Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol. 3, July, 1851Various
History
Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol. 3, July, 1851
Various
American literature -- Periodicals; Civilization -- Periodicals; Culture -- Periodicals
"Let the poor fellow have some refreshment," cried one--"Here, take
this, it's coffee." "No, no, the 'petit goutte' 's better--try that
flask." "He shall have my chocolate," said an old major from the door of
a café; and thus they pressed and solicited me with a generosity that I
had yet to learn how dear it cost.
"He ought to be dressed;" "He should be in uniform;" "Is better as he
is;" "The general will not speak to him thus;" "He will;" "He must."
Such, and such like, kept buzzing around me, as with reeling brain and
confused vision they bore me up the great steps, and carried me into a
gorgeous church, the most splendidly ornamented building I had ever
beheld. Except, however, in the decorations of the ceiling, and the
images of saints which figured in niches high up, every trace of a
religious edifice had disappeared. The pulpit had gone--the chairs and
seats for the choir, the confessionals, the shrines, altars--all had
been uprooted, and a large table, at which some twenty officers were
seated writing, now occupied the elevated platform of the high altar,
while here and there stood groups of officers, with their reports from
their various corps or parties in out-stations. Many of these drew near
to me as I entered, and now the buzz of voices in question and rejoinder
swelled into a loud noise, and while some were recounting my feat with
all the seeming accuracy of eye-witnesses, others were as resolutely
protesting it all to be impossible. Suddenly the tumult was hushed, the
crowd fell back, and as the clanking muskets proclaimed a "salute," a
whispered murmur announced the "General."
I could just see the waving plumes of his staff, as they passed up, and
then, as they were disappearing in the distance, they stopped, and one
hastily returned to the entrance of the church.
"Where is this fellow, let me see him," cried he, hurriedly, brushing
his way through the crowd. "Let him stand down; set him on his legs."
"He is too weak, capitaine," said a soldier.
"Place him in a chair, then," said the aid-de-camp, for such he was.
"You have made your escape from the English fleet, my man," continued
he, addressing me.
"I am an officer, and your comrade," replied I, proudly; for, with all
my debility, the tone of his address stung me to the quick.
"In what service, pray?" asked he, with a sneering look at my motley
costume.
"Your general shall hear where I have served, and how, whenever he is
pleased to ask me," was my answer.
"Ay, parbleu," cried three or four sous-officiers in a breath, "the
general shall see him himself."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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