The House by the Church-Yard Read Free

promptly.
    'And in what capacity?' pursued his reverence.
    'Drummer,' answered the mulberry–faced veteran.
    'Ho!—Drummer? That’s a good time ago, I dare say,' said my uncle, looking on him reflectively.
    'Well, so it is, not far off fifty years,' answered he. 'He was a hard–headed codger, he was; but you see the sprig of shillelagh was too hard for him—ha, ha, ha!' and he gave the skull a smart knock with his walking–cane, as he grinned at it and wagged his head.
    'Gently, gently, my good man,' said the curate, placing his hand hastily upon his arm, for the knock was harder than was needed for the purpose of demonstration.
    'You see, Sir, at that time, our Colonel–in–Chief was my Lord Blackwater,' continued the old soldier, 'not that we often seen him, for he lived in France mostly; the Colonel–en–Second was General Chattesworth, and Colonel Stafford was Lieutenant–Colonel, and under him Major O’Neill; Captains, four—Cluffe, Devereux, Barton, and Burgh: First Lieutenants—Puddock, Delany, Sackville, and Armstrong; Second Lieutenants—Salt; Barber, Lillyman, and Pringle; Lieutenant Fireworkers—O’Flaherty—'
    'I beg your pardon,' interposed my uncle, '
Fireworkers
, did you say?'
    'Yes, Sir.'
    'And what, pray, does a Lieutenant
Fireworker
mean?'
    'Why, law bless you, Sir! a Fireworker! 'twas his business to see that the men loaded, sarved, laid, and fired the gun all right. But that doesn’t signify; you see this old skull, Sir: well, 'twas a nine days' wonder, and the queerest business you ever heerd tell of. Why, Sir, the women was frightened out of their senses, an' the men puzzled out o' their wits—they wor—ha, ha, ha! an' I can tell you all about it—a mighty black and bloody business it was—'
    'I—I beg your pardon, Sir: but I think—yes—the funeral has arrived; and for the present, I must bid you good–morning.'
    And so my uncle hurried to the church, where he assumed his gown, and the solemn rite proceeded.
    When all was over, my uncle, after his wont, waited until he had seen the disturbed remains re–deposited decently in their place; and then, having disrobed, I saw him look with some interest about the church–yard, and I knew 'twas in quest of the old soldier.
    'I saw him go away during the funeral,' I said.
    'Ay, the old pensioner,' said my uncle, peering about in quest of him.
    And we walked through the town, and over the bridge, and we saw nothing of his cocked hat and red single–breasted frock, and returned rather disappointed to tea.
    I ran into the back room which commanded the church–yard in the hope of seeing the old fellow once more, with his cane shouldered, grinning among the tombstones in the evening sun. But there was no sign of him, or indeed of anyone else there. So I returned, just as my uncle, having made the tea, shut down the lid of his silver tea–pot with a little smack; and with a kind but absent smile upon me, he took his book, sat down and crossed one of his thin legs over the other, and waited pleasantly until the delightful infusion should be ready for our lips, reading his old volume, and with his disengaged hand gently stroking his long shin–bone.
    In the meantime, I, who thirsted more for that tale of terror which the old soldier had all but begun, of which in that strangely battered skull I had only an hour ago seen face to face so grizzly a memento, and of which in all human probability I never was to hear more, looked out dejectedly from the window, when, whom should I behold marching up the street, at slow time, towards the Salmon House, but the identical old soldier, cocked–hat, copper nose, great red single–breasted coat with its prodigious wide button–holes, leggings, cane, and all, just under the village tree.
    'Here he is, oh! Uncle Charles, here he comes,' I cried.
    'Eh, the soldier, is he?' said my uncle, tripping in the carpet in his eagerness, and all but breaking the window.
    'So it is, indeed; run down, my boy,