Charles O'Malley, The Irish Dragoon, Volume 2Lever, Charles
General
Charles O'Malley, The Irish Dragoon, Volume 2
Lever, Charles
Peninsular War, 1807-1814 -- Fiction
However astonished I had been at the warmth, by which I was treated in
London, I was still less prepared for the enthusiasm which greeted me in
every town through which I passed. There was not a village where we stopped
to change horses whose inhabitants did not simultaneously pour forth to
welcome me with every demonstration of delight. That the fact of four
horses and a yellow chaise should have elicited such testimonies of
satisfaction, was somewhat difficult to conceive; and even had the
important news that I was the bearer of despatches been telegraphed from
London by successive postboys, still the extraordinary excitement was
unaccountable. It was only on reaching Bristol that I learned to what
circumstance my popularity was owing. My friend Mike, in humble imitation
of election practices, had posted a large placard on the back of the
chaise, announcing, in letters of portentous length, something like the
following:--
“Bloody news! Fall of Ciudad Rodrigo! Five thousand prisoners
and two hundred pieces of cannon taken!”
This veracious and satisfactory statement, aided by Mike’s personal
exertions, and an unwearied performance on the trumpet he had taken from
the French dragoon, had roused the population of every hamlet, and made our
journey from London to Bristol one scene of uproar, noise, and confusion.
All my attempts to suppress Mike’s oratory or music were perfectly
unavailing. In fact, he had pledged my health so many times during the day;
he had drunk so many toasts to the success of the British arms, so many to
the English nation, so many in honor of Ireland, and so many in honor of
Mickey Free himself,--that all respect for my authority was lost in his
enthusiasm for my greatness, and his shouts became wilder, and the blasts
from the trumpet more fearful and incoherent; and finally, on the last
stage of our journey, having exhausted as it were every tribute of his
lungs, he seemed (if I were to judge by the evidence of my ears) to be
performing something very like a hornpipe on the roof of the chaise.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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