Hard by the chimney
stood a vacant chair in what I thought an enviable situation,
whether for warmth or the pleasure of society; and I was about to
take it, when the nearest of the company stopped me with his hand.
'Beg thy pardon, sir,' said he; 'but that there chair belongs to a
British soldier.'
A chorus of voices enforced and explained. It was one of Lord
Wellington's heroes. He had been wounded under Rowland Hill. He
was Colbourne's right-hand man. In short, this favoured individual
appeared to have served with every separate corps, and under every
individual general in the Peninsula. Of course I apologised. I
had not known. The devil was in it if a soldier had not a right to
the best in England. And with that sentiment, which was loudly
applauded, I found a corner of a bench, and awaited, with some
hopes of entertainment, the return of the hero. He proved, of
course, to be a private soldier. I say of course, because no
officer could possibly enjoy such heights of popularity. He had
been wounded before San Sebastian, and still wore his arm in a
sling. What was a great deal worse for him, every member of the
company had been plying him with drink. His honest yokel's
countenance blazed as if with fever, his eyes were glazed and
looked the two ways, and his feet stumbled as, amidst a murmur of
applause, he returned to the midst of his admirers.
Pages:
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149