After an arduous service of one day and a half that gentleman returned to the maternal apron-strings, laden to the ground with the most harrowing legends of the horrors of war. Leader was not a warrior of this stamp--far from it; he had vindicated his manliness at Ladon outside Orleans, where Ogilvie, of the British Royal Artillery, had met his fate by his side, and there was something soldierly in the way he bore himself in his vanity of dress. Not that I think the dandies are the best soldiers--that is merest popular paradox. To me it is as ridiculous for a man to array himself in fine clothes when he is going to kill or be killed, as it would be for him to put on gewgaws when he was going to be hanged. As Leader disappears from my account of Carlist doings after this--we were associated with different columns--it may be of interest to tell of his subsequent career. He served in a cavalry squadron on the staff of the King, and when the cause collapsed came to London. His uncle tried to induce him to settle down to some steady employment in the City. Leader expressed himself satisfied to make an experiment at desk-work.
"It was useless," said Leader with a hearty crow as he related the story to me. "The friend who had promised to create a vacancy for me in his office ordered his chief clerk to lock the safe and send for the police when he heard of my antecedents. He invited me to dinner, but candidly told me that a rifle was more in my line than a quill."
And yet it was in the service of the quill the young soldier ended his days. He got an appointment as an auxiliary correspondent to a great London daily paper during the Russo-Turkish war. He was elate; the road to fame and fortune now lay open before him. The next I heard of him was that he had succumbed to typhoid fever at Philippopolis.
A Scotch _spadassin_ arrived in our midst about this period. He was most anxious to draw a blade for Don Carlos, but he had a decided objection to serve in any capacity but that of command. He did not appreciate the fun of losing the number of his mess as an obscure hero of the rank and file, though he would not mind sacrificing an arm, I do think, at the head of a charging column, provided that he had a showy uniform on, and that the fact of his valour was properly advertised in the despatches. He had an idea that would commend itself to Belcha's bushwhackers, but it was not entertained. It was to take passage with a few trusty men on the tug for San Sebastian when she was reported to be conveying specie for the payment of the Spanish Republican troops, to drive the voyagers down the hold, throttle the skipper, intimidate the crew, take the wheel and turn her head to the coast, seize and land the money under Carlist protection, and then scuttle her. The least recompense, he calculated, which could be awarded to him for that exploit by his Majesty Charles VII. was the Order of the Golden Fleece; and a very appropriate order too.