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As she spoke she arose, not a vestige of illness remaining, but a deep flush mantling in the cheek that, but a moment back, was deathly pale. “Farewell, sir. You had a brief triumph over the fears of a poor weak woman; but I forgive you, for you have armed her heart with a courage it never knew before.”

With these words she moved calmly towards the door, which O’Reilly in respectful silence held open; and then, descending the stairs with a firm step, left the house.

“Is she gone, Bob?” said the old man, faintly, as the door clapped heavily. “Is she gone?”

O’Reilly made no reply, but leaned his head on the chimney, and seemed lost in thought.

“I knew it would fail,” said Nalty in a whisper to O’Reilly.

“What ‘s that he ‘s saying, Bob? – what ‘s Nalty saying?”

“That he knew it would fail, sir,” rejoined O’Reilly, with a bitterness that showed he was not sorry to say a disagreeable thing.

“Ay! but Nalty was frightened about his annuity; he thought, maybe, I ‘d die in earnest. Well, we ‘ve something left yet.”

“What’s that?” asked O’Reilly, almost sternly.

“The indictment for forgery,” said Hickman, with a savage energy.

“Then you must look out for another lawyer, sir,” said Nalty. “That I tell you frankly and fairly.”

“What? – I didn’t hear.”

“He refuses to take the conduct of such a case,” said O’Reilly; “and, indeed, I think on very sufficient grounds.”

“Ay!” muttered the old doctor. “Then I suppose there ‘s no help for it! Here, Bob, put these papers in the fire.”

So saying, he drew a thick roil of documents from beneath his pillow, and placed it in his son’s hands. “Put them in the blaze, and let me see them burned.”

O’Reilly did as he was told, stirring the red embers till the whole mass was consumed.

“I am glad of that, with all my heart,” said he, as the flame died out. “That was a part of the matter I never felt easy about.”

“Didn’t you?” grunted the old man, with a leer of malice. “What was it you burned, d’ye think?”

“The bills, – the bonds with young Darcy’s signature,” replied O’Reilly, almost terrified by an unknown suspicion.

“Not a bit of it, Bob. The blaze you made was a costly fire to you, as you ‘ll know one day. That was my will.”

CHAPTER XXVI. THE LANDING AT ABOUKIR

We must now ask our reader to leave for a season this scene of plot and intrigue, and turn with us to a very different picture. The same morning which on the iron-bound coast of Ireland broke in storm and hurricane, dawned fair and joyous over the shady shores of Egypt, and scarcely ruffled the long rolling waves as they swept into the deep bay of Aboukir. Here now a fleet of one hundred and seventy ships lay at anchor, the expedition sent forth by England to arrest the devouring ambition of Buonaparte, and rescue the land of the Pyramids from bondage.

While our concern here is less with the great event than with the fortune of one of its humble followers, we would fain linger a little over the memory of this glorious achievement of our country’s arms. For above a week after the arrival of the fleet, the gale continued to blow with unabated fury; a sea mountains high rolled into the bay, accompanied by sudden squalls of such violence that the largest ships of the fleet could barely hold on by their moorings, while many smaller ones were compelled to slip their cables, and stand out to sea. If the damage and injury were not important enough to risk the success of the expedition, the casualties ever inseparable from such events threw a gloom over the whole force, a feeling grievously increased by the first tidings that met them, – the capture of one of the officers and a boat’s crew, who were taken while examining the shore, and seeking out the fittest spot for a landing.

On the 7th of March the wind and sea subsided, the sky cleared, and a glorious sunset gave promise of a calm, so soon to be converted into a storm not less terrible than that of the elements.

As day closed, the outlying ships had all returned to their moorings, the accidents of the late gale were repaired, and the soaked sails hung flapping in the evening breeze to dry; while the decks swarmed with moving figures, all eagerly engaged in preparation for that event which each well knew could not now be distant. How many a heart throbbed high with ecstasy and hope, that soon was to be cold; how many an eye wandered over that strong line of defences along the shore, that never was to gaze upon another sunset!

And yet, to mark the proud step, the flashing look the eager speech of all around, the occasion might have been deemed one of triumphant pleasure rather than the approach of an enterprise full of hazard and danger. The disappointments which the storm had excited, by delaying the landing, were forgotten altogether, or only thought of to heighten the delight which now they felt.

The rapid exchange of signals between the line-of-battle ships showed that preparations were on foot; and many were the guesses and surmises current as to the meaning of this or that ensign, each reading the mystery by the light of his inward hopes. On one object, however, every eye was fixed with a most intense anxiety. This was an armed launch, which, shooting out from beneath the shadow of a three-decker, swept across the bay with muffled oars. Nothing louder than a whisper broke the silence on board of her, as they stole along the still water, and held on their course towards the shore. Through the gloom of the falling night, they were seen to track each indenture of the coast, – now lying on their oars to take soundings; now delaying, to note some spot of more than ordinary strength. It was already midnight before “the reconnoissance” was effected, and the party returned to the ship, well acquainted with the formidable preparations of the enemy, and all the hazard that awaited the hardy enterprise. The only part of the coast approachable by boats was a low line of beach, stretching away to the left, from the castle of Aboukir, and about a mile in extent; and this was commanded by a semicircular range of sand-hills, on which the French batteries were posted, and whose crest now glittered with the bivouac fires of a numerous army. From the circumstances of the ground, the guns were so placed as to be able to throw a cross-fire over the bay; while a lower range of batteries protected the shore, the terrible effect of whose practice might be seen on the torn and furrowed sands, – sad presage of what a landing party might expect! Besides these precautions, the whole breastwork bristled with cannon and mortars of various calibre, embedded in the sand; nor was a single position undefended, or one measure of resistance omitted, which might increase the hazard of an attacking force.

Time was an important object with the English general; reinforcements were daily looked for by the French; indeed it was rumored that tidings had come of their having sailed from Toulon, for, with an unparalleled audacity and fortune combined, a French frigate had sailed the preceding day through the midst of our fleet, and, amid the triumphant cheerings of the shore batteries, hoisted the tricolor in the face of our assembled ships. Scarcely had the launch reached the admiral’s ship, when a signal ordered the presence of all officers in command to attend a council of war. The proceedings were quickly terminated, and in less than half an hour, the various boats were seen returning to their respective ships, the resolution having been taken to attack that very morning, or, in the words of the general order, “to bring the troops as soon as possible before the enemy.” Never were tidings more welcomed; the delay, brief as it was, had stimulated the ardor of the men to the highest degree, and they actually burned with impatience to be engaged. The dispositions for attack were simple, and easily followed. A sloop of war, anchored just beyond the reach of cannon-shot, was named as a point of rendezvous. By a single blue light at her mizzen, the boats were to move towards her; three lights at the maintop would announce that they were all assembled; a single gun would then be the signal to make for the shore.

Strict orders were given that no unusual lights should be seen from the ships, nor any unwonted sight or sound betray extraordinary preparation. The men were mustered by the half-light in use on board, the ammunition distributed in silence, and every precaution taken that the attack should have the character of a surprise. These orders were well and closely followed; but so short was the interval, and so manifold the arrangements, it was already daylight before the rendezvous was accomplished.

If the plan of debarkation was easily comprehended, that of the attack was not less so. Nelson once summed up a “general order,” by saying, “The captain will not make any mistake who lays his ship alongside of an enemy of heavier metal.” So Abercrombie’s last instructions were, “Whenever an officer may be in want of orders, let him assault an enemy’s battery.” These were to be carried by the bayonet alone, and, of the entire force, not one man landed with a loaded musket.

A few minutes after seven the signal was given, and the boats moved off. The sun was high, a light breeze fanned the water, the flags and streamers of the ships-of-war floated proudly out as the flotilla stood for the shore; in glorious rivalry they pulled through the surf, each eager to be first, and all the excitement of a race was imparted to this enterprise of peril.

Conspicuous among the leading boats were two, whose party, equipped in a brilliant uniform of blue and silver, formed part of the cavalry force. The inferiority of the horses supplied was such that only two hundred and fifty were mounted, and the remainder had asked and obtained permission to serve on foot. A considerable portion of this corps was made up of volunteers; and several young men of family and fortune were said to serve in the ranks, and from the circumstance of being commanded by the Knight of Gwynne, were called “Darcy’s Volunteers.” It was a glorious sight to see the first boat of this party, in the stern of which sat the old Knight himself, shoot out ahead, and amid the cheering of the whole flotilla, lead the way in shore.

Returning the various salutes which greeted him, the old man sat bare-headed, his silvery hair floating back in the breeze, and his manly face beaming with high enthusiasm.

“A grand spectacle for an unconcerned eyewitness,” said an officer to his neighbor.

The words reached Darcy’s ears, and he called out, “I differ with you, Captain. To enjoy all the thrilling ecstasy of this scene a man must have his stake on the venture. It is our personal hopes and fears are necessary ingredients in the exalted feeling. I would not stand on yonder cliff and look on, for millions; but such a moment as this is glorious.” As he spoke, a long line of flame ran along the heights, and at the same instant the whole air trembled as the entire batteries opened their fire. The sea hissed and glittered with round shot and shell; while, in a perfect hurricane, they rained on every side.

The suddenness of the cannonade, and the confusion consequent on the casualties that followed, seemed for a moment to retard the advance, or, as it appeared to the French, to deter the invading force altogether; for as they perceived some of the boats to lie on their oars, and others withdrawn to the assistance of their comrades, a deafening cheer of triumph rang out from the batteries, and was heard over the bay. Scarcely had it been uttered when the British answered by another, whose hoarse roar bespoke the coming vengeance.

The flotilla had now advanced within a line of buoys laid down to direct the fire, and here grape and musketry mingled their clattering with the deeper thunder of cannon. “This is sharp work, gentlemen,” said the Knight, as the spray twice splashed over the boat, from shot that fell close by. “They ‘ll have our range soon. Do you mark how accurately the shots fall over that line of surf?”

“That’s a sand-bank, sir,” said the coxswain who steered. “There ‘s barely draught of water there for heavy launches.”

“I perceive there is some shelter yonder beneath that large battery.”

“They can trust that spot,” cried the coxswain, smiling. “There ‘s a heavy surf there, and no boat could live through it. But stay, there is a boat about to try it.” Every eye was now turned towards a yawl which, with twelve oars, vigorously headed on through the very midst of a broken and foam-covered tract of water, where jets of sea sprang up from hidden rocks, and cross currents warred and contended against each other.

The hazardous venture was not alone watched by those iu the boats, but, from the crowning ridge of batteries, from every cliff and crag on shore, wondering enemies gazed on the hardihood of the daring.

“They’ll do it yet, sir, – they ‘ll do it yet,” cried the coxswain, wild with excitement. “There’s deep water inside that reef.”

The words were scarcely out, when a tremendous cannonade opened from the large battery. The balls fell on every side of the boat, and at length one struck her on the stem, rending her open from end to end, and scattering her shivered planks over the surfy sea.

A shout, a cheer, a drowning cry from the sinking crew, and all was over.

So sudden and so complete was this dreadful catastrophe, that they who witnessed it almost doubted the evidence of their senses, nor were the victors long to enjoy this triumph; the very discharge which sunk the boat having burst a mortar, and ignited a mass of powder near, a terrible explosion followed. A dense column of smoke and sand filled the air; and when this cleared away, the face of the battery was perceived to be rent in two.

“We can do it now, lads,” cried Darcy. “They ‘ll never recover from the confusion yonder in time to see us.” A cheer met his words, and the coxswain turned the boat’s head in the direction of the reef.

Closely followed by their comrades in the second boat, they pulled along through the surf like men whose lives were on the venture; four arms to every oar, the craft bounded through the boiling tide; twice the keel was felt to graze the rocky bed, but the strong impulse of the boat’s “way” carried her through, and soon they floated in the still water within the reef.

“It shoals fast here,” cried the coxswain.

“What’s the depth?” asked Darcy.

“Scarcely above three feet. If we throw over our six-pounder – ”

“No, no. It’s but wading, after all. Keep your muskets dry, move together, and we shall be the first to touch the shore.”

As he said this, he sprang over the side of the boat into the sea, and waving his hat above his head, began his progress towards the land. “Come along, gentlemen, we ‘ve often done as much when salmon-fishing in our own rivers.” Thus, lightly jesting, and encouraging his party, he waded on, with all the seeming carelessness of one bent on some scheme of pleasure.

The large batteries had no longer the range; but a dreadful fire of musketry was poured in from the heights, and several brave fellows fell, mortally wounded, ere the strand was reached. Cheered by the approving shouts of thousands from the boats, they at length touched the beach; and wild and disorderly as had been their advance when breasting the waves, no sooner had they landed than discipline resumed its sway, and the words, “Fall in, men!” were obeyed with the prompt precision of a parade. A strong body of tirailleurs, scattered along the base of the sand-hills and through the irregularities of the ground, galled them with a dropping and destructive fire as they formed; nor was it till an advanced party had driven these back, that the dispositions could be well and properly taken. By this time several other boats had touched the shore, and already detachments from the Fortieth, Twenty-eighth, and Forty-second regiments were drawn up along the beach, and, from these, frequent cries and shouts were heard, encouraging and cheering the “Volunteers,” who alone, of all the force, had yet come to close quarters with the enemy.

A brief but most dangerous interval now followed; for the boats, assailed by a murderous fire, had sustained severe losses, and a short delay inevitably followed, assisting the wounded, or rescuing those who had fallen into the sea. Had the French profited by this pause, to bear down upon the small force now drawn up inactive on the beach, the fate of that great achievement might have been perilled; as it happened, however, nothing was further from their thought than coming into immediate contact with the British, and they contented themselves with a distant but still destructive cannonade. It is not impossible that the audacity of those who first landed, and who – a mere handful – assumed the offensive, might have been the reason of this conduct, certain it is, the boats, for a time retarded, were permitted again to move forward and disembark then; men, with no other resistance than the fire from the batteries.

The three first regiments which gained the land were, strangely enough, representatives of the three different nationalities of the Empire; and scarcely were the words, “Forward! to the assault!” given, when an emulative struggle began, which should first reach the top and cross bayonets with the French. On the left, and nearest to the causeway that led up the heights, stood the Highlanders. These formed under an overwhelming shower of grape and musketry, and, with pibrochs playing, marched steadily forward. The Fortieth made an effort to pass them, which caused a momentary confusion, ending in an order for this regiment to halt, and support the Forty-second; and while this was taking place, the Twenty-eighth rushed to the ascent in broken parties, and, following the direction the “Volunteers” had taken in pursuit of the tirailleurs, they mounted the heights together.

So suddenly was the tirailleur force repelled, that they had scarcely time to give the alarm, when the Twenty-eighth passed the crest of the hill, and prepared to charge. The Irish regiment, glorying in being the first to reach the top, cheered madly, and bore down. The French poured in a single volley, and fell back; not to retreat, but to entice pursuit. The stratagem succeeded. The Twenty-eighth pursued them hotly, and almost at once found themselves engaged in a narrow gorge of the sand-hills, and exposed to a terrific cross-fire. To retreat was impossible; their own weight drove them on, and the deafening cheers of their comrades drowned every word of command. Grape at half-musket distance ploughed through their ranks, while one continuous crash of small-arms showed the number and closeness of their foes.

It was at this moment that Darcy, whose party was advancing by a smaller gorge, ascended a height, and beheld the perilous condition of his countrymen. There was but one way to liberate them, and that involved their own destruction: to throw themselves on the French flank, and while devoting themselves to death, enable the Twenty-eighth to retire or make head against the opposing force. While Darcy, in a few hurried words, made known his plan to those around him, the opportunity for its employment most strikingly presented itself. A momentary repulse of the French had driven a part of their column to the highroad leading to Alexandria, where already several baggage carts and ammunition wagons were gathered. This movement seemed so like retreat that Darcy’s sanguine nature was deceived, and calling out, “Come along, lads, – they are running already!” he dashed onward, followed by his gallant band. His attack, if inefficient for want of numbers, was critical in point of time. The same instant that the French were assailed by him in flank, the Forty-second had gained the summit and attacked them in front: fresh battalions each moment arrived, and now along the entire crest of the ridge the fight raged fiercely. One after the other the batteries were stormed, and carried by our infantry at the bayonet’s point; and in less than an hour from the time of landing, the British flag waved over seven of the nine heavy batteries.

The battle, severe as it was on the heights, was main-tained with even greater slaughter on the shore. The French, endeavoring too late to repair the error of not resisting the actual landing, had now thrown an immense force by a flank movement on the British battalions; and this attack of horse, foot, and artillery combined, was, for its duration, the great event of the day. For a brief space it appeared impossible for the few regiments to sustain the shock of such an encounter; and had it not been for the artillery of the gunboats stationed along the shore, they must have yielded. Their fire, however, was terribly destructive, sweeping through the columns as they came up, and actually cutting lanes in the dense squadrons.

Reinforcements poured in, besides, at every instant; and after a bloody and anxious struggle, the British were enabled to take the offensive, and advance against their foes. The French, already weakened by loss and dispirited by failure, did not await the conflict, but retired slowly, it is true, and in perfect order, on one of the roads leading into the great highway to Alexandria.

Victory had even more unequivocally pronounced for the British on the heights. By this time every battery was in their possession. The enemy were in full flight towards Alexandria, the tumultuous mass occasionally assailed by our light infantry, to whom, from our deficiency in cavalry, was assigned the duty of harassing the retreat. It was here that Darcy’s Volunteers, now reduced to one third of their original number, highly distinguished themselves, not only attacking the flank of the retiring enemy, but seizing every opportunity of ground to assail them in front and retard their flight.

In one of these onslaughts, for such they were, the Volunteers became inextricably entangled with the enemy, and although fighting with the desperation of tigers, volley after volley tore through them; and the French, maddened by the loss they had already suffered at their hands, hastened to finish them by the bayonet. It was only by the intervention of the French officers, a measure in itself not devoid of peril, that any were spared; and those few, bleeding and mangled, were hurried along as prisoners, the only triumph of that day’s battle! The strange spectacle of an affray in the very midst of a retiring column was seen by the British in pursuit, and the memory of this scene is preserved among the incidents of that day’s achievements.

Many and desperate attempts were made to rescue the prisoners. The French, however, received the charges with deadly volleys, and as their flanks were now covered by a cloud of tirailleurs, they were enabled to continue their retreat on Alexandria, protected by the circumstances of the ground, every point of which they had favorably occupied. The battle was now over; guns, ammunition and stores were all landed; on the heights the English ensign waved triumphantly; and, far as the eye could reach, the French masses were seen in flight, to seek shelter within the lines of Alexandria.

It was a glorious moment as the last column ascended the cliffs, to find their gallant comrades masters of the French position in its entire extent. Here, now, two brigades reposed with piled arms, guns, mortars, camp equipage, and military chests strewed on every side, all attesting the completeness of a victory which even a French bulletin could hardly venture to disavow. It is perhaps fortunate that, at times like this, the feeling of high excitement subdues all sense of the regret so natural to scenes of suffering; and thus, amid many a sight and sound of woe, glad shouts of triumph were raised, and heartfelt bursts of joyous recognition broke forth as friends met, and clasped each other’s hands. Incidents of the battle, traits of individual heroism, were recorded on every side: anecdotes then told for the first time, to be remembered, many a year after, among the annals of regimental glory!

It is but seldom, at such moments, that men can turn from the theme of triumph to think of the more disastrous events of the day; and yet a general feeling of sorrow prevailed on the subject of the brave Volunteers, of whose fate none could bring any tidings; some asserting that they had all fallen to a man on the road leading to Alexandria, others affirming that they were carried off prisoners by the French cavalry.

A party of light infantry, who had closely followed the enemy till nightfall, had despatched some of their wounded to the rear; and by these the news came, that in an open space beside the high-road the ground was covered with bodies in the well-known blue and silver of the Volunteers. One only of these exhibited signs of life; and him they had placed among the wounded in one of the carts, and brought back with them. As will often happen, single instances of suffering excite more of compassionate pity than wide-spread affliction; and so here. When death and agony were on every hand, – whole wagons filled with maimed and dying comrades, – a closely wedged group gathered around the dying Volunteer, their saddened faces betraying emotions that all the terrible scenes of the day had never evoked.

“It ‘s no use, sir,” said the surgeon, to the field-officer who had called him to the spot. “There is internal bleeding, besides this ghastly sabre-cut.”

“Who knows him?” said the officer, looking around; but none made answer. “Can no one tell his name?”

There was a silence for a few seconds; when the dying man lifted his failing eyes upwards, and turned them slowly around on the group. A slight tremor shook his lips, as if with an effort to speak; but no sound issued. Yet in the terrible eagerness of his features might be seen the working of a spirit fiercely struggling for utterance.

“Yes, my poor fellow,” said the officer, stooping down beside him, and taking his hand. “I was asking for your name.”

A faint smile and a slight nod of the head seemed to acknowledge the speech.

“He is speaking, – hush! I hear his voice,” cried the officer.

An almost inaudible murmur moved his lips; then a shivering shook his frame, and his head fell heavily back.

“What is this?” said the officer..

“Death,” said the surgeon, with the solemn calm of one habituated to such scenes. “His last words were strange-, did you hear them?”

“I thought he said ‘Court-martial.’”

The surgeon nodded, and turned to move away.

“See here, sir,” said a sergeant, as opening the dead man’s coat he drew forth a white handkerchief, “the poor fellow was evidently trying to write his name with his own blood; here are some letters clear enough. L-e-o, and this is an n – or m – ”

“I know him now,” cried another. “This was the Volunteer who joined us at Malta; but Colonel Darcy got him exchanged into his own corps. His name was Leonard.”