Charles OMalley, vol 2 | Page 7

and came in sight
of the watch-fires of the enemy. Far as the eye could reach their column
extended, but in the dim twilight nothing could be seen with accuracy;
yet from the position their artillery occupied, and the unceasing din of
baggage wagons and heavy carriages towards the rear, I came to the
conclusion that a still farther retreat was meditated. A picket of light
cavalry was posted upon the river's bank, and seemed to watch with
vigilance the approaches to the stream.
Our bivouac was a dense copse of pine-trees, exactly opposite to the
French advanced posts, and there we passed the night,--fortunately a
calm and starlight one; for we dared not light fires, fearful of attracting
attention.

During the long hours I lay patiently watching the movements of the
enemy till the dark shadows hid all from sight; and even then, as my
ears caught the challenge of a sentry or the footsteps of some officer in
his round, my thoughts were riveted upon them, and a hundred vague
fancies as to the future were based upon no stronger foundation than
the clink of a firelock or the low-muttered song of a patrol.
Towards morning I slept; and when day broke my first glance was
towards the river-side. But the French were gone, noiselessly, rapidly.
Like one man that vast army had departed, and a dense column of dust
towards the horizon alone marked the long line of march where the
martial legions were retreating.
My mission was thus ended; and hastily partaking of the humble
breakfast my friend Mike provided for me, I once more set out and took
the road towards headquarters.

CHAPTER II.
THE SKIRMISH.
For several months after the battle of Talavera my life presented
nothing which I feel worth recording. Our good fortune seemed to have
deserted us when our hopes were highest; for from the day of that
splendid victory we began our retrograde movement upon Portugal.
Pressed hard by overwhelming masses of the enemy, we saw the
fortresses of Ciudad Rodrigo and Almeida fall successively into their
hands. The Spaniards were defeated wherever they ventured upon a
battle; and our own troops, thinned by sickness and desertion, presented
but a shadow of that brilliant army which only a few months previous
had followed the retiring French beyond the frontiers of Portugal.
However willing I now am--and who is not--to recognize the genius
and foresight of that great man who then held the destinies of the
Peninsula within his hands, I confess at the time I speak of I could ill
comprehend and still less feel contented with the successive retreats our

forces made; and while the words Torres Vedras brought nothing to my
mind but the last resting-place before embarkation, the sad fortunes of
Corunna were now before me, and it was with a gloomy and
desponding spirit I followed the routine of my daily duty.
During these weary months, if my life was devoid of stirring interest or
adventure, it was not profitless. Constantly employed at the outposts, I
became thoroughly inured to all the roughing of a soldier's life, and
learned in the best of schools that tacit obedience which alone can form
the subordinate or ultimately fit its possessor for command himself.
Humble and unobtrusive as such a career must ever be, it was not
without its occasional rewards. From General Crawfurd I more than
once obtained most kind mention in his despatches, and felt that I was
not unknown or unnoticed by Sir Arthur Wellesley himself. At that
time these testimonies, slight and passing as they were, contributed to
the pride and glory of my existence; and even now--shall I confess
it?--when some gray hairs are mingling with the brown, and when my
old dragoon swagger is taming down into a kind of half-pay shamble, I
feel my heart warm at the recollection of them.
Be it so; I care not who smiles at the avowal. I know of little better
worth remembering as we grow old than what pleased us while we
were young. With the memory of the kind words once spoken come
back the still kinder looks of those who spoke them, and better than all,
that early feeling of budding manhood, when there was neither fear nor
distrust. Alas! these are the things, and not weak eyes and tottering
limbs, which form the burden of old age. Oh, if we could only go on
believing, go on trusting, go on hoping to the last, who would shed
tears for the bygone feats of his youthful days, when the spirit that
evoked them lived young and vivid as before?
But to my story. While Ciudad Rodrigo still held out against the
besieging French,--its battered walls and breached ramparts sadly
foretelling the fate inevitably impending,--we