Ghosts and Family Legends: A Volume for Christmas by Catherine Crowe

Author:Catherine Crowe [Crowe, Catherine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9788027305759
Barnesnoble:
Published: 2012-04-19T00:00:00+00:00

THE DUTCH OFFICER’S STORY.

“Well, I think nothing can be so cowardly as to be afraid to own the truth?” said the pretty Madame de B., an Englishwoman, who had married a Dutch officer of

distinction.

“Are you really venturing to accuse the General of cowardice?” said Madame L.

“Yes,” said Madame de B., “I want him to tell Mrs. Crowe a ghost story—a thing that he saw himself—and he pooh, poohs it, though he owned it to me before we

were married, and since too, saying that he never could have believed such a thing if he had not seen it himself.”

While the wife was making this little tirade, the husband looked as if she was accusing him of picking somebody’s pocket— il perdait contenance quite. “Now, look at him,” she said, “don’t you see guilt in his face, Mrs. Crowe?”

“Decidedly,” I answered; “so experienced a seeker of ghost stories as myself cannot fail to recognise the symptoms. I always find that when the circumstances

is mere hearsay, and happened to nobody knows who, people are very ready to

tell it; when it has happened to one of their own family, they are considerably less communicative, and will only tell it under protest; but when they are themselves the parties concerned, it is the most difficult thing imaginable to induce them to relate the thing seriously, and with its details; they say they have forgotten it, and don’t believe it; and as an evidence of their incredulity, they affect to laugh at the whole affair. If the General will tell me the story, I shall think it quite as decisive a proof of courage as he ever gave in the field.”

Betwixt bantering and persuasion, we succeeded in our object, and the General

began as follows:—

“You know the Belgian Rebellion (he always called it so) took place in 1830. It broke out at Brussels on the 28th of August, and we immediately advanced with

a considerable force to attack that city; but as the Prince of Orange hoped to bring the people to reason, without bloodshed, we encamped at Vilvorde, whilst

he entered Brussels alone, to hold a conference with the armed people. I was a

Lieutenant-Colonel then, and commanded the 20th foot, to which regiment I had

been lately appointed.

“We had been three or four days in cantonment, when I heard two of the men, who were digging a little drain at the back of my tent, talking of Jokel Falck, a

private in my regiment, who was noted for his extraordinary disposition to somnolence, one of them remarked that he would certainly have got into trouble

for being asleep on his post the previous night, if it had not been for Mungo. ‘I

don’t know how many times he has saved him,’ added he.

“To which the other answered, that Mungo was a very valuable friend, and had

saved many a man from punishment.

“This was the first time I had ever heard of Mungo, and I rather wondered who it was they alluded to; but the conversation slipt from my mind and I never thought

of asking any body.

“Shortly after this I was going my rounds, being field-officer of the day, when I saw by the moonlight, the sentry at one of the outposts stretched upon the ground. I was some way off when I first perceived him; and I only knew what

the object was from the situation, and because I saw the glitter of his accoutrements; but almost at the same moment that I discovered him, I observed

a large black Newfoundland dog trotting towards him. The man rose as the dog

approached, and had got upon his legs before I reached the spot. This occupied

the space of about two minutes—perhaps, not so much.

“‘You were asleep on your post,’ I said; and turning to the mounted orderly that attended me, I told him to go back and bring a file of the guard to take him prisoner, and to send a sentry to relieve him.

“‘Non, mon colonel,’ said he, and from the way he spoke I perceived he was intoxicated, ‘it’s all the fault of that damné Mungo. Il m’a manqué.’

“But I paid no attention to what he said and rode on, concluding Mungo was some slang term of the men for drink.

“Some evenings after this, I was riding back from my brother’s quarter—he was

in the 15th, and was stationed about a mile from us—when I remarked the same

dog I had seen before, trot up to a sentry who, with his legs crossed, was leaning

against a wall. The man started, and began walking backwards and forwards on

his beat. I recognised the dog by a large white streak on his side—all the rest of

his coat being black.

“When I came up to the man, I saw it was Jokel Falck, and although I could not

have said he was asleep, I strongly suspected that that was the fact.

“‘You had better take care of yourself, my man,’ said I. ‘I have half a mind to have you relieved, and make a prisoner of you. I believe I should have found you

asleep on your post, if that dog had not roused you.’

“Instead of looking penitent, as was usual on these occasions, I saw a half smile on the man’s face, as he saluted me.

“‘Whose dog is that?’ I asked my servant, as I rode away.

“‘Je ne sais pas mon, Colonel,’ he answered, smiling too.

“On the same evening at mess, I heard one of the subalterns say to the officer who sat next him, ‘It’s a fact, I assure you, and they call him Mungo.’

“‘That’s a new name they’ve got for Schnapps, isn’t it?’ I said.

“‘No, sir; it’s the name of a dog,’ replied the young man, laughing.

“‘A black Newfoundland, with a large white streak on his flank?’

“‘Yes, sir, I believe that is the description,’ replied he, tittering still.

“‘I have seen that dog two or three times,’ said I. ‘I saw him this evening—who does he belong to?’

“‘Well, sir, that is a difficult question,’ answered the lad; and I heard his companion say, ‘To Old Nick, I should think.’

“‘Do you mean to say you’ve really seen Mungo?’ said somebody at the table.

“‘If Mungo is a large Newfoundland—black, with a white streak on its side—I saw him just now. Who does he belong to?’

“By this time, the whole mess table was in a titter, with the exception of one old captain, a man who had been years in the regiment. He was of very humble extraction, and had risen by merit to his present position.

“‘I believe Captain T. is better acquainted with Mungo than anybody present,’

answered Major R., with a sneer. ‘Perhaps he can tell you who he belongs to.’

“The laughter increased, and I saw there was some joke, but not understanding

what it meant, I said to Captain G., ‘Does the dog belong to Jokel Falck?’

“‘No, sir,’ he replied, ‘the dog belongs to nobody now. He once belonged to an officer called Joseph Atveld.’

“‘Belonging to this regiment?’

“‘Yes, sir.’

“‘He is dead, I suppose?’

“‘Yes, sir, he is.’

“‘And the dog has attached himself to the regiment?’

“‘Yes, sir.’

“During this conversation, the suppressed laughter continued, and every eye was fixed on Captain T., who answered me shortly, but with the utmost gravity.

“‘In fact,’ said the major, contemptuously, ‘according to Captain T., Mungo is the ghost of a deceased dog.’

“This announcement was received with shouts of laughter, in which I confess I

joined, whilst Captain T. still retained an unmoved gravity.

“‘It is easier to laugh at such a thing than to believe it, sir,’ said he. ‘ I believe it, because I know it.’

“I smiled, and turned the conversation.

“If anybody at the table except Captain T. had made such an assertion as this, I should have ridiculed them without mercy; but he was an old man, and from the

circumstances I have mentioned regarding his origin, we were careful not to offend him; so no more was said about Mungo, and in the hurry of events that

followed. I never thought of it again. We marched on to Brussels the next day;

and after that, had enough to do till we went to Antwerp, where we were besieged by the French the following year.

“During the siege, I sometimes heard the name of Mungo again; and, one night,

when I was visiting the guards and sentries as grand rounds, I caught a glimpse

of him, and I felt sure that the man he was approaching when I observed him, had been asleep; but he was screened by an angle of the bastion, and by the time

I turned the corner, he was moving about.

“This brought to my mind all I had heard about the dog; and as the circumstance

was curious, in any point of view, I mentioned what I had seen to Captain T. the next day, saying, ‘I saw your friend Mungo, last night.’

“‘Did you, sir?’ said he. ‘It’s a strange thing! No doubt, the man was asleep!’

“‘But do you seriously mean to say, that you believe this to be a visionary dog, and not a dog of flesh and blood?’

“‘I do, sir; I have been quizzed enough about it; and, once or twice, have nearly got into a quarrel, because people will persist in laughing at what they know nothing about; but as sure as that is a sword you hold in your hand, so sure is that dog a spectre, or ghost—if such a word is applicable to a fourfooted beast!’

“‘But, it’s impossible!’ I said. ‘What reason have you for such an extraordinary belief?’

“‘Why, you know, sir, man-and-boy, I have been in the regiment all my life. I was born in it. My father was pay-serjeant of No. 3 company, when he died; and

I have seen Mungo myself, perhaps twenty times, and known, positively, of others seeing him twice as many more.’

“‘Very possibly; but that is no proof, that it is not some dog that has attached himself to the regiment.’

“‘But I have seen and heard of the dog for fifty years, sir; and my father before me, had seen and heard of him as long!’

“‘Well, certainly, that is extraordinary,—if you are sure of it, and that it’s the same dog!’

“‘It’s a remarkable dog, sir.

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