Chapter XVI (1)

Finding no foe to fight withal, we began to suspect that Mr Chesterfield, as a new-comer, had been hoaxed, in our last halting-place, by some military wag; and Gingham and I fell into a long conversation, which he commenced by reminding me of our arrangement to campaign together, entered into a year before, at Falmouth. All obstacles, he said, were removed; he hoped, therefore, the plan would now be carried out. To this I readily consented; the advantages, indeed, were all on my side. Gingham then, in his own way, introduced a discussion respecting his plans and mine. Be it however premised, we had dined together the night before; and I had shown him some methods—more expeditious than those in common use, which were the only ones he knew—of reducing one denomination of coin to another: _e. g._, dollars to pounds sterling, pounds sterling to francs, &c. He expressed, as before, his high gratification; and begged my MS. calculations “in the strictest confidence,” depositing them in the recesses of his writing-desk. He now, as we were riding along, commenced an important, and, on his part, highly diplomatic conference, by a friendly examination as to the nature of my official duties at Lisbon. I described them, as I have described them to the reader a few chapters back.

“Then, in fact,” said Gingham, “your last year has been employed to as good purpose as it could have been in any London counting-house.” (That was Gingham’s standard.) “You have had the keeping of a distinct account, and that in all its parts, from the items to the account current. Of course, it occupied your whole time.”

“Not the whole,” said I. “There was some to spare, for which I had other employment.”

“Indeed!” said Gingham, with interest. “Will you, Mr Y—, as a particular favour, permit me—confidentially of course—to make an inquiry?”

“Make any inquiry you like: I shall feel pleasure in answering it.”

“Would you, then,” said Gingham, “have the kindness to inform me—that is, unless you feel it a violation of official confidence—what were your other duties?”

“No violation whatever. I kept the letter-books; managed the correspondence: not the whole correspondence of the department, but that of the branch I belonged to—the account office.”

“Your duty, then,” said he, “was to arrange and enter all letters received, and to keep copies of all letters sent?”

“Sometimes to copy, sometimes to make the draughts. A man soon gets into the way, you know.”

“One entire account,” said Gingham, speaking to himself, “and one whole branch of correspondence! What an excellent introduction!”

Not understanding in what sense he used the word “introduction,” I made no reply.

“Of course,” he proceeded, “the correspondence was in English?”

“Almost exclusively. I should scarcely feel equal to any other, except perhaps Portuguese.”

“Might I not,” said Gingham, “add Spanish and French?”

“Well, if I get a little polishing, perhaps you might. Italian I hope to be able to add ere long; and, in due time, German.”

Gingham now turned half round in his saddle, and addressed me with great gravity. “Mr Y—, my dear sir, I venture, as a friend, to offer one suggestion. If a person, not older than yourself, applied for an engagement in the corresponding line, I would say to him—that is, in the strictest confidence, speaking as a friend—‘Say only three languages; wouldn’t advise you to say more.’ The principal, however unjustly, might suspect—excuse me, I speak candidly—might suspect a little romancing. In short, if a person under eight-and-twenty or thirty said five languages, it might prevent an engagement.”

Gingham, I should observe, talked just as he always did. There was still the touch of mannerism, the quiet earnestness blended with courtesy. I never viewed any man with more unfeigned respect and esteem; and yet there were moments, in the course of our present conversation, when I could scarcely refrain from laughing in his face. True, I was one year farther removed from boyhood than when our acquaintance commenced; and more than one incident had taught me, in the interval, the necessity of respecting “time, place, and circumstances.” But the trial was great; a gravity that even Liston could not shake, would have been shaken by Gingham. Still there was his comical solemnity. Still there was his politeness, touched off with formality. Still there were his green barnacles, and his two little winky-pinky eyes. Still, still there was his irresistible nose. Stand everything else, I would defy you to stand that. Great, please to observe, was the difference between Gingham’s nose and Hookey’s, though both arrested the beholder. When Hookey and Gingham met on board the packet, each observed of the other that he had a very odd nose. The first meeting of the two noses, and the look exchanged by the two wearers, beat anything in Molière—so much more comical is nature than fancy. Hookey’s, unquestionably the most marked feature of a very marked countenance, did nevertheless so far maintain the unities, that it perfectly harmonised with the rest of his physiognomy. It was an eagle’s beak, and his whole face was aquiline. Gingham’s, on the contrary, was conspicuous by contrast. It had no appearance of belonging to his face. You might fancy him one of the triumphs of Talicotius—a man (on which subject see Lavater) with a false nose. Neither broad nor massive, yet prominent and conspicuous, it was slightly crooked, flattened on one side; as if, when a baby, he had slept too much on his right cheek, and his nose, from its thinness, had got bent towards his left. This nose, I say, from its peculiar expression, or rather want of expression, appeared no part or parcel of the face in which it stood. And, what was unfortunate, its extraneous appearance was most marked when Gingham was most in earnest; so that it provoked you to laugh just at the time when a man is least disposed to be laughed at.

Well, Gingham having thus accomplished his first object, by ascertaining all that he wished to ascertain concerning myself, now went on, in the second place, to develop his own plans.

“You are, I believe,” said he, “to a certain extent aware of the scheme which brought me out from England. By the public prints, and still more by my private correspondence, I am now led to conclude that Napoleon’s day is near its close, and that the war will soon be terminated. In that event, my plan falls to the ground. But should we carry on the war here another twelvemonth, I shall have time to try it; and, if we go on permanently, I mean to carry it out.”

“I have some general idea of your plan, and that is all. You wish to meet the monetary difficulties connected with the operations of our army, by a method which you have concocted; and which you intend to start, for self and friends, as a private speculation. Don’t see how you can make a beginning: where’s the opening?”

“An opening is afforded by the necessity of the case,” replied he; “which necessity my plan will meet.”

“Don’t see how. Look here; the difficulty is just this: Here are certain headquarters transactions, which require ready money; and that ready money must be current coin. Credit will not do; bank notes will not answer the purpose; no, nor yet bills, nor any kind of available security. It must be specie, minted gold and silver, hard cash. For example, the troops have hitherto been usually paid in dollars. When we have got dollars in the military chest, the troops can be paid; when our dollars are gone, they must wait till we get more. And though we had power to draw at will on the British treasury, for three months’ pay to the whole army, not a stiver can the army receive till we have more dollars.”

“That’s just it,” said Gingham; “and I beg to ask, is such a state of things desirable? The efficiency of our army depends, not on the solvency of our Government, but upon the activity of money-dealers in raking up specie in the four quarters of the globe. That is the state of things which my plan proposes to remedy.”

“Do that, and you will effect a great object. The mode, though, is quite beyond me.”

“I mean to do it, sir,” said Gingham, almost sternly, (for the little man, as he sat on his splendid horse, swelled with the grandeur of his conceptions)—“I mean to do it, sir, by a twofold method: not by two independent methods, operating simultaneously; but by the united operation of two systems combined in one.” His eyes looked full in mine; but his nose pointed at Pledget, who was riding before. I didn’t laugh—in face at least I didn’t—though suddenly seized with a dreadful twitching of the intercostal muscles. “I shall effect my object, sir, partly by paper, partly by hard cash. I shall issue notes payable at sight; and I shall get all the dollars I can into my own keeping. You, when you want dollars to pay the troops, come to me. I, on receiving what I deem an equivalent, let you have them. What will be the result? Instead of requiring a fresh supply of dollars from the coast every time you give the soldiers their pay, you will pay them with the same dollars twice over, nay, over and over again.”

“Why, that’s a bank! You will be banker to the British army!”

“Exactly,” said Gingham, subsiding all at once into his ordinary style of speech: “I mean to establish a headquarters bank. Suggest a title.”

“Suppose,” said I, “as of course you will move with the army, you borrow a suggestion from the military hospitals of the French, and call it “The Ambulatory Bank.” No, that title doesn’t go well. Let me see. A good title requires time and consideration.”

“To be candid, sir,” said Gingham, “you need not trouble yourself: the title is already decided. I won’t tell it, I’ll show it you. Have the kindness to draw up by the road-side.”

We halted, the convoy passed, the cart came on in the rear, and was stopped by Gingham. He then dismounted, gave the bridle to Coosey, stepped up into the cart, opened the tarpaulin at its back, raised a lid, and exhibited a green baize frame fitting into the top of a box, which frame contained a large and splendid brass plate.

“It wouldn’t exactly do,” said Gingham, “to borrow this title at home. Here, though, I mean to make free with it.”

In bold, broad letters, excavated in the burnished brass, I read

“THE BANK OF ENGLAND.”

Really the largeness of Gingham’s plans was too much for my limited capacities. We rode forward again to the head of the column; and I, for a while, rode on in silence, digesting. At length, one idea leading to another, I ventured to say something about “authority—concurrence.”

Gingham, big with his scheme, was now like a gladiator prepared for every thrust. “At home,” said he, “I have all the concurrence, all the authority I need, with many good wishes to boot; and, as to pecuniary support, I can have whatever amount is required. All that I settled before I left Falmouth, or have since arranged by correspondence. Here I ask for countenance only so far as my plan is found, on trial, to aid the public service. Let that once become manifest, and I doubt not we shall find all the favour we want.”

“Only sorry your plan was not thought of before. It might have spared our Commander much anxiety, and our soldiers many privations.”

Swelling with the plenitude of his anticipations, Gingham began to dogmatise. “In London,” said he, “credit is equivalent to cash. Here, at headquarters, the case is different. In London, so long as my banker will honour my cheques, I have cash at command. Here, I may possess unlimited power to draw bills, yet not be able to raise a rap. What makes the difference?”

“Here, your resource is at a distance; there, your banker is close at hand.” I was more disposed, though, to chew upon Gingham’s ideas than to discuss them, and we again rode on in silence. At length I bolted out a difficulty.

“Well, we make an issue in cash—say a hundred thousand dollars, for the pay of the troops. These dollars are distributed, and spent; the whole sum evaporates. How do you get them together again, for a second payment?”

“I don’t expect to get them all,” said Gingham, scornfully. “But suppose I can get a part of them, say half. That, I think, I shall manage; for, observe, ten dollars are quite as many as you can carry about your person without annoyance. Undoubtedly, then, many individuals, receiving a payment in dollars, will be glad enough to lodge them in a bank, when there’s a bank at hand. And when I have issued my paper, payable at demand, many, I make no question, will much rather take it, than burden themselves with a load of specie.”

The reasonableness of Gingham’s expectations was fully borne out, by scenes which I afterwards witnessed, when accompanying the military chest, as it moved from place to place with the headquarters of the British army. A gentleman, say a Frenchman or a Spaniard, has a claim for payment, on account of provisions, forage, or other necessaries, supplied for the service of the troops—the amount, suppose, ten thousand dollars. After long following headquarters from place to place, till he is far distant from his own home, he has at length established his claim: it’s all right, he has got a written order for payment, and enters our office elated, bearing it between his finger and thumb, eager to receive the cash. The cashier takes the bill, points to five deal boxes, each containing two thousand dollars, and tells him, “There’s the money.” I have seen a man, under such circumstances, knocked down in a moment, perfectly dumfounded. He has not brought a horse and cart, and every available conveyance has been impressed by the troops. One of the five boxes is as much as a man can carry; two are a load for a mule. If he has a lodging in the place, he possesses no means even of taken them there; but probably he has none—the whole town is full of soldiers. But to-morrow it will be worse: the army will have swept on; headquarters will be three or four leagues in advance; and the troops will be succeeded by stragglers, camp-followers, marauders, and all the lawless tribe that close up the rear of an advancing host. Poor man! what an alteration in his looks! He sees, in an instant, the full amount of his difficulties. Two minutes ago, he was dying to realise; now, he has got the cash, and doesn’t know what to do with it. I remember an instance when an acquaintance of mine, a Frenchman, came to receive five thousand dollars, which, with the aid of an attendant, he removed from the office. Presently he reappeared at the door, caught my eye, intimated by bows and simpers his request for a private interview. It was easy to guess the subject of his communication, but I followed him out. He had got his five bags in a cowhouse. His home was distant a two days’ journey. How was he to get them there? Could he have gold instead of silver? Would gladly make any sacrifice in the way of _agio_. Couldn’t I _arrange_ it?—How he managed at last, I never learned—whether he got his dollars to a place of safety, or was robbed and murdered on the road. Sometimes the claimants would come eagerly demanding their money, and, the next moment, would most earnestly entreat permission to leave it in our keeping. If a man so circumstanced, instead of hard dollars, could have had paper securing him cash at demand, at a time more convenient for receiving it—in short, Gingham’s plan just meets a case like this. And Gingham, who knew headquarters well, especially in respect to financial details and the attendant difficulties, had devised his scheme as a practical remedy. The claimant gives his bill to Gingham, and takes Gingham’s bank notes, or, if he prefers it, part notes and part specie. Gingham, at his own convenience, gets the official dollars on the bill. Then comes the other advantage. So much hard cash as has not been paid away to the claimant remains at headquarters, available, by monetary arrangements with the authorities, for the payment of the troops, or for any other headquarters purposes. What an improvement from the state of things when cash was so low, that, the commander-in-chief wishing to communicate with a distant point, it was necessary to raise a private loan for the expenses of the courier!

In short, twenty practical difficulties occurred to my mind, all which Gingham took off, as fast as I started them. “After all,” said he, “the only real difficulty will be this: that whereas now, at headquarters, there sometimes is not a dollar disposable for public purposes, we shall then, especially if the army is on the move, have more dollars than we know what to do with.” His plan, indeed, contemplated a large concern, for the cash transactions of headquarters were immense; but it was clear he had viewed the scheme in every light, and was prepared to carry it out. No question, Gingham would have made a good thing of it, both for himself and for his backers in London. Yet it was a concern which Government could not undertake; and which, if Government had undertaken it, would have infallibly broken down. Private enterprise alone could prosperously conduct the scheme.

Gingham had laid out our conference in three parts, and two were now disposed of. First, he had ascertained the progress of my financial education in the past year; secondly, he had developed his own plans; but there yet remained the third topic of discussion, into which he now led with all his usual elegance, straightforwardness, and good feeling. The long and the short of it was this,—he had two gentlemen in London, ready to come out to Bordeaux whenever he commenced operations; they would arrive, like a letter, by return of post; but there was a question respecting myself. Did I feel so far interested in his plan that I might be willing, on due reflection, to relinquish my actual appointment, and work with him? He asked it “in the strictest confidence,” and begged me to consider all that now passed “as merely conversation.”

“Have the kindness to excuse me for a few moments. I’ll presently tell you just exactly my own prospects and plans, and then we’ll talk the matter over. In the mean time, accept my best thanks for this proof of confidence.”

While listening with the profoundest attention to Gingham, I had, it must be confessed, been taking a look, from time to time, at the country round. Hitherto our route had been across an open level, and we had always seen the road before us. Now, first, we reached a spot were we could not discern what was in front. The table-land, over which we had been marching, terminated in a brow or declivity. The road dipped, and disappeared; where it led us there was no perceiving. The road itself also became hollow—that is, it descended between two high banks, and these were covered with underwood. This was the part of our way on which we were now about to enter.

Just at this moment, while I was debating with myself whether we ought to go on without a little exploration, Jones stepped up to me rather hastily. “Please, sir,” said he, “I’m a-thinking Nanny siz something as we doesn’t see.” I should mention that, in the course of our march, when we approached any eminence that afforded a view of the road and country in front, Nanny would trot off from the party, run to the summit, and make her observations—in short, see all that was to be seen. Goats, if you observe, never, unless compelled, venture on new ground, till they have first halted, and taken a view of it. Even sheep, if not over-driven, will not turn down a lane, till they have stopped and turned their heads, for the purpose of taking a look with _both_ eyes. Cows, on the contrary, look and advance at the same time; and your nag, contenting himself with a _one-eyed_ view, appears to advance without looking at all. Your dog, who has more sense than all the others put together, when you come to a place where the road forks—dear old Burruff!—_looks up in your face_. Well, Nanny, in the present instance, had done as she always did. The ground rose to our left, and the elevation _commanded_ the valley in front. On that elevation Nanny was now standing, and Jones’s observation was evidently correct. She saw something, or somebody, unseen by us. There she stood—not, though, as on previous occasions, quietly taking a survey of the road before us: her tail, the “upward curl” of which was more than perpendicular—_retroussé_—from time to time vibrated rapidly. She uttered, at intervals, a sharp, anxious bleat, and ever and anon stamped with a movement so quick, the eye could scarce discern it. “What d’ye think, then, she sees down there?” said I to Jones—“other goats?”

“Please, sir,” said Jones, “I’m a-thinking it’s not goats, sir; ’cause then she wouldn’t stop up there, sir. Please, sir, she’d come back at once, and keep close, sir; ’cause she knows as how I’d protect her varchy, sir; ’cause for fear the Billies should make too free, sir; ’cause, when the Nannies is in milk, sir, they doesn’t not pemit hinnersint libbities, sir.”

Nanny now adopted a new style of attitude—rearing, as when at play, with arched neck and combative front, still, at times, subsiding into the quadruped; now bleating, now stamping, now wagging her tail with intense vivacity; then walking back, stamping again, advancing; gazing all the while on the low ground in front. “If Nanny takes a view, why shouldn’t Sancho?” I cantered up, and speedily cantered down again. “Mr Chesterfield, I think, sir, we had better halt.”

Indeed there was reason. In front was the enemy, drawn up to receive us, in military array. The road, I must explain, led down to a lower level. Just at the bottom, another road crossed it; and, where the two roads cut, they spread out round a large pond. About this pond, but principally in advance of it, appeared a large concourse of the rural population. “_Tout Français est soldat._” I never felt the force of the phrase as I did at that moment. They were armed, and stood in line; their number formidable, their aspect decidedly pugnacious. Oh, you plucky villains! won’t we be down upon you presently? I stated to Mr Chesterfield what I had seen, and he immediately halted our whole party. “If you will ride up with me,” said I, “you may see the whole lot of them.”

I returned to Nanny’s look-out post, but Mr Chesterfield did not follow. Had I known what he was about to do, I should certainly have remonstrated. He chose to take a nearer look at the enemy, and for that purpose rode forward alone. On the eminence on which I stood, I heard the rattle of his horse’s hoofs in the hollow way; and presently I saw him emerge below, at its further extremity. He then reined in his horse, and sat viewing the foe, who greeted his appearance with shouts and yells. Having quietly made his observations, he turned, and began to come back at a walk. As he withdrew, three or four shots were fired after him from below, but without effect. After he again disappeared in the hollow road, though, on his way to rejoin us, I heard, with great uneasiness, other shots fired—the report much nearer. They were evidently from rascals ambushed in the underwood of the two banks, between which he was passing. I rejoined the convoy just as he rode up. His look was perfectly calm and self-possessed, but pale as ashes. He held the bridle in his right hand, while his left hung helpless at his side. Pledget at once tumbled off his mule, stepped up, and addressed him with a tone and aspect of unfeigned concern—“Not serious, sir, I hope?”

“Oh, nothing,” said he, his manner a little hurried; “a mere graze—nothing. Corporal Fraser, the infantry must load immediately. Let them fix bayonets, though. We must begin by clearing those two banks.”

Scarcely were the words out of his lips, when his face became ghastly like death, his eyes half closed, his mouth half opened. His head drooped; and speechless, almost fainting, he sank down gradually from his saddle into Fraser’s arms. The corporal carried him to the road-side—why, he was but a boy—and seated, or rather laid him upon the bank. Pledget was promptly in attendance, got off the patient’s coat, and examined the wounded arm, amidst the clatter of fixing bayonets and ramming down cartridges. “Oh, ain’t we going at it in yarnest, though?” said Jones.

“The system,” said Pledget, with all his usual deliberation—“the system has received a severe shock; that is the cause of these alarming symptoms—they will not last. So it often happens with gunshot wounds. The wound itself is not dangerous. The ball has gone clean through the arm, and at short distance too, but without fracturing the bone or injuring any important vessel.”

Oh, had you seen that lad languishing on the sod, with the black blood trickling from two holes at once, and joining in a sluggish stream which went rippling down his arm, and dripped into the grass! I don’t know what he thought of; I thought of his mother. Enough: the foe is in front.

But affairs now assumed a new phase. While I was anxiously surveying our wounded commander, Corporal Eraser stepped up to me, saluting in due form, _à la militaire_! He stood waiting and looking at me, as if he expected to receive directions.

The nature of the position in which I was so unexpectedly placed, broke upon me in a moment. I’ll tell you just everything, exactly as it occurred. Mr Chesterfield was _hors de combat_. Pledget, in discharge of his professional duty, was wholly occupied in attending upon him. The corporal, and, it was clear, the men also, looked to me for direction in our present fix. Gingham, when the corporal approached me, backed his horse. From many persons such an action might have gone for nothing. But Gingham had a reason for all he did; and, from him, it seemed to say, “Now, Mr Y—, take the management of this little business, and go through with it. Don’t you see, my dear sir? It has devolved upon you.”

“The men are ready, sir,” said Corporal Fraser; “shall we now proceed to clear the banks?”

It was evident I must direct, or nothing could be done. “Wait a minute, Fraser.”

I beckoned to the cavalry sergeant, and desired him to place a few of his men, with swords drawn, in the rear of the convoy, giving them strict directions to suffer no one to fall behind, mule or muleteer. He was then to divide the rest of our mounted force into two equal parties, under his two corporals, who, when the infantry advanced, were to descend along the top of the banks, and halt at its extremity. I then gave the word to Corporal Fraser to move forward at once with the infantry, and clear the underwood, but to halt where the cavalry halted, and by no means to go beyond.

“Then, to prevent that,” said the corporal, “I will go first myself, sir.”

He dashed forward, and the infantry followed, with a shout. Thus we moved down to the extremity of the hollow road. The infantry led the way, gallantly headed by General Fraser, and dislodged some ten or a dozen fellows from the banks, who bolted successively, and cut away, making good their retreat to their own party below. This movement was not effected without some firing on both sides, but nobody was hurt on either. The cavalry, supporting the infantry, walked quietly down the two edges of the cutting: and I put the convoy in motion to follow. Mr Chesterfield now rallied for a few moments, and was eager to remount. But the faintness returned; it was evident he could neither ride nor walk; so he was brought down in Gingham’s cart, with every attention both from Gingham and Pledget.

While we were thus moving down through the hollow, I heard, close behind, an angry shout from our dragoons on the banks above. Then followed three shots in quick succession, one from the underwood, on the side, two from the summit. A bullet whizzed by my head, and spat into the opposite bank. A rustling was then distinguishable among the bushes, and presently a peasant, in a blue gabardine, slid down stiff into the road, and there doubled up. Eluding Fraser and the foot soldiers, he had remained in ambush till we came along, when he had selected me for a passing compliment, as the head of the party, intending no doubt to climb up the bank, if pursued, and escape above. Just as he was taking aim, though, he was seen by the dragoons, who, unheard by him, were quietly moving down at a walk over the ploughed ground. Two of them fired their carbines, and one or both of their shots taking effect, prevented the effect of his.

Too green to know that it was unmilitary, I returned a few paces to take a view of the dying foe. A Frenchman to the last, he must needs find something to say, though life was now ebbing apace. Slowly, and with apparent difficulty, he raised his eyes till they were fixed full on mine; and then, with quivering features, and a strange snapping of the jaw, began to speak. “_Ah, Monsieur —— j’ai pensé—vous._”——He was dead!

We now gained the extremity of the hollow way, and stood looking down on the enemy ranged in order of battle at the pond. Fraser had drawn up the infantry across the road, and the cavalry, with the exception of the rearguard, formed on our two flanks. Our first movement was thus effected. All our men were perfectly steady, but burning to fall to, and savage on account of Mr Chesterfield’s casualty.

Gingham now suggested, as the enemy were so numerous—two hundred and fifty at least, if not three hundred—that it might be prudent to wait a while, in the hope that other parties, bound to headquarters, might come up. But I happened to know that none were coming that day; and Gingham, on hearing this, withdrew his motion. What, then, was our course? How were we to deal with these Mounseers? No doubt we could lick them; and, had fighting been our object, nothing would have given our men greater satisfaction. But we had dollars in charge, and our first care must be to get safe through, and deliver them safe at headquarters. My decision, then, was taken. We must advance—we must continue our march—and we mustn’t let those fellows hinder us; but we must, if possible, effect our purpose, without coming to close quarters. A mêlée we must shun; for, though the issue would be glorious—no doubt of that—yet, if once mixed up with our convoy, the enemy, when they took to flight, might persuade some of our mules to go with them. Our object, then, reduced itself to this: we must disperse the foe, without coming to close quarters with them. Gingham quite adopted this view of the subject, and now prepared for further operations by drawing his pistols from the holsters, and examining their priming. He next called to Coosey to get him his sword out of the cart, girded it on, and drew it forth from the scabbard—a formidable Andrea Ferrara, equally available for cut and thrust. He bore it bolt upright, with great gravity, and with an air half military, half civic, which, on his showy Spanish horse, would have rendered him a highly ornamental addition to a Lord Mayor’s procession.

We were now immediately in front of the enemy; and I rode a few yards forward, to take a full view of their position, previous to our advance. They favoured me with a great deal of noise, and, on my turning, with a few shots, which I acknowledged by taking off my hat. Many of them returned the compliment; while others expressed their civility by a courteous gesture, vernacular in most civilised countries.

The enemy, it was clear, had no idea that we marched with a Nanny-goat in company, and had intended that we should walk into them unawares. In that case, we should probably have come off second best. As matters stood, our position was far more favourable: and theirs, less advantageous in the same degree. The worst of it was, though, that to the left of the main road—that is, on the enemy’s right—a wood came down to within two hundred yards of them; which same wood, further on, extended close up to the road we were to proceed by, and seemed to skirt it for some distance. The danger was that, when we attacked the enemy, and drove them before us, some of them, perhaps the greater number, might escape into this wood; in which case we might afterwards find it difficult to get rid of their agreeable company. These considerations, then, indicated the plan of our attack. I desired the sergeant of cavalry to select seven or eight of his steadiest men, and gain at once the skirts of the wood, at the point nearest the enemy. He was to advance at first as if intending to attack their right; but, when he got nearer, was to quicken his pace, and make at once for the wood. Immediately after, when he saw the general attack commence, his party, also, were to advance and fire; but not to advance so far that fugitives, escaping from the enemy’s rear, might be able to enter the wood. The infantry were to advance, firing, down the road; and the remainder of the cavalry was to spread out on our flanks, and act in concert with us: our whole party pressing more on the enemy’s right than left, in order that their retreat might be from the wood, not to it. These matters I explained distinctly. One other point remained.

“Corporal Fraser, step this way. Your duty is the most responsible of any.” I knew it would be a bitter pill for the corporal, so endeavoured to gild it.

“I am ready for any duty you may assign me, sir,” said the corporal, whose blood was up.

“You must take two or three of the infantry to the rear—we shall want all the cavalry—and see that no muleteer loiters behind, or falls out—bring all up.”

“As you please, sir,” said Fraser; “but in action, the rear is not the place to which I have been most accustomed.” The poor fellow looked so dismally blank, I really felt for him.

“Never mind that, corporal. Remember you have had your turn already, and have done well. Depend upon this,” I added, with a consolatory wink, “should there be any real business in front, though I don’t expect it, you, if possible, shall have your share.” The clouds were now dispelled from the corporal’s face, and he retired to his station in the rear.

Our preparations being thus completed, I forthwith sent forward the cavalry sergeant with his party, to gain the wood. The movement was well executed. They advanced steadily down upon the enemy’s right, without answering his fire; then turned suddenly to the left, and trotted off to the trees. Having reached the point assigned them, they pulled up, faced round, and formed in line. Immediately upon this commenced our general movement in advance, Fraser following the train of mules and muleteers, and “keeping them up behind.” Infantry and cavalry marched down to the attack; while both the contending armies maintained a brisk fusillade. As far as I then discovered, none of the enemy’s shots took effect, while some of ours appeared to tell. The foe stood his ground manfully at first; but, as we got closer, some of them began to run from the rear, and all soon joined in the flight. The retreat was as rapid as it was general; and we, as the convoy could not be left, abstained from pursuit. The cavalry advancing from the wood, though, got a little too forward. The consequence was that a few of the fugitives, running down the main road, attempted to escape into the wood. But a few carbine shots soon turned them back on the main body; and the whole mass then made their escape down the road to our right, which was just what I wanted. Long after we had ceased to fire, they continued to run, without stopping to look behind, alarmed probably by the apprehension of a cavalry pursuit. Half a mile off, in remarkably short time for the distance, I saw some of them, like a scattered flock of sheep, scampering up a hill, and disappearing over its summit. What execution was done by our fire, did not immediately appear. Some decamped slower than others; one or two were carried. Some made their escape through the pond; and of these, some fell over in the water, as if they had been hit. One fell, the men said, and didn’t get up again. A few of the enemy halted awhile to take a look, in their run down the cross-road, as if they would like to make an attempt on the extremity of our convoy, which probably appeared to them unprotected. But, receiving the fire of our rearguard, they again took to flight. We assembled at the pond, and there halted in a body, convoy and escort.

Mr Chesterfield had not yet recovered from the first shock of his wound; and was obliged to remain in the cart, unable to sit up. Gingham administered some brandy, with good effect. We had, however, one other wounded man. I noticed several of our fellows, horse and foot, assembled in a group, from which proceeded loud jeers, and shouts of laughter. There was something in the midst of them, the occasion of their mirth, which I could not see. Presently, however, I caught a sight of poor Jones, the picture of woe. He was standing in a posture very far from upright, and leaning with his elbows on the back of a spare mule—his aspect cadaverous. Advancing, I heard the talk.

“Why, Taffy, old feller, how come ye to get hit there?” A roar of laughter drowned Jones’s indignant reply.

“Taffy, my lad, why, I didn’t think you vos the chap as vould turn tail.”

“It’s a lie,” roared Jones, in a voice of extreme agony and exasperation. “I didn’t turn tail; nor I haven’t not never turned tail. Only jest turned round to load, and felt all at wance jest as if somebody had bin and give me a kick——” A universal roar drowned the conclusion of the sentence.

“Mr Pledget,” said I, “there seems to be here another case, soliciting your attention.”

The men made way. Pledget advanced with great seriousness; and the laughter, though less vociferous, became tenfold in intensity, at the rich idea of Pledget’s investigating and doctoring Jones’s wound. Jones, at the sight of the doctor, in his alarm and anguish set up a regular hullabaloo, almost running into a cry. The doctor, regardless of Jones’s fears and lacerated feelings, began gravely to question him—made serious attempts and approaches to ascertain particulars. Two or three of the fellows, positively overcome with the scene, threw themselves down by the road-side in an agony. One, I really thought, would have laughed himself into a fit. He turned red, crimson, purple, almost black in the face; still, in his bursts, casting his eyes, from time to time, towards Jones and the doctor. Jones, leaning on the mule’s back, screwing and twisting first this way then that, evaded and defeated all the doctor’s approaches; while the men, taking a little extra freedom after our glorious victory, renewed their vociferous merriment. Pledget, at length, began to lose his patience. “Come, my good fellow,” said he; “this won’t do, you know.”

He then looked round at the soldiers, and made a sign. Four of them stepped forward, seized Jones by the arms and legs, and bore him off to the road-side—struggling, fighting, kicking, roaring, screeching, his agony increasing as he saw the moment at hand when he must be doctored. Pledget humanely pointed to some bushes close by, and the men carried Jones behind them. There the bullet was extracted at once. But how Pledget proceeded, or what was the precise character of the wound, of course we, who remained in the road, had no opportunity of perceiving. The progress of the operation, however, was marked by occasional shouts and yells from Jones; and in five minutes he hobbled forth with a rueful aspect, but looking “as well as could be expected.” Pledget almost immediately followed, and handed the bullet to Jones. “There, my man,” said he; “put that in your pocket.”

There still was something, though, upon Jones’s mind. He limped down to the edge of the pond with an eager, anxious look; and began prowling about, examining among the reeds and bushes, right and left.

“Jones, hadn’t you better keep yourself quiet? Sit down, man.”

“Please, sir, if you’ve no objections, sir, I’m noways inclined to sit down jest at present, sir, ’cause it would be rayther ill-colvelielt, sir; rayther be excused, sir. Hope no offence, sir.” He continued on the prowl.

“What are you looking for, Jones? Lost any part of your kit?”

“Please, sir, I’m a-looking for that ’ere Nosey, sir.”

“What! the man that stood treat this morning? You don’t expect to find him here.”

“Please, sir, I see him here, sir; and I marked him too, sir. See him drop somewhere hereabouts, sir.”

This intelligence was “important, if true;” and I also began to look.

There was nothing, however, on this part of the field of combat, to indicate that a wounded man had fallen. Jones, though, was positive.

“Sure you were not mistaken, Jones?”

“No, sir; it wasn’t no mistake, I’m sartain, sir. I’m sartain as I see him, and I’m sartain as I marked him, sir. Knowed him by his——Oh, there he is, sir.”

Jones pointed to something in the pond that looked like a package or bundle, half immersed in the water, at the edge of the reeds, a little out from the side.

A soldier stepped in, and examined more closely. “It’s a dead man, sir.”

“Dead! Get him out, that’s a good fellow. Perhaps he’s only wounded, and not past recovery.”

“He’s past that, sir,” said the soldier, as he turned him, face upwards, on the bank.

The face had a mask of mud. The soldier knelt down, felt in the dead man’s pockets, brought out a white handkerchief of French cambric—wiped away the mud. Yes, it was Hookey! The features retained their general expression—harsh by temperament, but composed to blandness. Oh, what a look was that! Hookey shot through the neck! The brow was slightly knit; the lips were parted; the teeth clenched. His perpetual smile had set his face, at last, in a fixed, unmeaning smirk—the dead man’s simper! The two corners of his semicircular mouth, drawn up high on the cheeks, were flanked by two furrows, rigid and profound! It was the sort of look which, seen but for a moment, stamps on the memory an impression that we can recall at will, and that sometimes comes unbidden!

“Just hold up that handkerchief, my man. Spread it out, will you? Oh, there’s the mark—_Christophe_.”

“Any papers?” said I to Jones, who was rummaging in the dead man’s pockets.

“Only this here, sir,” said Jones, holding up an envelope, which had been emptied of its contents. It was the cover of my letter, which Hookey had undertaken to deliver at headquarters. The letter itself he had probably sent in a different direction.

Jones, meanwhile, had found a leathern purse, which, without any remarks, he was quietly secreting about his own person. The soldier, though, who had landed the dead man, detected this act of conveyance, and demanded “snacks.” A discussion arose, and a squabble seemed inevitable. “Corporal Fraser,” said I, “just see all fair here.” I then turned Sancho’s head, and withdrew from the scene. Sancho had more than once brought down his nose, slowly and cautiously, into close proximity with the object that lay stretched out before him. He now, ere he obeyed the bridle, pawed, tossed his head, and snorted; as though fain to get rid of the very air that he had just been inhaling, and to blow out of his nostrils the smell of blood!

Mr Chesterfield, now considerably recovered, stood by the cart, with his arm slung in a silk handkerchief. He thought he was able to sit his horse—at any rate, wished to try. Pledget objected—wanted him to come on in the cart. A discussion arose; and it was settled at last, that Pledget should mount the horse, while Mr Chesterfield rode Pledget’s mule. Gingham then gave directions to Coosey and Joaquim, who helped Jones into the cart. Coosey had already been won upon by Jones. But now, when Jones came out fresh from the field, with a memorial of the combat that would follow him to the day of his death, Coosey’s admiration knew no bounds. I saw him pass something to Joaquim, who took an early opportunity of passing it to Jones. “You don’t think,” said I to Gingham, “Coosey will give him more than will do him good?”—“No, no,” said Gingham; “you may depend on Coosey’s discretion.”

It was time to be getting on again. First, however, Mr Chesterfield deemed it advisable to see all right respecting the wood. For this purpose, he sent forward Corporal Fraser with part of the infantry. After they entered the wood, we heard a single shot. In about ten minutes the whole party returned, the Corporal riding a clumsy French cart-horse, with a rope bridle. They had found a horse and cart. The shot was fired to bring up the driver, who had, however, got off. The object of the horse and cart was pretty evident. It no doubt had occurred to Hookey that, in case of his making a successful foray, and securing part of our dollars, such a conveyance might do good service in carrying off the “swag.” There was no convenient way of getting the cart to us out of the wood; it appeared to have been brought from another direction; so Fraser had taken out the horse, which he considered his own lawful prize. All being now arranged, we proceeded on our march.

Jones rode on in the cart. He lay along at full length; not on his back, though, but in the opposite position, which he preferred under existing circumstances. I observed him—like a recumbent bull-terrier, with muzzle protruding from his kennel—keenly watching as we proceeded—now forwards, now right, now left, looking out for the _hinnimy_, and eager to have another slap at a Frenchman.

With regard to the enemy’s position, it will probably occur to the military reader, that they might have chosen a better. A more skilful opponent, probably, would have concealed himself in the forest, and attacked us in flank; and a bolder one might have ventured to occupy the hollow way with all his forces—a plan which, if detected, would have been attended with greater risk to himself, but, if successful, with greater damage to us. As it was, the ambuscade was too far in front of the main body, and we were able to deal with it before we were further engaged. Still, I think, it must be admitted, on the whole, the arrangements of the enemy were not badly made. Had we not kept a good look-out—or rather, had not our four-legged attendant providentially put us on our guard—we might not have discovered our opponents till it was too late to avoid a conflict at close quarters, the probable consequence of which would have been the loss of some of our mules; while the crossroads afforded facilities for driving them off, with the choice of four directions. And, some of their party being concealed in the two banks between which we had to pass, we might have discovered an enemy at hand only by finding ourselves under fire. On the whole, we had reason to be thankful that our loss was so small.

With regard to our fallen opponent, Hookey or Christophe, in lately turning over Colonel Gurwood’s volumes, I met with something which appears, curiously enough, to identify him. In a letter from our Commander-in-Chief, bearing date 2d January 1814, that is, two or three months before our rencontre, I find that a person, calling himself Christophe, had been arrested and sent to General Freyre, to be forwarded to Madrid; that, in the November previous, this Christophe was at Bilbao; that he had letters from King Ferdinand; that he showed a draft or order on the Biscayan Provinces to pay him seventy thousand dollars; that he was advised to present himself to the Government; and that, as the opinion entertained of him was not very favourable, and he remained at St Jean de Luz, he was at length arrested, and sent off.

Now, I am not prepared to assert that this was the same individual with my Christophe or Hookey; but, supposing it so, we may give some such sketch of his services as the following. In the early part of 1813, the period of my voyage from Falmouth to Lisbon, the French authorities in Spain, civil and military, were not a little perplexed as to our Commander’s plans for the ensuing campaign. This mystery he solved ere long, by breaking forth from the north of Portugal, advancing on the line of the Douro, marching across the north of Spain, winning the battle of Vittoria, investing San Sebastian and Pampeluna, liberating the Peninsula, crowning the Pyrenees, completing the great circle that was closing round Napoleon, and menacing the south of France. Precisely when we may suppose the curiosity of the Gallic leaders to have been most intense, that is, in the early spring of 1813, just previous to Lord Wellington’s advance, Hookey—Christophe, said his cambric handkerchief—came off to us in the Oporto boat, and, under the assumed character of a courier, obtained a passage by the Falmouth packet from Oporto to Lisbon—in other words, from the left to the right of the position then occupied by the British troops. Subsequently, a Christophe makes his appearance at Bilbao, in the November of the same year; and, on account of his suspicious conduct there, and afterwards at headquarters, is arrested, and delivered over to the Spaniards, for transmission to Madrid. The Spaniards, of course, let him escape; and he then returns to his old trade. He cannot, however, appear again at headquarters, therefore hangs about the line of march on the look-out for a job; falls in with a greenhorn in charge of treasure; gets out of him all the information he can; tries to divert him from his route; tampers with his personal attendant; opposes his passage of a river; makes his escort drunk; and musters a rural force, with the aid of which he hopes to realise more by ready cash, than he did by his cheque on the “Biscayan provinces.” Thus he went on, prying, plotting, and meddling, till he found his end.

We proceeded quietly on our march, Gingham and I riding side by side, while Pledget and Mr Chesterfield preceded us.

“Yes,” said Gingham, resuming the thread of our conversation where our rencontre with the enemy had broken it off; “I know that you have formed schemes connected with military service; and those, I presume, are the plans you allude to.”

I really did not understand, at the moment, what Gingham meant; and, fancying he referred to our recent operations in the presence of the foe, answered wide of the mark.

“No, no,” said he; “I was not speaking, sir, with regard to the little affair which has just come off; though, give me leave to say, Mr Y—, you acquitted yourself in a way that does you credit. I allude to what fell from you within the last hour, when you mentioned some plans that you had formed, and which, you were kind enough to say, you would communicate for my information.”

We now resumed the conversation, which the “little affair” had interrupted. I stated my plans, hopes, difficulties, without reserve; and Gingham, in reply, from his own knowledge and observations, drew, with equal force and feeling, a not very agreeable picture of the discouragements, disappointments, toils, hardships, sufferings, privations, wrongs, and snubbings, incidental to the life of a marching officer on actual service. He was still eloquently descanting on these topics, when we reached the termination of our day’s journey.

GERMAN POPULAR PROPHECIES.

LETTER FROM PROFESSOR GREGORY TO THE EDITOR.

DEAR SIR,—The following notice of certain popular prophetic
traditions, widely current in the country to which they refer, may
perhaps prove interesting to your numerous readers.