8Z3 M 434b v.\-3 GODWIN, i Bookseller, 0iltb. OF THE U N I VERS ITY Of ILLINOIS 3Q3 M434-b 1330 v.l-3 The person charging this material is re¬ sponsible for its return to the library from which it was withdrawn on or before the Latest Date stamped below. Theft, mutilation, and underlining of books are reasons for disciplinary action and may result in dismissal from the University. To renew call Telephone Center, 333-8400 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2019 with funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates https://archive.org/details/bivouacorstories13maxw STANDARD NOVELS. N° LXXIII. “ No kind of literature is so generally attractive as Fiction. Pictures of life and manners, and Stories of adventure, are more eagerly received by the many than graver productions, however important these latter may be. Apuleius is better remembered by his fable of Cupid and Psyche than by his abstruser Platonic writings ; and the Decameron of Boccaccio has out¬ lived the Latin Treatises, and other learned works of that author.” THE BIVOUAC. COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. LONDON: RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET BELL AND BRADFUTE. EDINBURGH; J. CUMMING, DUBLIN. 1839. London: Printed by A. Spottiswoods, New-Street-Square. /. orulcrfi-'Published, by Richard,Jiantleu, J.S29. (DHL, X, OTST D O N, MClA^kl) BEKTT3LTE1T. ST.TV BVRL-OVTON ST&BF1 ', cinomro-, diiblif, bell & bb-adpute, EBmRirRG-n. 1839 , THE BIVOUAC; OR, STORIES OF THE PENINSULAR WAR. BY W. H. MAXWELL, AUTHOR OF “ STORIES OF WATERLOO,” “ WILD SPORTS OF THE WEST,” “ CAPTAIN BLAKE, OR MY LIFE,” ETC. LONDON: RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET BELL AND BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH ; J. CUMMING, DUBLIN. 1839, - TO $ 13 i.y * 3 V, |-3 HIS EXCELLENCY, CONSTANTINE HENRY EARL MULGRAVE, LORD LIEUTENANT AND GOVERNOR GENERAL OF IRELAND, ^ GRAND MASTER OF THE MOST ILLUSTRIOUS ORDER OF SAINT PATRICK, K.H. F.R.S. ETC. ETC. Cfj WITH HIS GRACIOUS PERMISSION, THIS WORK IS INSCRIBED, BY AN ADMIRER OF REFINED TASTE AND LITERARY TALENTS, THE AUTHOR OF “ STORIES OF WATERLOO .” y London, July 10. 1837. I ■; CONTENTS VOL. I. „ PAGE 1 he Village — the Gipsy— and the Route - - 1 The Forest and the Fortune Teller - - - 12 The Rejection - . . _ _ - 22 The Churchyard Meeting - - _ _ 29 The Rival Suitors - _ _ _ - 35 Jealousy - _ _ _ _ - - 42 The Gipsy’s Story - _ . _ - 46 The Mess-Table - - _ _ _ _ gg The Captain’s Story - - - - - 91 The Gipsy’s Story continued - - - - 103 Departure from Country Quarters — a parting Inter¬ view - . _ _ . -126 The March from Ashfiei.d - - - - 130 VOL. II. The Card-Case - - - - - 133 The Rival Armies - - - - - 151 Opening of the Campaign—Affair of St. Millan — the Bivouac - - - - - -156 VlTTORIA - - - - - - -163 Mountain Combat—French Bivouac—Military Re¬ miniscences - - - - - 170 Confessions of a Gentleman who would have married if he could. (First Confession.) - 179 Night in the Pyrenees — the murdered Sentinel — and the Guerilla Chief - - - 200 Vlll CONTENTS, PAGE The Guerilla Bivouac—Anecdotes of their Warfare and Leaders - - - - - 209 A Guerilla Breakfast - - - - 218 Confessions of a Guerilla - - - - 223 The Fall of St. Sebastian - 237 The Storm of Badajoz - - - - 242 The Dead Lieutenant ----- 258 VOL. III. Barbara Maxwell - - - - - 261 Life in the Mountains ----- 290 Confessions of a Gentleman who would have married if he could. (Second Confession.) - - 293 The Major’s Story _____ 308 Entrance into France-—Battles of the Bidassoa and the Nivelle - - - - - 324 Sick Quarters — Depression — an unexpected Letter - 330 Arrival in London — a Scoundrel’s Villany confirmed 338 Memoir of a ruined Beauty - - _ _ 344 The House of Death - 353 The House of Feasting—an unwelcome Visiter - - 359* The Duel ______ 353 Conclusion - - - 373 THE BIVOUAC. CHAPTER I. THE VILLAGE-THE GIPSY-AND THE ROUTE. How often have I paused on every charm,' The shelter’d cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topp’d the neighb’ring hill. Goldsmith. Sweet village ! I must leave thee soon ” — exclaimed a tall military personage, as he laid aside the newspaper, in which the immediate embarkation of reinforcements for the Peninsula was announced. “ I must exchange thy quietude for fields of blood. Well — *tis for the better — a longer stay would hut endanger my own happi¬ ness, and peril that of another already far too dear. Would that the parting words were spoken, and the broad sea rolled once more between us ! ” He sighed heavily as he approached the window, and looked out upon the village street. It was, indeed, a peaceful and a lovely scene. The neat and snow-white cottages, trellised with jasmine and roses, peeped from the shading of the full-grown sycamores that overspread their roofs; while the pointed steeple of the church, overtopping the foliage of the trees, displayed its ancient weathercock. Under the open casement of “ The Greyhound” some rustics were regaling. Further off, a small, but sparkling rivulet glided under the dark grey arch that spanned its B 9 THE VILLAGE GIPSY—ROUTE. flood, and in the distance flung its waters over a limestone ledge upon a mill-wheel, which was now revolving merrily. But on none of these were the soldier’s eyes turned. Through a vista in the trees the tall and shafted chim¬ neys of the parsonage-house appeared, while the building, imbosomed among flowering chestnuts, was scarcely visi¬ ble. There, the fixed and melancholy look of the stranger was directed, as abstractedly he thus gave utterance to his thoughts : —- “ Yes, Mary ; we might have been happy had fate permitted it. I would have sacrificed the field of glory for the home of love. Hand in hand, we would have passed through life together ; and the tranquil enjoyment of domestic felicity would have amply compensated the wild excitement that attends a martial career. Pshaw! this is dreaming; rouse thyself—here comes the harbinger of war ! ” As he spoke, a light dragoon rode forward at a brisk trot, and pulling up at the door of the Greyhound, held a brief colloquy with the orderly in attendance, to whom he surrendered his bridle. The clattering of a steel scab¬ bard on the brick pavement of the corridor announced his approach to the chamber of the commandant; next moment he was in the presence, and delivered a sealed despatch, marked “ Private.” Its contents were brief and important; an intimation that the detached companies of the —th might expect an immediate rout for Portsmouth, to join the battalions in Spain, and the peaceful village of Ashfield would be ex¬ changed for cantonments on the Douro. ec Ay, it is what I anticipated/’ said the tall soldier, after he dismissed the dragoon, and gave the despatch a hurried perusal. “ But a few hours more, and thou and I, Mary, will be as if we never met!” For a minute he paced the apartment in deep thought, then seizing his forage-cap and cane, issued from the Greyhound, and directed his steps to a shaded avenue leading to the church¬ yard, which formed the customary lounge for the idlers of the little garrison. The arrival of a private despatch had quickly transpired, THE VILLAGE GIPSY— ROUTE. 3 and of course occasioned some military speculation. Divers were the conjectures touching the contents of this official epistle. Major O’Connor alone could solve the mystery ; and before he had taken a second turn in the church ave¬ nue, two personages approached and joined him. The taller, and elder of the twain, was a man remark¬ able for his personal advantages. His features were strik¬ ingly handsome, and regular almost to effeminacy ; his figure slight and graceful, with that air of nameless elegance, which is rarely found but in the foremost ranks of fashion. Nothing could surpass the polish of his manner, the in¬ sinuation of his address; and a cursory observation would tell why Captain Phillips had been reputed an object of envy with one sex, and a dangerous acquaintance for the other. His companion was a mere boy, who had scarcely numbered sixteen summers, and appeared far too young and inexperienced to encounter the vicissitudes of the dangerous profession he had selected. He had lately quitted a peaceful home to join the detachment at Ash- field ; and full of boyish hope, little suspected the trying ordeal that was so soon awaiting him in another land. “ You have had a despatch,” said the handsome captain. The major bowed his assent. “ We are all dying to know what its contents were,” continued the inquirer. “ I regret it exceedingly, as I fear your curiosity must for some time remain ungratified. But do not permit suspense to prove fatal. Possibly the next post may solve the mystery.” “ Then it was a private communication ? ” Strictly so, or I should have freely disclosed it,” replied Major O’Connor. “ I trust that we shall not be moved,” said the captain; “ I am half reconciled to my present banishment, and a change of quarters might devote us to some unknown ham¬ let, even less endurable than Ashfield.” u I think, without breach of duty, I may relieve you from the horrors of a move,” replied the commander, with a smile. b 2 4 THE VILLAGE-GIPSY-ROUTE. ee If we do change quarters/’ said the young ensign, “I hope it may he for service. Summer is coming, and a campaign will be delightful. How pleasant, after a long march, to sleep on the flowery banks of a mountain river, or beneath the rich blossoms of the orange-tree; and when the battle’s ended, bivouac in a vineyard, or be cantoned among rosy monks, and dark-eyed nuns !” The elder soldier regarded his youthful comrade with a melancholy smile. “ Such, then,” he said, “are thy notions of campaigning ! I remember when mine were as vivid, and about as accurate, as yours. Dream on, boy! A short time will show how like to reality is the picture your fancy has sketched of war.” They had approached within a few paces of the church¬ yard, when a female unclosed the wicket that opened on the shaded avenue, and suddenly confronted them. “ It is that cursed gipsy!” exclaimed Captain Phillips, evidently annoyed at her proximity. “ I hate to meet the jade. I but brushed her lightly with my cane, to free myself from her impertinence in the forest, and ever since she regards me when I pass her, as a surly mastiff scowls at a ragged beggarman.” “ I am ignorant,” returned the major, “ of the mode by which I conciliated her favour; but my f good morrow’ is acknowledged with a smile, and when we part I am rewarded with a hearty benison. She is a strange person, after all. In the only colloquy I had the honour of holding with her on the common, from some loose hints she carelessly threw out, she seemed to possess a knowledge of private transactions that to me appeared utterly incom¬ prehensible.” “ Pshaw ! ” said Phillips, “ they are all rogues and impostors. Were the predictions of these vagabonds ex¬ amined, they would all prove rank mummery.” “ Yet / 7 said the boy, “ I should like to know my fortune.” “ Would you ? replied the major. “ If so, now is the time. The gipsy for a few shillings will unclose the book of fate — tell you what the stars ordain — inform you of the colour of your true love’s eyes -— and prognos- THE VILLAGE-GIPSY-ROUTE. 5 ticate the very day on which you shall be gazetted a major- general.” As he spoke they approached the woman, who had advanced a step or two to meet them. Her appearance was very remarkable. Just at the noon of life, and with a tendency to become corpulent, her face retained its fresh¬ ness, and her figure its accurate proportions. Handsome as the females of that singular community are generally reputed, Ellen — for so she named herself — must, a few years before, have been pre-eminently so. The lustrous darkness of her eyes, the marked intelligence of her countenance, united to the sweetest smile imaginable, had once made her beauty irresistible. She accosted O’Connor with kindness ; carelessly addressed his young companion ; then turning a searching glance at Phillips, measured him from head to foot with a look in which hatred and scorn were combined. cs Ellen,” said the major, addressing her, “ we would have our fortunes told. I presume that I must lead the w r ay” — and taking some silver loosely from his pocket, he presented his offering to the gipsy. She received the largess graciously. “Ay,” she said, “ bold and generous as a soldier should be — a stout heart and open hand. But stop : the fated hour of your fortune is not yet come — another day will rule your destiny.” “Another day! Ellen. Is the time so near?” And the soldier smiled incredulously. “Yes; and another hour may bring with it strange and momentous tidings.” “Now, on my soul!” exclaimed Phillips, as he burst into a scornful laugh, “ this is most barefaced foolery. The woman saw the dragoon ride in, and, as we all have done, concluded him the f avant courier’ of a military change, which probably the arrival of the post will pro¬ mulgate.’ , The gipsy answered him with a deadly glance. “’Tis false as himself, major. All morning I have been absent from the village, and, until this moment, knew not that an express had been received.” Then, b 3 6 THE VILLAGE-GIPSY-ROUTE. turning to Captain Phillips, she continued, “ You call me an impostor, and laugh my art to scorn. Will you have the future told? The past, I know, you dare not listen to.” “ Dare not! woman.” “ Ay, dare not ! Well — let that bide. Now for the future. Your hand.” Phillips hesitated. The’gipsy’s request was annoying, and yet he was ashamed to refuse it. He saw that O’Connor’s curiosity was raised, and that his young com¬ panion was laughing at his embarrassment. With a forced effort he took a piece of money from his purse, and presented his oblation to the sibyl. She took it sus¬ piciously, held it for a moment at a distance, and then flung it scornfully on the ground. “ I would not keep it,” she exclaimed, “ were it the red¬ dest ore on which a king’s image was ever stamped ! Evil luck attends the gift of him predestined to evil fortune. Give me your hand, and remember what I tell you. You shall know the worst, but the knowledge shall not avert the mischief.” His companions looked on with mingled curiosity and surprise; but Phillips became pale as ashes, while the flashing eyes and heightened colour of the gipsy bespoke, on her part, an unusual excitement. “’Tis all plain palmistry,” she continued. “ The lines so strongly marked, that even a child might read them. Bright, but momentary success — speedy and permanent misfortune. Disappointment when hopes are highest, and the colour of the life dark, hurried, and dishonourable. Let me see the end. Mark ye that red line ? ” and she pointed to one far more strongly defined than those which intersected it. “ And what may that one bode ? ” inquired Captain Phillips, under evident agitation. “ Death ! ” she replied, in a low, hollow voice, a sudden and a bloody end ! ” “Well, after all,” said the young subaltern, ce it is but the soldier’s fate.” “ No ! ” replied the gipsy, sharply, as she suddenly caught the boy’s hand in hers. “ See there ! That is the TFIE VILLAGE-GIPSV-ROUTE. 7 symbol of death upon a battle-field. Poor youth! I must not look again ; I would not damp thy spirit. Alas! ere winter strips the trees, a manly breast will mourn in silence, and a mother’s wail be heard for her dead boy ! ” There was a pause. Phillips, with assumed indiffer¬ ence, broke it by inquiring, “ What was the fate she pre¬ dicted him ? ” Casting his hand away, the gipsy looked him steadily in the face, and in a deep tone replied, " A felon’s ! ” “ A felon’s ! ” he shouted. “ Now, by Heaven, were you not a woman, this whip should repay your imperti¬ nence.” “ Then would the prophecy be the more quickly ful¬ filled,” she replied, thrusting her hand within her cloak, and producing a short poniard. “ Farewell, gentlemen. Every tittle I have told shall be accomplished. You and I, Major O’Connor, shall meet ere long.” Then turning to Phillips — ie Mark my words, and remember them in your parting agony. For the mischief you are doomed to work — quick, deep, and deadly, shall be the retri¬ bution.” She waved her hand, flung the wicket to as if she wished to tear it from the hinges, turned down a cross walk leading to the forest, and was speedily out of view. All were surprised, but Phillips for a while was speech¬ less with rage. “ This insult,” he at last exclaimed, ce is not to be en¬ dured. By Heaven ! I would give ten pounds to him who would drag her through a horsepond. I wonder, major, that you should patronise a foul-mouthed vagrant like yon harpy. Come, Tom.” He took his companion’s arm, and, piqued at the coldness of his commanding officer, turned down the avenue, leaving O’Connor to enjoy a soli¬ tary walk if he desired it. The major’s stroll, however, was quickly terminated. The winding of a horn was heard, and the postman’s horse clattered over the gravelled causeway. The hour was come when the truth of a portion of the gipsy’s prophecy would be tested ; and O’Connor directed his steps to the domicile b 4 8 THE VILLAGE-GIPSY — ROUTE. of Miss Burnett, who discharged the double duty of fur¬ nishing the villagers of Ashlield with the latest news and newest fashions. The shop of a smart milliner has always been the fa¬ vourite lounge of gentlemen of the sword, when abiding in country quarters; and Miss Burnett was pretty and piquante. She was busily engaged with a fair customer, when the mail arrived. The contents of the bag were quickly spread beside the riband-box ; and the particulars of the village correspondence might be easily collected from the passing observations of the handsome postmistress. ie One, two, three. Bless me ! only seven letters — one for the vicar, another for the apothecary, three for Major O’Connor, and two for Captain Phillips. I positively be¬ lieve that wicked captain receives none but billets-doux. See, these are written on perfumed paper, with French mottos on their seals. I have never remarked any coming to Major O’Connor. Is it not a strange thing. Miss Jones ? But here he comes, and a noble-looking fellow he is : were I a lady, I should prefer him to Captain Phillips, handsome as he certainly is.” The object of Miss Burnett’s admiration walked slowly down the street, and no wonder that he had found favour in her sight. Considerably above the middle height, O’Connor’s figure combined strength with symmetry, while a firm step, assured look, and easy carriage, became one well who bore the reputation of being a stout soldier. His features were far from regular; and his face, darkened by exposure to a tropic sun, was scarred deeply by a sword-cut, which traversed half the forehead ; — but his teeth and eyes would have redeemed a plainer face, for both were beautiful. His voice was full-toned, and sweetly modulated, with an accent just sufficiently marked, to intimate that the Emerald Isle was the place of his na¬ tivity. A hasty glance at the envelope of the official letter presented to him by the fair milliner informed the gallant major that the route was come, with an order to march for Portsmouth on the third morning. Having despatched the important packet to the acting adjutant, O’Connor pro- THE VILLAGE-GIPSY-ROUTE. 9 ceeded to examine the remainder of his epistles; but before he had perused his first letter, Phillips and the young sol¬ dier entered Miss Burnett's shop. “ The news, major ?” was the captain’s hurried inquiry, as he directed a careless glance at the seals upon his billets. “ Is briefly told ”—was the reply : “ I have despatched the route to the adjutant.” “ Good God ! Where for— and when ?” and the cap¬ tain’s agitation was quite apparent. We march on Thursday — our destination Ports¬ mouth”— returned the major calmly. “ Then we are for the Peninsula ? ” Assuredly we are,” responded the commanding officer. “ How unfortunate ! ” ejaculated the captain. et Unfortunate we should have been, had we been over¬ looked ” —replied Major O’Connor. ie You and this silly boy may think so ; but, ’pon my life ! I have no fancy for trudging over the wide world in what old people called a marching regiment.” “ Then why, my dear fellow, did you join one ? ” “ Simply,’’ returned Captain Phillips, “ because I had no particular desire to broil a dozen years in the East. What else would tempt any man to leave the light dra¬ goons ? I must try for an exchange. Time is short — but will you let me run up to town, and try my interest at the Horse Guards ? ” “ Can you be serious, Phillips ? Leave a detachment under order for the Peninsula ! What will the world say ? Do consider well, before you take a step that must for ever compromise your honour as a soldier.” The handsome captain listened impatiently to the friendly remonstrance of his companion — his features betrayed vexation — and it was evident that there was a mental struggle which was extremely painful for the time. It was, however, short — as with a passionate exclam¬ ation he said, “ No, no — it is utterly impossible ! I would not leave England at this moment to win a mar¬ shal’s baton. Have I your leave, O’Connor ? I shall be hack to-morrow evening.” 10 THE VILLAGE-GIPSY-ROUTE. The commanding officer bowed a cold affirmative; and, mortified at the conduct of his companion, turned to the door, and broke the seal of a letter that still remained un¬ opened. “ Surely, it cannot be cowardice ! ” he muttered. <( No, no; it must be madness. His reputation will he mined for ever ! By Heaven ! if I know myself, there is no earthly consideration but one that could induce me to hold back from embarkation, or do the act that Phillips seems determined on ! ” The marchande de modes and young ensign had listened in silence to the brief colloquy. Phillips, although wounded at the major’s remonstrance, which imputed much more than the words exactly conveyed, assumed that simulated indifference with which men of the world often mask from observation feelings which they wish to conceal, and busied himself in selecting gloves from a parcel. O’Con¬ nor calmly read, the first sentences of his letter, when sud¬ denly his brow reddened — his eyes flashed — and with¬ out the customary ceremony of bidding Miss Burnett a good morning,” he started from the shop, and turned his footsteps towards the forest. “ Alas ! ” said the fair milliner, “ I fear the dear ma¬ jor’s letter conveyed had news, and now that I recollect it, the seal was a black one.” “ Pshaw ! ” replied Captain Phillips, as he curled up his lip sarcastically, “ these Irish are blessed with an in¬ terminable relationship ; and the fatal despatch merely an¬ nounces the demise of some fiftieth cousin. Has Mary Howard been in town this morning ? ” “ Oh, no, poor girl! she little suspects how soon she shall lose the major and yourself,” returned Miss Burnett. O’Connor seems touched in that quarter. Don’t you think so, pretty one ? ” inquired the captain, carelessly. Yes,” she replied. “ Few look on Miss Howard with impunity. There are others beside the major who may leave their hearts behind,” and she looked archly at the lady-killer. “ Ah, the girl’s passable. Well enough for a country beauty, certainly. Come, Tom, you must do some little matters for me in my absence, as our f sejour’ is rather THE VILLAGE-GIPSY-ROUTE. 11 limited. Addio, mia bella — till to-morrow, I kiss your hands.” Passing his arm through that of his youthful com¬ panion, he gracefully saluted the marchande de modes, and headed towards “ The Greyhound/' to order post-horses for the metropolis. The pretty milliner looked after him as he walked down the village street. “ He is more than handsome,” she muttered ; “ and yet one honest smile from that dashing major were worth all his heartless homage. I marked them both. How differently was a summons for the field received ! One eye brightened, while the other quailed. O’Connor, one whisper of re¬ gard from thee would win my heart, even if I loved yon spiritless puppy. He that wears a soldier’s uniform, and courts disgraceful inactivity, could never estimate a woman’s love ! ” The milliner was right. 12 THE FOREST AND CHAPTER II. THE FOREST AND THE FORTUNE TELLER. Pacing the forest. Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy. Shakspeare. Down in the valley come meet me to-night. And I’ll tell you your fortune truly. Moore. Edward O’Connor was an orphan from the cradle. His father was killed early in the revolutionary war, and his mother survived her husband but a twelvemonth. Thrown upon the world helpless and unprotected, the infant was abandoned by every relation but a maiden aunt. She nursed him tenderly, and he grew up a stout and manly boy. In compliment to his father’s memory, he was pre¬ sented with an ensigncy at fifteen. Fortune smiled upon him, for his daring spirit placed him in her path. Years rolled on, and O’Connor returned to his father-land with a majority. From the neglect of his relations, the young soldier held intercourse with none of them, save her who had proved his protector. His boyhood had passed away un¬ noticed, and his existence was only ascertained by his name being continued in the army-list. But when that name was honourably mentioned in the affair of Lugo ; when after being wounded at Talavera and Busaco, his fortune carried him safely through the breach of Badajoz, the leader of a forlorn hope, and his gallantry was rewarded with pro¬ motion ; then did these cold-hearted relatives, who had deserted him when an infant, offer their congratulations, which he as proudly rejected. The grave covered the only one of his kindred whom he had ever loved; and when his aunt died, O’Connor endeavoured to forget that any of his lineage existed. What then must have been his astonish¬ ment, when various accidents, in six short months, removed all that stood between him and a fortune ! Such was indeed the case, and the letter he had opened THE FORTUNE TELLER. IS in Miss Burnett’s shop announced that an inheritance of two thousand pounds a year was his. When O’Connor cleared the village, he struck into one of the numerous paths that intersected the low brushwood, with which the forest was overgrown. A fine spring evening was closing in, and the silence of the hour was only broken by the twittering of birds, and the more distant tinkle of the sheep-bells. It was a place and time fitted for a lover’s meditations ; and as the soldier pursued his solitary walk — no object disturbed the eye, no sound dispelled his musing — deeper and deeper he involved himself among the tangled underwood, until the baying of a dog roughly dispelled his reveries, and a light stream of curling smoke, eddying over the foliage of the copse, inti¬ mated to the wanderer, that “ something living” was in his immediate vicinity. The path had gradually narrowed until the hazel- boughs united with each other, and almost barred a fur¬ ther progress. Voices were more distinctly heard, and the dog’s bark became louder and more impatient. O’Connor pushed the branches aside, and emerged suddenly from the thicket. A forest glade lay before him ; and on its green and level sward he discovered a group of gipsies preparing their evening meal. A sweeter spot could not have been selected than that on w T hich the wanderers were encamped. Belted by a close and almost impervious thicket, the gipsy bivouac was diffi¬ cult of approach, while the high copse afforded it both shelter and concealment. The whole scene was wild and picturesque. Several rudely-constructed tents encircled a brilliant wood-fire, over which a huge camp-kettle was suspended. The party consisted of some forty ; and in that number every age of human life was embraced. The old v r ere seated on panniers in the tents — the children v r ere sprawling round the fire — donkeys of every size were left to graze at large, w’hile a large gaunt mastiff, whose barking had already apprised his owners of O’Connor’s approach, advanced boldly to the opening of the thicket, as if determined to withstand the entrance of a stranger. A low and peculiar -whistle at once recalled the dog, and 14 THE FOREST AND a dark and keen-looking man civilly requested the soldier to “ come forward to the fire.” The invitation was ac¬ cepted. A girl of uncommon beauty instantly arranged a turf seat; the soldier joined the group, and found himself in the centre of the wild community, an object of curiosity to all. “ It grows duskish,” said the old man. “ Probably you have strayed from the forest road ?” “ Indeed I have,” replied the soldier, “ and 1 must re¬ quire some assistance from you, to enable me to recover my way.” “ You walk late, sir,” said the gipsy. “ Yes — I was wandering in the woods, and accident conducted me to your bivouac — a lovelier glade to encamp on those could not desire, * under the greenwood tree who love to lie.’ Is this your favourite retreat?” “ No — we are sometimes here ; but we have other haunts as sheltered and remote as this one.” “ Yours is a pleasant and a careless life,” pursued the soldier. “Ay,” said the old man, “when leaves are green, and birds are singing, the copse and hedge-row are merrier than the town. Seasons will change, and boughs grow bare ; and you, who have never known an unsheltered head at midnight, would then own the comfort of a roof, no matter how low the walls were which it covered.” While the old man was speaking, a female issued from one of the tents, and strode forward to the place where O’Connor was seated. The elder gipsies regarded her with deference, while the younger ceased their play, and scat¬ tered from before the fire, to enable her to pass them. One glance satisfied the soldier that she was known to him — and Ellen, from whom he had lately parted at the church¬ yard gate, now stood beside him in the gipsy bivouac. “ And has he never known a wet sward and starry sky?” she exclaimed, in answer to the old man’s observation. “ Fool!” she continued; “ often has the night-wind moaned over him as he lay upon the ground, where none could tell the living from the dead.” O’Connor started and looked up, while the gipsy scruti- THE FORTUNE TELLER. 15 nisecl his features. “ Yes/’ she continued, “ all is written there — the past, the present, and the future. Speak — shall I tell of battle-fields — or turn from, war to love, and name a name far dearer to your ear than ever was the maddening cry of victory ?” “ You know me then ?” said the soldier. The gipsy bowed her head slightly. “ What you told me in the churchyard avenue has hap¬ pened ; a strange and unexpected turn of fortune has befallen me.” “Yes; I could not be mistaken. I know the past — I see the present— and I can foretell what the future must be. Come, sir, I would speak with you apart — follow me — for I have that to say which requires a private hearing/’ She lifted a billet from the fire, while O’Connor rose from the turf, and accompanied her to the extremity of the glade, where a projecting clump of copse wood concealed them from the observation of the gipsy bivouac. His dark companion took the soldier’s hand, and by the flickering light of the firebrand examined its lines attentively. “ Enough,” she said. “ Two hours since I told you the time had not arrived. I warned you of a sudden and un¬ foreseen event. Has the prediction not been fulfilled?” “ It has, indeed.” She looked again at the soldier’s hand : “ Ay,” she mut¬ tered rapidly, “ the tale is clear, although the web is tangled. Fame and wealth—danger and disappointment — all mingled in the same fortune — the career brief and glorious — the end — but let the future rest. Will you listen to the past, ere I unfold what yet lies in the womb of time ?” “ If you please, Ellen,” returned the soldier, struck with the imposing solemnity of the gipsy’s manner, while once more he submitted his hand to her inspection. “All is distinct and legible—^the beginning and the end alike — a red cradle and a red grave — one parent weltering on a bloody field — the other filling an early tomb.” She turned her sparkling eyes upon the listener, and asked him, “was it so?” 16 THE FOREST AND “You are indeed right, Ellen/’ replied the major; “ but this disclosure is no proof of second sight — my orphanage, and its attendant circumstances, are generally known.” The gipsy proceeded without noticing his observation. “Nursed by a fair woman, the child became a boy — and the boy would be a soldier. He crossed the ocean wave — and before the down blackened on his cheek, heard the roar of battle beneath the burning skies of Egypt. Years passed, and the boy ripened into manhood. Again I see him on the field of death — no longer with the advancing step of victory, but struggling on a broken bridge, among the last combatants of a retreating army. The scene has changed anew — on a green hill, encircled by vineyards and cork-trees, two hosts are striving for the heights. Where is the soldier now? Bleeding on the ground, while a woman hangs over him like a mother, and recalls him back to life! ” O’Connor started—“Surely,” he exclaimed, “there is no imposture here !—Tell me, I adjure you-” “Hush!” replied the gipsy; “be patient, and listen for a minute. View but another scene, and then say, if the picture of a past life be truly painted.” She made a momentary pause, and then continued — “ The sun set upon a proud city, and a beleaguing host; the storm of artillery, which through the day had raged, was ended ; darkness and silence had succeeded; and, wearied with noise and blood, the contending foes had sunk to rest. Rest! Ay, such as that unearthly calm which precedes a tropic hurricane! Hush! — ’Tis the measured tramp of massive columns, moving silently towards yon broken wall. They approach the breach unnoticed and unassailed; not a bugle sounds; not a musket betrays the midnight ad¬ vance. Another minute of harrowing silence — and the volcano bursts ! Rockets and blue lights flare across the murky sky — cannons roar — shells Mss — and cheers, and yells, and curses, add their infernal accompaniment. The forlorn hope are struggling through the ditch — a shower of death reigns round them, and the breach is choked with corpses. Again, and again, the assailants THE FORTUNE TELLER. 37 mount the ruins, mown down in hundreds by the wither¬ ing fire of a hidden enemy, or empaled upon the bayonets of their comrades. Where is the soldier now? — Mark yon remote rampart which a daring band has carried by escalade ! There — pressing on the retiring French; there — cheering on his desperate followers ; there — is the soldier — while the wild cheers of his companions, rising above the hellish din of battle, proclaim the fall of Badajoz ! Is the tale true?” “ Ti 'ue!” exclaimed the soldier, as his kindling eye and outstretched arm showed the excitement which the gipsy’s vivid painting had aroused. “ True ! it is witchery — every event from childhood — my w T hole career dis¬ played as in a mirror — my parents’ death — the fight of Alexandria — the pass of Lugo — the plains of Talavera — the heights of Busaco — the storm of Badajoz. Wo¬ man — whence is this knowledge — how tell the story of a life, so little marked as mine ? — you, to whom but a few days back, I was an utter stranger! ” <( Indeed ! ” said the gipsy, with a smile ; “ I am for¬ gotten— you are not. I have loosely sketched some pass¬ ing scenes—there is one which must be more plainly pic¬ tured.— Attend to me. It was during the disastrous retreat from Astorga — imagine a pressing enemy—roads, almost impassable from tempestuous weather, and the multitudes that broke up their surface — rain, and snow, and storm — no fire to warm — no roof to shelter — and say, would not these united miseries overcome the endurance of the boldest soldier ? Then fancy a deserted woman, cumbered with a sickly child, and loaded with booty for which she had perilled the dangers of the battle-field, and which she now wanted resolution to abandon — what would be the chances of escape? The winter blast was howling mourn¬ fully, and night set in — the British, harassed by a long march, were halted for the night on a bare hill-side, that afforded but little shelter from the piercing east wind. The last of the retiring soldiery had crossed a wooden bridge, which a young officer and part of the rear-guard were directed to cut down, to place the flooded river c 18 THE FOREST AND between the retreating troops and their pursuers. The work of destruction was rapid — the last planks were tearing from the beam that supported them, when a wretched follower of the camp, urged on a weary and overladen mule. The French light troops were already pressing down the hill — and, in another minute, she must have been exposed to plunder, and probably some nameless insult. She reached the river banks — she called, by his own hopes of mercy, for pity from the soldier — but he laboured on. Another blow or two, and the plank would have fallen —another minute, and the enemy be up. Desperately that helpless and devoted wretch prayed in her child’s name for succour. It was hopeless, and death appeared inevitable; but it was otherwise decreed. Her cry was heard, and he who commanded the party rushed back to her deliverance. He stayed the pioneer’s axe, seized the bridle of the mule, goaded him with his sword across the tottering bridge, and assisted the poor wretch to follow — while the enemy were seen through the gloom. ‘ We shall be taken! ’ exclaimed the soldier, with an oath, as he flung away the hatchet. The young officer caught it up. ‘ Fear nothing!’ he said, ‘ The act was mine, and on me be the consequences. Fall back, men!’ They obeyed, and found shelter behind a copse, from the spat¬ tering of the French advance -— all were safe except the gallant youth who had saved the deserted woman. He stood alone, and his blows fell quick as lightning on the fragment of the woodwork. ‘Run,’ cried a soldier; ‘run, sir, or you are a prisoner!’ But next moment a splash in the water told that the destruction of the bridge was com¬ pleted; and unhurt, the bold commander of the rear guard effected his escape, amid the cheering of his comrades. — Is there any passage of your life that in aught resembles this scene?” The soldier had listened with deep interest. “ Yes,” he replied, “ I remember a similar occurrence. — Pshaw! after all it was a trifle; — and who, for the chances of a random shot or two, would abandon a woman who had asked assistance ? ” “ You knew her, of course?” said the gipsy. THE FORTUNE-TELLER. . 19 “ No — I never saw her before, and never met her afterwards.” “ Indeed ! — Methinks that gratitude should have obliged that woman to have sought her deliverer.— Listen. War continued; and under another and more fortunate leader, the young soldier was again engaged. From the heights of Busaco, he viewed a sight that would almost gladden a coward’s heart. It was the evening before the battle. Far as the eye could range, the French divisions were extended over an expanse of country — and from every rising ground, lance-blades and bayonets were flashing. Gradually these masses were condensed — they neared the bottom of the Sierra — and when night fell, bivouacked beneath the same heights on which the English had taken their position. “ Morning came — and a lovelier never dawned than that of Busaco. The roll of cannon, the rattle of mus¬ ketry, ushered it gallantly in. Smoke-wreaths obscured the base of the hill, and rolling slowly upwards, announced to its defenders, that the storm of war was coming. The broken surface of the mountain became the scene of nume¬ rous combats; but though outnumbered far, the British kept their vantage-ground, and repulsed the attempts upon their left. On the right, an accidental success led to a bloodier encounter. Covered by the smoke, the French light troops swarmed over the face of the Sierra, and gained the summit of the ridge ; while a mass of infantry, following the voltigeurs in close column, struggled up the heights, and nearly reached the table-land. This was the crisis of the day. An English brigade, couched behind the hill for shelter from the cannonade, suddenly sprang up and met them. One close and shattering volley arrested the French advance. Vainly their leaders rushed to the front, waved their schakos above their heads, and shouted “ Forward ! ” Just then a rush was heard — a wild hurrah rose above the thunder of the cannonade. The smoke parted — and glancing in the bright sunshine, the British line were seen advancing to the charge. The French delivered a feeble volley, recoiled, wavered, broke, and ran down the hill, leaving the Sierra in the possession c 2 20 THE FOREST AND of the conquerors. Where was the soldier then ? Ex¬ tended on the ground^ faint and bleeding — a \Y omans arm supported his drooping head — a woman’s hand moistened his parched lips — and though the face of the heights was ploughed by shot and shells, she never left him for a moment, until a fatigue party of bis own regi¬ ment carried him to the rear.” “ Now, by Heaven!” exclaimed O’Connor passionately, “ I would almost give my right hand to prove my grati¬ tude to that female— I recollect the moment well — as we pressed forward with the bayonet a ball struck me, and I went down. I lay for some time insensible, and when I recovered a woman hung over me, holding a canteen to my lips. Never shall I forget the brilliancy of that dark eye, which was bent in pity upon mine!” “ And have you never seen that countenance save on the hill of Busaco ? ” “ Never !” said the soldier. “ Was she your countrywoman?” inquired the gipsy. “ Even that I cannot tell. I should say not. Her cheek was swarthy — her hair black as the raven’s wing — her air and look foreign.” " Surely you have often met features that would recall her memory ? ” “ I may,” replied the soldier; “ but I did not particu¬ larly remark them.” “ And would you still wish to meet that dark woman? ” she inquired sharply. “ I should, indeed.” “ Look then on me! she whom you saved at Lugo is before you — and the same hand that on the mountain- ridge of Busaco held the wine-flask to your lips now grasps yours!” “Heavens! am I dreaming?” exclaimed the soldier. “ It is the same dark eye — it is the same brown cheek! ” “ Attend to me,” said the gipsy: “ it is now past sunset, and three hours hence the village will be quiet. When the clock strikes ten, meet me under the lime-tree in the centre of the churchyard. There we shall be safe from interruption. — Has Major O’Connor any objection to the place and hour?” THE FORTUNE-TELLER. 21 The soldier smiled.