Tom Burke of 'Ours.'

Preface

. I was led to write this story by two impulses : first, the fasci nation which the name and exploits of the Great Emperor had ever exercised on my mind as a boy ; and secondly, by the favourable notice which the Press had bestowed upon my scenes of soldier-life in Charles O'MaUey. If I had not in the wars of tbe Empire the patriotic spirit of a great national struggle to sustain me, I had a field far wider and grander than any afforded by our Peninsular campaigns ; while in the character of the Erench army, composed as it was of elements derived from every rank and condition, there were picturesque effects one might have sought for in vain throughout the rest of Europe. It was my fortune to have known personally some of those who filled great parts in this glorious drama. I had listened over and over to thefr descriptions of scenes, to which their look, and voice, and manner imparted a thrilling intensity of interest.

I had op portunities of questioning them for explanations, of asking for solu tions of this and that difficulty which had puzzled me, till I grew so famUiar with the great names of the time, the events, and even the locaUties, that when I addressed myself to my tale, it was with a mind fitted by my topics to the utter exclusion of all other sub jects. Neither before nor since have I ever enjoyed to the same extent the sense of being so entirely engrossed by a single theme. A great tableau of the Empire, from its gorgeous celebrations in Paris to its numerous achievements on the field of battle, was ever outspread before me, and I sat down rather to record than to invent the scenes of my story. A feeling that, as I treated of real events

PREFACE.

. I was hound to maintain a degree of accuracy in relation to them, even in fiction, made me. endeavour to possess myself with a correct knowledge of localities, and, so far as I was able, with a due estimate of those whose characters I discussed. Some of the battle-fields I have gone over ; of others, I have learnt the particulars from witnesses of the great struggles that have made them famous. To the claim of this exactness I have, therefore, the pretension of at least the desire to be faithful. Eor my story, it has all the faults and short-comings which beset everything I have ever written ; for these I can but offer regrets, only the more poignant that I feel how justly they are due. The same accuracy which I claim for scenes and situations, I should Uke, if I dared, to claim for the individuals who figure in this tale ; but I cannot, in any fairness, pretend to more than an attempt to paint resemblances of those whom I have myself ad mired in the description of others.

Pioche and Minette are of this number. So is, but of a very different school, the character of Duchesne ; for which, however, I had what almost amounted to an original. As to the episodes of this story, one or two were communicated as facts ; the others are mere invention. I do not remember any particulars to which I should further advert ; while I feel, that the longer I dwell upon the theme, the more occasion is there to entreat indulgence — an indulgence which, if you are not weary of according, will be most gratefully accepted by Tour faithful servant, CHAELES LEVEE. Casa Capponi, Florence, May, 1857. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. — Myself 1 H. — Darby — the " Blast " 11 III. — The Departure 21 IV. — My Wanderings 30 V.— The Cabin 35 VI. — My Education 44 VII. — Kevin-street 50 VHI. — No. 39, and its Frequenters 54 IX. — The Frenchman's Story . . ' . . . .63 X. — The Churchyard _ 70 XL— Too Late 74 XII.— A Character 88 XEŒ. — An Unlooked-for Visitor 97 XIV.— The Gaol 103 XV.— The Castle 107 XVI.— The Bail 113- XVII.— Mr. Basset's Dwelling 117 XVHL— The Captain's Quarters 123 XIX.— The Quarrel 131 XX.— The Flight 138 XXI.— The " Ecole Militaire " 152 XXH.— The "Tuileries" in 1 803 161 XXm.— A Surprise . . 164 XXIV. — The " Pavillon de Flore " 171 XXV. — The Supper at "Beauvilliers's" VI CONTENTS.

CHAP. PAGE XXVI.— The "Two Visits" 183 XXVII.— The March to Versailles 193 XXVIII.— The Park op Versailles . . • • • ■ 198 XXIX.— La Rose de Provence . A . • • .209 XXX.— A "Warning" 316 XXXI.— The "Chateau" . . 223 XXXII.— "The Chateau d'Ancre" A 231 XXXHL— The "Temple" 338 XXXIV— The "Chouans" 246 XXXV.— The Reign of Terror under the Consulate . . 253 XXXVL— The "Palais de Justice" 265 XXXVIL— The "Trial" . . . . . . . .272 XXXVI1L— " The Cuirassier" 281 XXXIX.— A Morning at "the Tuileries" . . . .286 XL. — A Night in the Tuileries Gardens . . . . 298 XLI.— A Story of the Year '92 .307 XLII. — The Hall of the Marshals 321 XLIII. — The March on the Danube ...... 332 XLIV— The Canteen . 339 ILLUSTRATIONS. Minette in Attendance on Pioche .... Frontispiece Peeping Tom _ -*Qg Darby exchanges Compliments with a Soldier . . .133 The Chouans 230 Napoleon shows Tom the Door A . . ' 290 The Big Pioche caught indulging in Delicacies . . . "OURS."

Chapter I

myself. It was at tbe close of a cold, raw day in January — no matter for tbe year — that the Galway mad was seen to wind its slow course through that long and duU plain that skirts the Shannon, as you approach the " sweet town of Athlone." The reeking box-coats and dripping umbrellas that hung down on every side bespoke a day of heavy rain, whUe the splashed and mud-stained panels of the coach bore token of cut-up roads, which the jaded and tod-worn horses amply confirmed. If the outsides, with bats pressed firmly down, and heads bent against tbe cutting wind, presented an aspect far from comfortable, those within, who peeped with difficulty through the dim glass, had Uttle to charm the eye ; theh flannel nightcaps and red com forters were only to be seen at rare intervals, as they gazed on tbe dreary prospect, and then sank back into tbe coach, to con over theh moody thoughts, or if fortunate, perhaps to doze.

In tbe rumble, with the guard, sat one, whose burly figure and rosy cheeks seemed to feel no touch of the inclement wind that made his com panions crouch. An oiled-silk foraging-cap, fastened beneath the chin, and a large mantle of blue cloth, bespoke him a soldier, U even the assured tone of his voice, and a certain easy carriage of bis head, bad not conveyed to the acute observer tbe same information. Unsubdued in sphit, undepressed in mind, either by the long day of pour ing rain or tbe melancholy outline of country on every side, his dark eye flashed as brightly from beneath the brim of his cap, and his ruddy face beamed as cheerily, as though Nature had put forth her every charm of wea ther and scenery to greet and dehght him. Now inquiring of tbe guard of tbe various persons whose property lay on either side, tbe name of some poor hamlet or some humble vdlage, now bumming to himself some stray verse of an old campaigning song, be passed bis time, diversifying these amusements by a courteous salute to a gapmg vol. i. b " OURS." 2 country gfrl, as, with unmeaning look, she stared at tbe passing coach.

But bis principal occupation seemed to consist hi retaining one wing of bis wide cloak around tbe figure of a Uttle boy, who lay asleep beside him, and whose head jogged beavdy against his arm with every motion of tbe coach. " And so that's Athlone, yonder, you teU me," said tbe Captain, for such be was. "'The sweet town of Athlone, ochone!' Well, it might be worse. I've passed ten years in Africa — on the burning coast, as they call it : you never light a fire to cook your victuals, but only lay them before tbe sun for ten minutes, game something less, and tbe joint's done ; aU true, by Jove ! Lie still, my young friend, or you'U heave us both over ! And whereabouts does he live, guard ?" " Something like a mde and a half from here," replied the gruff guard. " Poor little fellow, he's sleeping it out weU.

They certainly don't take over much care of him, or they'd never have sent him on the top of a coach, hi weather like this, without even a great coat to cover him. I say, Tom, my lad, wake up, you're not far from home now. Are you dreaming of tbe plum-pudding, and tbe pony, and the big spaniel — eh?" " Whisht !" said the guard, hi a low whisper. " The chap's father is dying, and they've sent for him from school to see him." A loud blast of the born now awoke me thoroughly from the half dreamy slumber in which I had listened to tbe previous dialogue, and I sat up and looked about me. Yes, reader, my unworthy seK it was who was then in dulging in as pleasant a dream of home and holidays as ever blessed even a schoolboy's vigds. Though my eyes were open, it was some minutes before I could rally mysefr to understand where I was, and with what object.

My senses were blunted by cold, and my drenched hmbs were cramped and stif fened ; for the worthy captain, to whose humanity I owed tbe share of his cloak, had only joined tbe coach late in the day, and during the whole morning I bad been exposed to the most pitdess downpour of rain and sleet. " Here you are !" said tbe rough guard, as the coach drew up to let me down. " No need of blowing the born here, I suppose." This was said in allusion to tbe miserable appearance of the ruined cabin that figured as my father's gate-lodge, where some naked chUdren were seen standing before tbe door, looking with astonishment at the coach and passengers. " Well, good-by, my Uttle man. I hope you'U find the governor better. Give him my respects ; and, bark ye, if ever you eome over to Athlone don't forget to come and see me— Captain Bubbleton— George Frederic Au gustus Bubbleton, 45th Regiment, or, when at home, Little Bubbleton, Herts, and Bungalow Hut, in the Carnatic; that's tbe mark; so good-by good-by."

I waved my band to him in adieu, and then turned to enter tbe gate. "Well, Freney," said I, to a half -dressed, wdd-looking figure that rushed " OURS." 3 out to lift tbe gate open, for the hinges had been long broken, and it was attached to the pier by some yards of strong rope, " how is my father ?" A gloomy nod and a discouraging sign with his open hand were tbe only reply. " Is there any hope ?" said I, faintly. " Sorrow one of me knows. I daren't go near tbe bouse. I was sarved with notice to quit a month ago, and they teU him I'm gone. Ob, vo, vo ! what's to become of us aU !" I threw the bag, which contained my humble wardrobe, on my shoulder, and, without waiting for further questioning, walked forward. Night was falling fast, and nothing short of my intimacy with the place from infancy could have enabled me to find my way.

The avenue, from long neglect and disuse, was completely obhterated ; the fences were broken up to burn ; the young trees had mostly shared the same fate; the cattle strayed at wiU through the plantations, and aU bespoke utter ruin and destruction. If the scene around me was sad, it only the better suited my own heart. I was returning to a home where I had never heard the voice of kindness or affection; where one fond word — one look of welcome had never met me. I was returning, not to receive the last blessing of a loving parent, but merely sent for as a necessary ceremony on the occasion. And perhaps there was a mock propriety in inviting me once more to tbe bouse which I was never to revisit. My father— a widower for many years — had bestowed all his affection on my elder brother, to whom so much of his property as had escaped the general wreck was to descend.

He had been sent to Eton under the guidance of a private tutor, while an obscure Dublin school was deemed good enough for me. For him every nerve was strained to supply aU bis boyish extravagance, and enable him to compete with tbe sons of men of high rank and fortune, whose names, mentioned in his letters home, were an ample recompense for aU tbe lavish expenditure their intimacy entaUed. My letters were few and brief, thefr unvaried theme tbe delay in the last quarter's payment, or tbe unfurnished condition of my httle trunk, which more than once exposed me to the taunts of my schooheUows. He was a fair and deUcate boy, timid in manner, and retiring in disposi tion ; I, a browned-faced varies, who knew every one from tbe herd to the high-sheriff. To him the servants were directed to look up as tbe head of the bouse, whde I was consigned either to total neglect, or the attentions of those who only figured as supernumeraries in our army list.

Yet, with aU these sources of jealousy between us, we loved each other tenderly. George pitied " poor Tommy," as be caUed me ; and for that very pity my heart clang to him. He would often undertake to plead my cause for those bolder infractions bis gentle nature never ventured on ; and it was only from long association with boys of superior rank, whose habits and opinions he beUeved to be standards for his imitation, that at length a b2 " OURS." feeling of estrangement grew up between us, and we learned to look some what coldly on each other. From these brief details it will not be wondered at if I turned homeward with a heavy heart. From the hour I received tbe letter of my recal — which was written by my father's attorney in most concise and legal phrase — I bad scarcely ceased to shed tears ; for, so it is, there is something in the very thought of being left an orphan, friendless and unprotected, quite dis tinct from the loss of affection and kindness which overwhelms the young heart with a very flood of wretchedness.

Besides, a stray word or two of kindness had now and then escaped my father towards me, and I treasured these up as my richest possession. I thought of them over and over. Many a lonely night, when my heart has been low and sinking, I repeated them to myself, like talismans against grief ; and when I slept, my dreams would dweU on them, and make my waking happy. As I issued from a dark copse of beech-trees the indistinct outline of tbe old house met my eye. I could trace the high-pitched roof, the taU and pointed gables against the sky, and with a strange sense of undefinable fear, beheld a solitary light that twinkled from the window of an upper room, where my father lay ; the remainder of the budding was in deep shadow. I mounted the long flight of stone steps that led to what once bad been a terrace ; but the balustrades were broken many a year ago, and even the heavy granite stone had been smashed in several places.

Tbe haU-door lay wide open, and the hall itsefr bad no other light save such as the flickering of a wood fire afforded, as its uncertain flashes fell upon the dark wainscot and the floor. I had just recognised the grim, old-fashioned portraits that covered the walls, when my eye was attracted by a figure near the fire. I approached, and beheld an old man doubled with age ; his bleared eyes were bent upon tbe wood embers, which he was trying to rake together with a stick. His clothes bespoke the most miserable poverty, and afforded no protection against the cold and cutting blast. He was croning some old song to himsefr as I drew near, and paid no attention to me. I moved round so as to let the light fall on his face, and then perceived it was old Lanty, as he was caUed. Poor feUow ! Age and neglect had changed him sadly since I had seen him last.

He had been the huntsman of the family for two gene rations, but having somehow displeased my father one day at the cover, he rode at him and struck him on tbe head with his loaded whip. The man feU senseless from his horse, and was carried home. A few days, however, enabled him to rally and be about again, but his senses had left him for ever. AU recollection of the unlucky cheumstance had faded from his mind, and bis rambling thoughts dwelt on his old pursuits, so that he passed his days about the stables, looking after the horses and giving directions about them. Latterly be had become too infirm for this, and never left his own cabin ; but " OURS." 5 now, from some strange cause, he had come up to " the house," and was sitting by the fire as I found him. They who know Ireland wiU acknowledge the strange impulse which, at the approach of death, seems to excite the people to congregate about the house of mourning.

The passion for deep and powerful excitement — the most remarkable feature in theh complex nature — seems to revel in tbe de tails of sorrow and suffering. Not content even with the tragedy before them, they caU in the aid of superstition to heighten the awfulness of the scene ; and every story of ghost and banshee is conned over in tones that need not the occasion to make them thrdl upon the heart. At such a time, tbe deepest workings of thefr wild spirits are revealed. Thefr grief is low and sorrow-struck, or it is loud and passionate ; now breaking into some plaintive wad over the virtues of the departed, now bursting into a frenzied appeal to the Father of Mercies as to the justice of recalling those from earth who were its blessing ; while, stranger than all, a dash of reckless merriment wiU break in upon the gloom, but it is Kke the red lightning through the storm, that, as it rends the cloud, only displays tbe havoc and desolation around, and at its parting leaves even a blacker darkness be hind it.

From my infancy I had been familiar with scenes of this kind, and my habit of stealing away unobserved from home to witness a country wake bad endeared me much to the country people, who felt this no small kindness from "the master's son." Somehow, the ready welcome and attention I always met with bad worked, on my young heart, and I learned to feel aU the interest of these scenes fully as much as those about me. It was, then, with a sense of desolation that I looked upon tbe one solitary mourner who now sat at the hearth — that poor old idiot man who gazed on vacancy, or muttered with parched Kp some few words to himself. That he alone should be found to join bis sorrows to ours, seemed to me like utter desti tution, and as I leaned against the chimney I burst into tears. "Don't cry, alannah, don't cry," said the old man; "it's the worst way at aU.

Get up again and ride him at it bould. Oh, vo, look at where the thief is taking now — along the stone wall there !" Here he broke out into a low, wailing ditty : " And the fox set him down and looked about, And many were feafed to follow. 'Maybe I'm wrong,' says he, 'but I doubt That you'll be as gay to-morrow. For loud as you cry, and high as you ride, And little you feel my sorrow, I'll be free on the mountain-side, While you'll lie low to-morrow. Oh, Moddideroo, aroo, aroo. " OURS." Ay, just so — they'd run to earth in the cold churchyard. Whisht — hark there — soho, soho — that's Badger I hear." I turned away with a bursting heart, and felt my way up the broad oak stair, which was left in complete darkness. As I reached the corridor, off which the bedrooms lay, I beard voices talking together in a low tone they came from my father's room, the door of which lay ajar.

I approached noiselessly and peeped in : by the fire, which was the only light now hi the apartment, sat two persons at a smaU table, one of whom I at once recognised as the tall, solemn-looking figure of Doctor Finnerty ; the other I de tected by the sharp tones of his voice to be Mr. Anthony Basset, my father s confidential attorney. On the table before them lay a mass of papers, parchments, leases, deeds, together with glasses and a black bottle, whose accompaniments of hot water and sugar left no doubt as to its contents. The chimneypiece was crowded with a range of viols and medicine bottles, some of them empty, some of them half finished. From the bed in the corner of the room came the heavy sounds of snoring resphation, which either betokened deep sleep or insensibility. If I enjoyed but Uttle favour in my father's house, I owed much of the coldness shown to me to the evil influence of the very two persons who sat before me in conclave.

Of the precise source of tbe doctor's dislike I was not quite clear, except, perhaps, that I recovered from the measles when he predicted my certain death ; the attorney's was, however, no mystery. About three years before he had stopped to breakfast at our house on his way to Ballinasloe fah. As his pony was led round to the stable it caught my eye. It was a most tempting bit of horseflesh, fuU of spirit and in top condition, for he was going to seU it. I followed him round, and appeared just as the servant was about to unsaddle him. The attorney was no favourite hi the house, and I had Uttle difficulty in per suading the man, instead of taking off the. saddle, merely to shorten the stirrups to the utmost limit. The next minute I was on his back flying over the lawn at a stretching gaUop.

Fences abounded on aU sides, and I rushed him at double ditches, stone waUs, and bog-wood rads, with a mad delight that at every leap rose higher. After about three quarters of an hour thus passed, his blood, as weU as my own, being by this time thoroughly roused, I determined to try him at the waU of an old pound, which stood some few hundred yards from the front of the bouse. Its exposure to the window, at any other time, would have deterred me from even the thought of such an exploit, but now I was quite beyond the pale of such cold calculations; besides that I was accompanied by a select party of aU the labourers, with their wives and chUdren, whose praises of my horsemanship would have made me take the look of a canal U before me. A fine o-aUop of grass sward led to the pound, and over this I went, cheered with as merry a cry as ever " OURS." 7 stirred a light heart.

One glance I threw at the house as I drew near the leap ; the window of the breakfast parlour was open, my father and Mr. Basset were both at it ; I saw their faces red with passion, I heard thefr loud shout ; my very spirit sickened within me — I saw no more — I felt the pony rush at the wall — the quick stroke of his feet — the rise — the plunge — and then a crash — and I was sent spinning over his head some hah-dozen yards, ploughing up the ground on face and hands. I was carried home with a broken head ; the pony's knees were in the same condition. My father said that he ought to be shot for humanity's sake ; Tony suggested the same treatment for me, on similar grounds. The upshot, however, was, I secured an enemy for Use, and, worse still, one whose power to injure was equalled by his inclination.

Into the company of these two worthies I now found myself thus acci dentally thrown, and would gladly have retreated at once, but that some indescribable impulse to be near my father's sick-bed was on me, and so I crept stealthily in and sat down in a large chair at the foot of the bed, where unnoticed I listened to the long-drawn heavings of his chest, and in sdence wept over my own desolate condition. For a long time the absorbing nature of my own grief prevented me bearing the muttered conversation near the fire ; but at length, as the night wore on, and my sorrow had found vent in tears, I began to listen to the dialogue beside me. " He'll have five hundred pounds under, his grandfather's wiU in spite of us ; but what's that ?" said the attorney. " I'll take bi-m as an apprentice for it, I know," said the doctor, with a grin that made me shudder.

" That's settled afready," replied Mr. Basset. " He's to be articled to me for five years ; but I think it's likely he'U go to sea before the time ex pires. How heavUy the old man is sleeping ! Now, is that natural sleep ?" " No : that's always a bad sign ; that puffing with the lips is generally among the last symptoms. Well, he'U be a loss anyhow, when he's gone. There's an eight-ounce mixture he never tasted yet — infusion of gentian with soda. Put your lips to that." " DevU a one o' me will ever sup the like," said the attorney, finishing bis tumbler of punch as he spoke. " Pbeugh ! how can you drink them things that way ?" " Sure it's the compound infusion made with orange peel and cardamom seeds. There isn't one of them didn't cost two-and-ninepenee. He'll be eight weeks in bed come Tuesday next."

" Well, well ! If he lived till the next assizes, it would be telling me four hundred pounds, not to speak of tbe costs of two ejectments I have in hand against MulUns and his father-in-law." " OURS." 8 "It's a wonder," said the doctor, after a pause, " that Tom didn't come by the coach. It's no matter now, at any rate ; for since the eldest son's away, there's no one here to interfere with us." " It was a masterly stroke of yours, doctor, to tell tbe old man tbe weather was too severe to bring George over from Eton. As sure as he came he'd make up matters with Tom, and the end of it would be, I'd lose the agency, and you wouldn't have those pleasant Uttle bills for the tenantry — eh, Fin?" " Whisht ! he's waking now. Well, sh — well, Mr. Burke, how do you feel now ? He's off again." " The funeral ought to be on a Sunday," said Basset, in a whisper.

" There'll be no getting the people to come any other day. He's saying something, I think." "Fin," said my father, in a faint, hoarse voice — "Fin, give me a drink. It's not warm." " Yes, sir, I had it on the fire." "Well, then, it's mysefr that's growing cold. How's the pulse now, Fin? Is the Dublin doctor come yet ?" " No, sh, we're expecting him every minute ; but sure, you know, we're doing everything." " Oh ! I know it. Yes, to be sure, Fin ; but they've many a new thing up in Dublin, there, we don't bear of. Whisht ! what's that ?" " It's Tony, sh, Tony Basset ; .he's sitting up with me." " Come over here, Tony. Tony, I'm going fast. I feel it, and my heart is low. Could we withdraw the proceedings about Freney ?" " He's the biggest blackguard " " Ah ! no matter now — I'm going to a place where we'U aU need mercy.

What was it that Canealy said he'd give for the land ?" " Two pound ten an acre — and Freney never paid thirty shillings out of it." " It's mighty odd George didn't come over." " Sure I told you there was two feet of snow on the ground." • ' " Lord be about us ! what a severe season ! But why isn't Tom here ?" I started at the words, and was about to rush forward, when he added, " I don't want him, though." " Of course you don't," said tbe attorney. " It's Uttle comfort he ever gave you. Are you in pain there ?" " Ay, great pain over my heart. WeU, weU ! don't be bard to him when I'm gone." "Don't let him talk so much," said Basset, in a whisper, to the doctor. " You must compose yourself, Mr. Burke," said the doctor, " Try and take a sleep. The night isn't half through yet." The sick man obeyed without a word, and soon after the heavy respira tion betokened the same lethargic slumber once more.