Recollections of the eventful life of a soldier — John Shaqi
Recollections of the eventful life of a soldierDonaldson, Joseph
History
Recollections of the eventful life of a soldier
Donaldson, Joseph
Peninsular War, 1807-1814 -- Personal narratives
When he was gone, a sailor, who was standing by and saw us talking to
the old man, came up, and asked us what he had been saying. Having
told him, he said the sooner we were off out of that the better; for
the fellow, who had been talking to us, was one of a set of rascals
in the pay of the press-gang; and that, instead of putting us on
board of a vessel such as he described, he would put us on board the
Tender; and that there was actually no such vessel in the roads as
the one he had mentioned. We lost no time in taking his advice, and
hurried home to our lodgings.
When there, my spirits began to sink; and the thought of how I
had left my parents, and the distress they must be in about me,
completely overcame me, and I burst into tears; and my companion
feeling as bad as myself, we resolved to return home, and ask
forgiveness of our parents; but, being fatigued with travelling, we
put off our return until next morning.
When we got up next day, our minds had recovered some of their former
elasticity, and we felt less disposed to return than we did the
preceding evening. The idea of the ridicule which we should have to
encounter from our acquaintance, and on my part, the stigma which
would be thrown on my character for drawing the money in my father’s
name, seemed to be insurmountable barriers in the way, so we walked
into the town with our minds still undecided.
In crossing the main street, we met one of our old school-fellows,
who had run away from his parents about six months before. He had
just returned from the West Indies; and having leave for a few days
to go to Glasgow to see his friends, he had got himself rigged out in
the jolly-tar style—his Jacket and trowsers of fine blue cloth, white
stockings, short-quartered shoes, a black silk handkerchief tied
loosely round his neck, over which the collar of his checked shirt
was folded neatly down—a glazed hat on his head, and an enormous quid
of tobacco in his cheek. In fact, he was so completely metamorphosed,
that we scarcely knew him: for when at school, he was remarked for
being a soft, dull sort of boy.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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