not help laughing at the extraordinary change in Tom's countenance; and Tom, taking advantage of this relaxation in his iron manner, said in a most penitent tone, 'Oh, Sir Arthur Wellesley, only forgive me this time, and 'pon my _sowl_ says he--with the richest brogue--'I'll play a _Te Deum_ for the first licking you give the French.' Sir Arthur smiled and left the office."

"Did he report as he threatened?" asked the Squire.

"'Faith, he did."

"And Tom?" inquired d.i.c.k.

"Was sent back to Ireland, sir."

"That was hard, after the Duke smiled at him," said Murphy.

"Well, he did not let him suffer in pocket; he was transferred at as a good a salary to a less important department, but you know the Duke has been celebrated all his life for never overlooking a breach of duty."

"And who can blame him?" said Moriarty.

"One great advantage of the practice has been," said the Squire, "that no man has been better served. I remember hearing a striking instance of what, perhaps, might be called severe justice, which he exercised on a young and distinguished officer of artillery in Spain; and though one cannot help pitying the case of the gallant young fellow who was the sacrifice, yet the question of strict duty, _to the very word_, was set at rest for ever under the Duke's command, and it saved much _after_-trouble by making every officer satisfied, however fiery his courage or tender his sense of being suspected of the white feather, that implicit obedience was the course he _must_ pursue. The case was this:--the army was going into action----" "What action was it?" inquired Father Phil, with that remarkable alacrity which men of peace evince in hearing the fullest particulars about war, perhaps because it is forbidden to their cloth; one of the many instances of things acquiring a fict.i.tious value by being interdicted--just as Father Phil himself might have been a Protestant only for the penal laws.

"I don't know what action it was," said the Squire, "nor the officer's name--for I don't set up for a military chronicler; but it was, as I have been telling you, going into action that the Duke posted an officer, with his six guns, at a certain point, telling him to remain there until he had orders from _him_. Away went the rest of the army, and the officer was left doing nothing at all, which he didn't like; for he was one of those high-blooded gentlemen who are never so happy as when they are making other people miserable, and he was longing for the head of a French column to be hammering away at. In half an hour or so he heard the distant sound of action, and it approached nearer and nearer, until he heard it close behind him; and he wondered rather that he was not invited to take a share in it, when, pat to his thought, up came an _aide-de-camp_ at full speed, telling him that General Somebody ordered him to bring up his guns.

The officer asked did not the order come from Lord Wellington? The _aide-de-camp_ said no, but from the General, whoever he was. The officer explained that he was placed there by Lord Wellington, under command not to move, unless by _an order from himself_. The _aide-de-camp_ stated that the General's entire brigade was being driven in and must be annihilated without the aid of the guns, and asked, 'would he let a whole brigade be slaughtered?' in a tone which wounded the young soldier's pride, savouring, as he thought it did, of an imputation on his courage.

He immediately ordered his guns to move and joined battle with the General; but while he was away, an _aide-de-camp_ from Lord Wellington rode up to where the guns _had been posted,_ and, of course, no gun was to be had for the service which Lord Wellington required. Well, the French were repulsed, as it happened; but the want of those six guns seriously marred a preconcerted movement of the Duke's, and the officer in command of them was immediately brought to a court-martial, and would have lost his commission but for the universal interest made in his favour by the general officers in consideration of his former meritorious conduct and distinguished gallantry, and under the peculiar circ.u.mstances of the case. They did not break him, but he was suspended, and Lord Wellington sent him home to England. Almost every general officer in the army endeavoured to get his sentence revoked, lamenting the fate of a gallant fellow being sent away for a slight error in judgment while the army was in hot action but Lord Wellington was inexorable saying he must make an example to secure himself in the perfect obedience of officers to their orders; and it had the effect."

"Well, that's what I call hard!" said d.i.c.k.

"My dear d.i.c.k," said the Squire, "war is altogether a hard thing, and a man has no business to be a General who isn't as hard as his own round shot."

"And what became of the _dear_ young man?" said Father Phil, who seemed much touched by the readiness with which the _dear_ young man set off to mow down the French.

"I can tell you," said Moriarty, "for I served with him afterwards in the Peninsula. He was let back after a year or so, and became so thorough a disciplinarian, that he swore, when once he was at his post 'They might kill _his father_ before his face and he wouldn't budge until he had orders.'"

"A most Christian resolution," said the doctor.

"Well, I can tell you," said Moriarty, "of a Frenchman, who made a greater breach of discipline, and it was treated more leniently. I heard the story from the man's own lips, and if I could only give you his voice and gesture and manner it would amuse you. What fellows those Frenchmen are, to be sure, for telling a story! they make a shrug or a wink have twenty different meanings, and their claws are most eloquent--one might say they talk on their fingers--and their broken English, I think, helps them."

"Then give the story, Randal, in his manner," said d.i.c.k. "I have heard you imitate a Frenchman capitally."

"Well, here goes," said Moriarty "but let me wet my whistle with a gla.s.s of claret before I begin--a French story should have French wine." Randal tossed off one gla.s.s, and filled a second by way of reserve, and then began the French officer's story.

"You see, sare, it vos ven in _Espagne_ de bivouac vos vairy ard indeet 'pon us, vor we coot naut get into de town at all, nevair, becos you dam Ingelish keep all de town to yoursefs--vor we fall back at dat time becos we get not support--no _corps de reserve_, you perceive-- so ve mek _retrograde_ movement--not _retreat_--no, no--but _retrograde_ movement. Vell--von night I was wit my picket guart, and it was raining like de devil, and de vind vos vinding up de valley, so cold as noting at all, and de dark vos vot you could not see--no--not your nose bevore your face. Vell, I hear de tramp of horse, and I look into de dark--for ve vere vairy moche on the _qui vive_, because ve expec de Ingelish to attaque de next day--but I see noting; but de tramp of horse come closer and closer, and at last I ask, 'Who is dere?' and de tramp of de horse stop. I run forward, and den I see Ingelish offisair of cavallerie. I address him, and tell him he is in our lines, but I do not vant to mek him prisonair--for you must know dat he _vos_ prisonair, if I like, ven he vos vithin our line. He is very polite--he says, '_Bien oblige--bon enfant_;' and we tek off our hat to each ozer. 'I aff lost my roat,' he say; and I say, 'Yais'--bote I vill put him into his roat, and so I ask for a moment pardon, and go back to my _caporal_, and tell him to be on de _qui vive_ till I come back.

De Ingelish offisair and me talk very plaisant vile we go togezer down de leetel roat, and ven we come to de turn, I say, '_Bon soir_, Monsieur le Capitaine--dat is your vay.' He den tank me, vera moche like gentilman, and vish he coot mek me some return for my generosite, as he please to say --and I say, '_Bah!_ Ingelish gentilman vood do de same to French offisair who lose his vay.' 'Den come here,' he say, '_bon enfant_, can you leave your post for 'aff an hour?' 'Leave my post?' I say. 'Yais,' said he, 'I know your army has not moche provision lately, and maybe you are ongrie?'

'_Ma foi_, yais,' said I; 'I aff naut slips to my eyes, nor meat to my stomach, for more dan fife days.' 'Veil, _bon enfant_,' he say, 'come vis me, and I vill gif you good supper, goot vine, and goot velcome.' 'Coot I leave my post?' I say. He say, '_Bah! Caporal_ take care till you come back.' By gar, I coot naut resist--_he_ vos so _vairy_ moche gentilman and _I_ vos so ongrie--I go vis him--not fife hunder yarts--_ah! bon Dieu_ --how nice! In de corner of a leetel ruin chapel dere is nice bit of fire, and hang on a string before it de half of a kid--_oh ciel!_ de smell of de _ros-bif_ was so nice--I rub my hands to de fire--I sniff de _cuisine_--I see in anozer corner a couple bottles of wine-- _sacre_! it vos all watair in my mouts! Ve sit down to suppair--I nevair did ate so moche in my life. Ve did finish de bones, and vosh down all mid ver good wine--_excellent!_ Ve drink de toast--_a la gloire_-- and we talk of de campaign. Ve drink _a la Patrie_, and den _I_ tink of _la belle France_ and _ma douce amie_--and _he_ fissel, 'Got safe de king.'

Ve den drink _a l'amitie_, and shek hands over dat fire in good frains.h.i.+p --dem two hands that might cross de swords in de morning. Yais, sair, dat was fine--'t was _galliard_--'t was _la vrai chivalrie_--two sojair ennemi to share de same kid, drink de same wine, and talk like two friends. Vell, I got den so sleepy, dat my eyes go blink, blink, and my goot friend says to me, 'Sleep, old fellow; I know you aff got hard fare of late, and you are tired; sleep, all is quiet for to-night, and I will call you before dawn.' Sair, I vos _so_ tired, I forgot my duty, and fall down fast asleep. Veil, sair, in de night de pickets of de two armie get so close, and mix up, dat some shot gets fired, and in one moment all in confusion. I am shake by de shoulder--I wake like from dream--I heard sharp _fusillade_--my friend cry, 'Fly to your post, it is attack!' We exchange one shek of de hand, and I run off to my post. _Oh, ciel!_--it is driven in--I see dem fly. _Oh, mon desespoir a ce moment-la!_ I am ruin-- _deshonore_--I rush to de front--I rally _mes braves_--ve stand!--ve advance!!--ve regain de post!!!--I am safe!!!! De _fusillade_ cease--it is only an affair of outposts. I tink I am safe--I tink I am very fine fellow --but Monsieur _l'Aide-Major_ send for me and speak, 'Vere vos you last night, sair?' 'I mount guard by de mill.' 'Are you sure?' '_Oui, monsieur._' 'Vere vos you when your post vos attack?' I saw it vos no use to deny any longair, so I confess to him everyting. 'Sair,' said he, 'you rally your men very good, _or you should be shot!_ Young man, remember,'

said he--I will never forget his vorts--'young man, _vine is goot--slip is goot--goat is goot--but honners is betters!'"_

"A capital story, Randal," cried d.i.c.k; "but how much of it did you invent?"

"'Pon my life, it is as near the original as possible."

"Besides, that is not a fair way of using a story," said the doctor. "You should take a story as you get it, and not play the dissector upon it, mangling its poor body to discover the bit of embellishment; and as long as a _raconteur_ maintains _vraisemblance_, I contend you are bound to receive the whole as true."

"A most author-like creed, doctor," said d.i.c.k; "you are a story-teller yourself, and enter upon the defence of your craft with great spirit."

"And justice, too," said the Squire; "the doctor is quite right."

"Don't suppose I can't see the little touches of the artist," said the doctor; "but so long as they are in keeping with the picture, I enjoy them; for instance, my friend Randal's touch of the Englishman '_fissling Got safe de King'_ is very happy--quite in character."