"These hands are brown with toil; that brow is scarred;
Still must you sweat and swelter in the sun,
And trudge with feet benumbed the winter snow,
Nor intermission have until the end.
Thou canst not draw down fame upon thy head,
And yet wouldst cling to life!"—ALEXANDER SMITH.
"A lieutenant in the 7th, or Royal Fusiliers!—am I actually so?" was the question Quentin asked of himself repeatedly.
There could be no doubt about it; the general had said so, and the Gazette confirmed it, that he, Quentin Kennedy, volunteer with the 25th Foot, had been appointed to that regiment, one of the oldest corps of the line—a "crack one," too—commanded by General Sir Alured Clark, G.C.B. Long known as the South British Fusiliers, to distinguish them from the Scottish corps and the famous Welsh Fusiliers, armed with the same weapon, the 7th were without officers of the rank of ensign until a year or two ago; thus, at the time we refer to, their two battalions had no less than sixty-four lieutenants.
This sudden promotion, which put him so completely beyond the power of his rival and enemy, the Master of Rohallion, and which gave him independence and a position in society too, puzzled Quentin for a time; but briefly so, as reflection showed him that he must owe it to the great interest possessed by Lord Rohallion, who, he was aware, had now traced him to the Borderers; and this, indeed, was the secret of the whole affair.
And Flora Warrender—she must have seen his appointment in the Gazette long before it had thus casually met the sharp eye of Sir John Moore, and could he doubt that she rejoiced at the event?
To be raised at once from a position so subordinate and anomalous, so unrecognised and so fraught with useless peril as that of a gentleman volunteer, from the ranks as it were of that army whose dreadful sufferings he shared and whose many dangers he risked—to be raised to the rank of an officer in a regiment so distinguished as the Royal Fusiliers, and to be at once, temporarily though it were, placed on the general's staff, and beyond the reach of Cosmo's coldness, pique, and hauteur, was indeed to be independent, and to taste of happiness supreme!
His heart was full of joy, of enthusiasm, and gratified ambition; but sincere gratitude and increased regard for the kind and fatherly old Lord to whom he owed it were not wanting now; and Quentin resolved to write a letter pouring out his thanks, and expressive of all he felt, on the first opportunity. He was right to make the last reserve mentally, for opportunities for committing one's lucubrations to paper were sadly wanting now when within musket shot of the French advanced guard.
He was full of genuine regard for the good and great Sir John Moore, full of enthusiastic devotion, gratitude, and admiration, too! How was it possible that he could feel otherwise? Apart from the news of his promotion in life, which must soon have reached him, he blessed the chance which made his informant the resolute and gallant leader of the British army!
After obtaining the warm congratulations of those who were his friends, and who hailed him now as a brother officer (as for old Middleton he almost wept for joy, and swore to wet the new commission deeply), most grateful indeed to his heart were the humble but earnest felicitations of the soldiers, who crowded round him, poor fellows, all haggard, ragged, and starving though they were, begging leave to shake his hand, and to wish him all success and prosperity to the end of his days. And Quentin felt that such genuine and heartfelt wishes as theirs were well worth remembering as an incentive for the future.
But little time was there for joy or loitering now, as the French were coming on and were again close at hand.
Relieved from the out-picquet on the Nogales road just as the winter dusk was deepening, he passed through the gloomy streets of Lugo, where ammunition waggons, unclaimed or abandoned baggage, and dead horses weltering in pools of dark blood, added greatly to the confusion of those crowded, ancient, narrow, and decidedly dirty thoroughfares; which were destitute alike of lamps, pavement, and police, and were full of holes, puddles, mud, and mire. There were sentinels, with bayonets fixed, at the doors of all the wine-shops and bodegas; yet crowds of famished soldiers loitered about them, while the dreaded provost-marshal guard, with cord and triangles, and patrols of horse and foot passed slowly to and fro in every direction, to enforce that order which the alcalde and his alguazils considered hopeless.
Quentin soon found, however, where the colonel and colours of the Borderers were lodged. It was an old mansion which had once belonged to the Knights of Santiago, the highest order of chivalry in Spain; and above its arched door, where two of the colonel's servants were chatting and smoking—one leisurely polishing a pair of hessian boots, and the other oiling the harness of his charger—he saw carved on a large marble block the badge of the order: a sword gules, the hilt powdered with fleurs-de-lis, and the stern motto, Sanguine Arabum.
It happened, though seated over his wine, after such a dinner as the exigencies of the time enabled him to procure, and though in company with his old friend the gallant and fashionable Lord Paget, then in his fortieth year, rehearsing together their gay but somewhat coarse memories and experiences of Carlton House and the Pavilion, the Honourable Cosmo was far from being in the best of humours.
A full conviction of the sudden and disastrous turn in the prospects of the expedition—the army was now only fighting to escape home—together with the knowledge that on landing in England a horde of harpies—Jews, lawyers, and tipstaves, were all ready to pounce upon him, with protested bills, accounts, I.O.U.'s, post-obits, bonds, and Heaven only knows what more, the result of his Guards' life and reckless expenditure in London—all this, we say, well nigh drove him frantic; and Paget's memories of their brilliant past, and their wild, disreputable orgies with the Prince of Wales and his set, added stings to the terror with which he viewed the future.
Flora's fair acres might have stood in the gap between him and ruin, but fate and Quentin Kennedy ordained it should be otherwise.
"Egad, Paget, you see how it is; I've drained the paternal pump dry—there are bounds to patience, and his lordship will not advance me another guinea beyond my allowance. Indeed, I could scarcely expect it; and thus, I dare not land in England!"
"Let us be afloat before we talk of landing," replied Paget; "it will be a deuced bad affair for us all if we don't find our transports in Vigo Bay; and, entre nous, I think Moore has some doubts about them."
"I don't care a straw if undistinguishable ruin should fall upon us all!"
"Which is certain to be the case, if the said transports are not there," replied the other, with a yawn. "But come, Crawford, fill your glass again; is this champagne some of the stuff we found in Colbert's baggage?"
"My fate will soon be decided," said the other, pursuing his own thoughts; "to-morrow, perhaps, for I can see some indication of taking up a position here, in front of Lugo."
"Yes; but the infernal miners failed at the bridges of the Minho, and the Sil—the river of gold."
"Thus, I say," continued Cosmo, doggedly, "Paget, old fellow, my fate will soon be decided!"
"And it is——"
"Death on a Spanish battle-field, or to rot in an English prison!"
"Don't talk so bitterly; once in London again, we shall see what can be done. Another glass of this sparkling liquid!—wine, wine, I say—drown the blue devils in a red sea of it!" exclaimed the gay Paget.
"Something stronger than wine for me now," said Cosmo, as he filled a large glass nearly full with undiluted brandy, and drained it; "life is short, and not very merry here."
"Egad! I know no place, however, where it is so difficult to live and so easy to die."
"Right—so easy to die!" added Cosmo, with a strange and sickly smile.
It was at this inauspicious moment that a servant in uniform—liveries there were none then with the army—brought in Quentin's name.
"What the devil can this fellow possibly want with me?" said Cosmo, full of surprise at a circumstance so unusual as a visit from Quentin; "is he below?"
"Yes, sir."
"What does he wish?"
"To see you, sir," replied the soldier, with a second salute.
"Who is it?" drawled Paget, watching his cigar-smoke curling upward, and depositing the leg he was destined to leave at Waterloo on a spare chair.
"That fellow who was tried by a court-martial at Alva de Tormes."
"Tried—ah, I remember, for everything but high treason and housebreaking, eh?—ha! ha!"
"Yes; but who gave the charges the go-by at racing speed. Send him up!"
Quentin entered with a flush on his cheek and a painful beating in his heart. He bowed low to General Paget, whom he knew by sight, and to Cosmo, who responded by a quiet stare, and who, before he was addressed, said sharply—
"I generally have my eye on you, sir, and I thought that you were with the outlying picquets in front of the town?"
"I was, Colonel Crawford; but——"
"Was—and how does it come to pass that you are relieved, or here at this time?" asked Cosmo, loftily.
"Because, sir, I am now Lieutenant Kennedy, of the 7th Fusiliers, serving on the personal staff of Sir John Moore."
On hearing this Paget raised his eyebrows and smiled; but Cosmo hastily thrust his gold glass into his right eye, and glared at Quentin through it as he wheeled his chair half round, and surveyed him with cool insolence from head to foot.
"Are you mad, fellow?" he asked, quietly but earnestly.
"Less so than you, Colonel Crawford," replied Quentin, with suppressed passion; "I have here to show you a note from the general."
"To show me?"
"Yes, sir; because it goes from you direct to the adjutant-general for insertion in orders."
Cosmo coughed, and very leisurely opened the little note which Quentin handed to him.
"So, sir," said he, "so far as this scrap of paper imports—and I know Moore's writing well—he has appointed you an extra aide-de-camp?"
"He has done me the honour, Colonel Crawford."
"Your health, sir," said Lord Paget, frankly; "I congratulate you—won't you drink?"
"You might more usefully fill up the time necessary to qualify you for a staff appointment by serving with some corps of the army."
"The 25th, perhaps?" said Quentin, whose temper Cosmo's cutting coldness was rapidly bringing to a white heat.
"No, sir," he replied, with one of his insolent smiles, "I did not mean our friends the Borderers."
"What corps, then?"
"The Belem Rangers; what do you think of them?"
"Crawford!" exclaimed Lord Paget, starting with astonishment, for this imaginary corps was our general Peninsular term for all skulkers, malingerers, and others who showed the white feather, by loitering in the great hospital of Belem, near Lisbon.
Quentin felt all that the studied insult implied; the blood rushed back upon his aching heart, and he grew very pale. The conviction now that his position was different, that Cosmo wished by deliberate insolence to provoke and destroy him, rushed upon his mind, and gave him coolness and reflection, so he said, quietly—
"I shall not report your kind suggestion to Sir John Moore; but I presume I may now withdraw?"
"Sir," resumed Cosmo, starting from his chair pale with passion, as he seemed now to have a legitimate and helpless object on which to wreak his bitterness of soul—a bitterness all the deeper that it was now inflamed by wine—"sir, I refer to General Lord Paget if your bearing has not something of a mutinous sneer in it?"
"My smile might, Colonel Crawford; but not bearing, be assured of that."
"Sir, what the devil do you mean? Is it to bandy words with me? You hear him, Paget?" said Cosmo, incoherently, and purple alike with fury and a sense of shame at the exhibition he was making; "you hear him?"
"I have no intention of insulting you," urged Quentin, anxious only to begone.
"Insults are never suspected by me, but when I know they are intended, as I feel they are now. Even your presence here is an insult! Now, sir, do you understand me, and your resource—your resource—do you understand that—eh?"
"For God's sake, Crawford! are you mad?" interposed Lord Paget; "what the devil is up between you?"
"More than I can tell you, Paget."
"With this mere lad, and you a man of the world!"
"'Sblood! Yes, with him."
The Master's mad pride had involved him in many quarrels, and he had paraded more than one man at the back of Montague House, in London, in the Duke's Walk at Holyrood, and elsewhere—luckless fellows who had resented his overbearing disposition—so a duel to him was nothing, and in his baffled pique and ungovernable fury he was now wicked enough to aim at one.
"Cosmo Crawford," exclaimed Quentin, his dark eyes flashing through the moisture that filled them, "Master of Rohallion," he added in a choking voice, "I have too often, as a child, slept on your good old mother's breast to level a pistol at yours, else, sir—else——"
"Bah!" shouted Cosmo, turning on his heel; "I thought so. Belem for ever!"
"To-morrow we may be engaged with the enemy," said Quentin, in the same broken voice; "I shall be in the field, and mounted too; then let us see whether you or I ride closest to the bayonets of the French!"
"Agreed—agreed!" said Cosmo, with stern energy, as his pale eyes, that shrunk and dilated, filled with more than usual of their old baleful gleam, and he wrung with savage energy the proffered hand of Quentin, who hastened away.
"By Jove," said Paget, laughing, as he filled his glass with champagne, "this same beats cock-fighting! But what the devil is it all about?"