CHAPTER XV.
A SMILE OF FORTUNE.
"But little; I am arm'd, and well prepared.—
Give me your hand, Bassanio; fare-you-well!
Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you;
For herein Fortune shows herself more kind
Than is her custom."—The Merchant of Venice.
No music was heard now on that dreary retreat. The bagpipes of the indomitable Highlanders sent up their bold, wild skirl at times upon the winter blast, showing where the Camerons, the Gordon Highlanders, or the Black Watch trod bare-knee'd through the snow; but no other quickstep met the ear; even Leslie's march cheered the Borderers no more; and many a man among them wished himself with the other battalions of the corps, broiling in India, or serving anywhere but in Spain.
To reach their transports and abandon the country by sea, without risking the slaughter of a useless battle with those whose numbers were so overwhelming, was, for a time, the sole object of the British generals.
Disorders usually prevail in a retreating army, and many circumstances served to augment them on this occasion. Our soldiers were enraged by the apparent apathy or treachery of the Spanish officials, who withheld all supplies; these latter, at the same time did not conceal that they believed themselves to be abandoned by the British to the enemy, in whose overwhelming numbers, with true Spanish obstinacy, they refused to believe.
Perceiving, however, that unless by some vigorous resistance he crippled his pursuers, a flight by sea would be impossible, Sir John Moore recalled General Fraser's division from the Vigo road, and on the 6th of January, after a sharp cavalry encounter at Cacabelos, where Colbert, a distinguished French general, was killed, he took up a position near the city of Lugo, on the Minho, in Gallicia, a place situated on high ground.
So pressed were the cavalry, and so dreadfully had the horses suffered during the retreat, that on entering Lugo many fell dead beneath their riders, and others were mercifully shot. Four hundred of their carcasses, with bridles, saddles, and holsters on—the steeds that whilome had been in the ranks of our splendid 7th, 10th, 15th, and 18th Hussars—lay in the market-place and thoroughfares. There were none of our soldiers who had strength to dig trenches deep enough to bury them; the Spaniards were too lazy or apathetic for the work, or cared not to attempt it while the enemy's voltigeurs or sharpshooters were within sight of their old ruined walls. Swelling in the rain, bursting, and putrefying, the bodies lay there, a prey to herds of devouring dogs, and flocks of carrion birds.
At Lugo the army might have rested for some days, had the bridges of the now swollen rivers been blown up; but the mines had failed, and on the 5th of January the pursuing French came in sight in force, and at last a battle was looked for.
The evening of the 5th proved a very eventful one for the humble fortunes of our hero, and the last of his service in the ranks of the King's Own Borderers.
About four in the afternoon, during a partial cessation of the sleet and rain which had been incessant for so many days, melting the snow on the mountains and swelling the rivers, Quentin found himself posted as an advanced sentinel in front of the line of out-picquets, near the road leading from Lugo to Nogales. Dark clouds enveloped the mighty range of mountains in the distance, but from their summits it was known, by the intelligence of scouts, that the enemy was descending in force.
A blue patch was visible here and there overhead, through the flying vapour, and there, already bright and twinkling, a few "sentinel stars set their watch in the sky."
After the slaughter of the worn or half-dead cavalry horses, all was still, and now not a sound stirred the air save the tolling of the cathedral bell in Lugo, or the roar of the Minho, swollen by a hundred tributaries, and rushing in wild career through an uncultivated waste of stunted laurel bushes to mingle with the Atlantic.
That day Quentin had tasted no food save a handful of corn which he received from Major Middleton, whom he had found fraternally sharing a feed of it with his now lean and gaunt Rosinante-looking charger, which he had stabled under a cork-tree and covered with his blanket, complimenting himself by the old adage that "a merciful man is merciful to his beast."
Oppressed by the sombre scenery, the drenched and uncultivated waste, and the gloom of the December evening, Quentin leaned on his musket, a prey to a fit of intense despondency, and tears almost came to his eyes as he thought of all the horrors he had witnessed since the day on which he landed at the bay of Maciera, the campaign he had served so fruitlessly, and of what was before him on landing, friendlessly, in England.
Better it was to die in Spain, like poor Warriston, whose dead face, as he lay with others, mangled and doubtless yet unburied, in that savage mountain waste, amid the melting snows, came keenly back to memory now!
From this unpleasant reverie he was suddenly roused by seeing a mounted officer, muffled in a blue cloak, with a plain unplumed cocked-hat, riding along the chain of advanced sentinels, questioning or addressing a few words to each, as if to ascertain that all were on the alert.
Gradually he came on, his horse, a lean but clean-limbed and active bay, picking its way among the rough stones and stunted laurel bushes. As he drew nearer, Quentin could perceive him to be a general officer, accompanied, at a little distance, by an orderly sergeant in the blue, white-faced, and silver-braided uniform of the 18th Hussars. On his approaching, Quentin "presented arms."
"Walk about," said he, while touching his hat. This is the usual response of an officer when ceremony is to be waived; but, immediately after, perceiving by Quentin's uniform—for the poor fellow had now parted with his great-coat as well as his blanket, and in a similar fashion—that he was not a private soldier, he came close up to him, and said, "You are, I presume, aware that the enemy is in front?"
"Yes, sir—and more immediately, Ribeaupierre's dragoon brigade and Lallemand's corps."
"Exactly," replied the other, with a pleasant smile; "I like to find a young soldier well-informed of the work in hand—that he knows what he is about, and takes an interest in his profession. Your regiment is——"
"The 25th Foot, sir—2nd battalion."
"You are, I see, a volunteer?"
"Yes, sir."
"How long have you served?"
"Nearly since the campaign opened."
"Without promotion, too!"
"And likely to be without it now, I fear."
"It is somewhat unusual for a volunteer to be posted as a sentinel," said the other, with a keen glance.
"I go where Colonel Crawford orders me," replied Quentin; "and if there was much risk, I spared him the trouble by volunteering readily."
"A young fellow of spirit! Are you born to a fortune?"
"Fortune!" repeated Quentin, with a start, and in a voice that was very touching; "alas, sir, I fear that I am born only to failure!"
"Failure?" said the other, as his colour deepened.
"Yes, sir—like our expedition to Spain."
The officer seemed much struck by a remark that appeared to coincide with certain ideas and fears of destiny that were peculiarly his own. He knitted his brows, and said—
"Young man, you speak very confidently of the fate of 'this expedition to Spain.' Do you know what you are talking about?"
"I trust, sir, that I do," replied Quentin, modestly.
"Then, perhaps," said the other, with a smile as he propounded what he deemed a puzzling question, "you will be good enough to explain the maxims which guide an expedition by land or sea?"
"I shall try," said Quentin, colouring deeply and seeking to remember some of the old quartermaster's enthusiastic tutelage.
"Do so."
"There are, I think, four great maxims."
"Yes—at least, and I shall be glad to hear them."
"First, sir, in an armed expedition of any kind, there should always be secrecy of design, and also, of all preparation. Second: the force and the means employed should always be proportionate to the end to be achieved; (which is not our case here, else we had been in Madrid to-night and not fugitives in Lugo.) Third: there is requisite a complete knowledge of the country for which the expedition is destined; in that at least our brave Sir John Moore is unequalled. Fourth: there is required a commander, who like him has all the turn of mind which is most adapted for that particular branch of the war."
"Upon my honour you are a very singular young man," replied the other, with something between a smile and a frown hovering on his fair and open countenance. "You might teach Cæsar himself a lesson; but before you go any further in your remarks, I think it right to inform you that I am Lieutenant-General Sir John Moore."
Quentin was silenced and petrified. He felt sinking with shame at his own confidence and sudden effrontery, both the offspring of gloomy disappointment; then he strove to remember all he had said, and continued to gaze almost stupidly at the worthy general, who seemed to enjoy the situation and laughed heartily, and said, in a manner that was winning and reassuring—
"I wish Davie Baird or Lord Paget had been with me to hear all this!"
Mild in face and disposition, though somewhat fierce in temper when a boy, Sir John Moore possessed a figure that was tall and graceful. His features were perfectly regular; his eyes were hazel, and his hair of a rich brown colour. His whole face was expressive of cheerfulness and benignity, save at times when a hopeless or desponding emotion seized his mind. There was a very perceptible scar on one of the cheeks, where his face had been traversed by a bullet when leading on the 92nd at Egmont-op-Zee.
In his holsters he always carried the pistols given to him by the attainted Earl Marischal, when he was present, as a young subaltern of the 51st Foot, at the famous reviews of the Prussian army near Potsdam, together with a pocket edition of Horace bearing the Earl's autograph; and these he valued highly as relics of that sturdy old Jacobite, once Scotland's premier peer.
Moore was now in his forty-eighth year, having been born at Glasgow, in 1761, in a house long known as "Donald's Land," in the Trongate—an edifice demolished in 1854. But to resume:—
After enjoying Quentin's confusion for a moment, he asked—
"Are there any other gentlemen volunteers serving with the Borderers?"
"No, sir, myself only."
"Indeed!—what—are you named Kennedy—Quentin Kennedy?"
"Yes, sir," replied Quentin, faintly, and his heart sunk. ("Oh," thought he, "he has heard of that accursed court-martial—who has not? It is all over with me now!")
"Have you not seen the last War Office Gazette, which came this morning from England?"
"No, sir, I am sorry to say that—that—" stammered Quentin, ignorant of what dereliction of duty might be here inferred; "I only—that is——"
"Then get a look of it, and there you will find yourself gazetted to a lieutenancy in the 7th, or Royal Fusiliers. I congratulate you, sir—your regiment is at present in England, where I wish we all were, with honour and safety."
Quentin was overwhelmed by this intimation.
"Oh, sir, are you sure of this?" exclaimed the poor lad, trembling with many mingled emotions.
"Sure as that I now address you; and if your name be Quentin Kennedy, serving with the King's Own Borderers—full lieutenant in the corps, which has no other subalterns. Now you cannot continue to serve thus—carrying a musket with the 25th; other work must be found for you. When will you be relieved from this post?"
"In a few minutes, sir—my hour is nearly up."
"Then you will take a note from me to Crawford, your colonel," said Moore; and drawing forth a note book, he rapidly pencilled a note, tore it out, folded it and addressed it.
"The bearer hereof," it ran, "Mr. Q. Kennedy, having been appointed by his Majesty to a lieutenancy in the 7th Fusiliers, will serve on my personal staff, as an extra aide-de-camp, until he can join his regiment, now in Britain.
"JOHN MOORE, Lieut.-Gen."
"You will show this to Colonel Crawford and to the adjutant-general, with my compliments. It will be in orders to-morrow. Wyndham has gone to London with poor General Lefebre and the despatches of our cavalry affairs at Sahagun and Benevente, so I must have your assistance in his place during this expedition," he added, smilingly, with an emphasis. "Captain Hardinge will lend you a horse—I know he has some spare cattle—meet me at my quarters opposite the cathedral to-morrow morning early; till then good-bye, Lieutenant Kennedy, and I wish you success!"
Moore drew off his glove, shook Quentin's hand with friendly cordiality, and rode away at a canter, leaving our sentinel in a very bewildered state of mind indeed.