THE SUBALTERN

THE SUBALTERN

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE

BY

G.R. GLEIG, M.A.

CHAPLAIN-GENERAL OF HER MAJESTY'S FORCES

LIBRARY EDITION

REVISED AND CORRECTED, WITH A NEW PREFACE

"Hæc olim meminisse
Juvabit."

"Oh memory, fond memory,
When all things fail we turn to thee."

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS

EDINBURGH AND LONDON

MDCCCLXXII

PREFACE TO THE NEW EDITION

OF

'THE SUBALTERN.'

Forty-six years have run their course since the concluding pages of the following narrative were written—not far short of sixty since the latest of the events recorded therein were to a living and breathing generation present realities. A large space this latter in the life of the individual man—a not inconsiderable one in the existence even of nations. Of the influence which it has exercised over the destinies of the four Powers which, at the opening of the interval, were at deadly strife one with another, this is scarcely the occasion on which to speak. The general results are indeed before us, not to be misapprehended; but the multiplicity of causes which combined to bring them about, the most painstaking and well-instructed of chroniclers would find it difficult to put in order within the limits of a volume, much more of a preface. France, which in 1813 bled at every pore in the vain attempt to sustain the First Empire, has since accepted and driven away again, one after another, the Restoration, the Orleanist rule, the Republic, and the Second Empire; and now, humiliated and maimed, is striving, under a second republic, to recruit her energies for whatever the future may present to her. From Spain, the Bourbons, whom the arms of England replaced upon the throne, are to all human appearance permanently expelled, after a long succession of plots and civil wars, which the selfish policy of the last king of the race had bequeathed to his country as a parting legacy. Portugal, likewise, though less severely tried than her neighbours, has had her troubles too, in the internecine contests of brother against brother, and uncle against niece. And if at length she may have found a way of escape from anarchy, she owes it mainly to the good sense of the two last of her sovereigns, themselves the offshoots of a family remarkable for its prudence, and more fortunate than any other royal house in Europe in giving to constitutional monarchies their existing dynasties. As to England, what shall we say of her? No foot of foreign enemy has polluted her soil, no secret conspiracy nor open revolt has set her people in array one against another. Yet the constitution which was settled for her two centuries ago, and which, in 1813, her wisest sons held to be perfect, has been left far behind. The doors of her Parliament are open now to men of all religious opinions and of none. She has determined the point, for the first time in her history, that there is no necessary connection between Church and State; and recent legislation seems to declare that the honour and interests of a great country are safer in the keeping of the uneducated and impulsive, than of the cultivated and reflecting classes. All this is true; yet let us be thankful that, in an age of revolutions, our own downward progress has not been more rapid. We have still a throne, which is assumed to be hereditary, and to which loyalty is professed. We have still in England and in Scotland established churches. We have a House of Lords also, which the wise among us reverence and look up to; and laws which, when rightly administered, are equal to any strain that can be put upon them. How long these, or any other of the institutions which we owe to "the wisdom of our ancestors," are likely to endure, is a question more easily asked than answered. This much, however, is at least probable, that if they go to the wall, they will go gradually, and that the generations which inherit the change will learn to adapt themselves to it, and to make the most of it. The greatest attainable amount of happiness to the greatest possible number of persons—that is, or ought to be, the end of all governments; and the government which most effectually achieves that end will be the best government, call it by what name you may.

The particular tract of country wherein the scene of the following narrative is laid has undergone fewer changes, whether physical or social, than might perhaps have been anticipated in the course of six long and very busy decades. All the great natural features of the district,—the hill, the vale, the river, the mountain, and the sea,—remain, of course, precisely what they were. The Gironde, as the confluence of the Garonne and the Dordogne is called, still rolls its waters, after passing through Bourdeaux, in a turbid volume towards the Bay of Biscay. The Landes, succeeding to the rich culture of vine, corn-field, and orchard, receive you now, as they did of old, into a melancholy expanse of dark forests and sandy plains. Along either bank, at the mouth of the Adour, two scrubby pine-woods take you into their shelter; while in the far distance beyond, the bold outline of the Pyrenees towers up into the horizon. Nor on the whole can it be said that man has done much to modify in any perceptible degree the general character either of places or of persons. Towns may grow larger and more populous from year to year; villages have a tendency to stretch themselves out;—and one in particular, which in 1813 was little better than a seaside hamlet, has expanded into a gay and luxurious watering-place. But the bulk of the people seem to be exactly what they were sixty years ago—frugal, hard-working, honest, not over-cleanly perhaps in their domestic habits, and, though far from melancholy, a graver race than the peasants of France are usually believed to be. In fact, considering the tendency of railway communication to break down, wherever it is established, local customs altogether, the matter to be wondered at is, that we should find so much of their primitive simplicity still surviving among these Gascons; for the rail it is which has wrought most surely whatever innovation is perceptible among them. The rail has put the old chaussée out of date, and brought the Spanish frontier within eighteen hours of Paris, and to him who shall use his opportunities aright, within thirty hours of London. Hence that which used to be regarded as an out-of-the-way corner of Europe, worth notice only because it witnessed the closing operations of the Peninsular War, is visited now by strangers from all parts of the world—some hurrying by without a pause, intent on business or pleasure elsewhere; others finding in the district itself a temporary home, which the climate, especially in winter and spring, renders as salubrious as the magnificent scenery in which it abounds makes it agreeable. The Gascons cannot, of course, fail more or less to be acted upon by this tide of immigration. As yet, however, it seems but slightly to have affected their characters and manners, which, in all essential points, continue to be what they were when the great Duke led his victorious columns through the passes of their mountains, not to plunder or harass, but to deliver their fathers from the outrages which they suffered at the hands of their own countrymen in arms.

The railroad from Bourdeaux to the frontier runs parallel, or nearly so, with the old chaussée, as far as Labenne, a little village with a station, about eight miles from Bayonne. There the two lines separate. The old road enters Bayonne, as it did long ago, to the left of the citadel, descending the steep hill on which the fortress stands, and passing through the suburb of St Esprit, in which, during the sortie on the 14th April 1814, most of the fighting took place. The railway, on the contrary, sweeps seaward, and, touching the Adour at Boucaut, runs up-stream by the brink of the river, and so passes through the lower outworks of the citadel to the station. There the traveller who desires to rest for an hour or two will alight close to a church in which General Hay was killed, and round which that desperate struggle took place of which mention is made in chapter xxiv. of the Subaltern's story.

The alterations effected in Bayonne since the siege are neither numerous nor important. The intrenched camp, of which Marshal Soult made it the key, has indeed disappeared, while the permanent works are strengthened and enlarged, so as to adapt them, in some degree at least, to those modifications in the art of attack and defence which the increased power of artillery and the resources of modern engineering skill have brought about. The town itself, however, remains very nearly such as it was. In the Rue de Gouvernment and the adjacent streets some handsome modern houses have indeed been built, but the main portion of the city retains nearly all its old landmarks. We have the same tall houses looking into each other's eyes across the narrow streets; the same narrow trottoirs beneath the houses, so completely sheltered from the sun's rays as to produce in him who walks along them some such sensation as he might experience were he at the bottom of a well. Now also, as formerly, all these narrow streets converge towards the cathedral, which stands upon the highest point of a gently-rising eminence, and forms, so to speak, the centre of a star, whence multitudinous rays are thrown out. The effect is singular, and, when looked at from the cathedral tower, is really very striking.

The cathedral itself, which in 1814 had suffered grievously from years of neglect, has had of late a good deal of attention paid to it. Indeed it was one of the most praiseworthy characteristics of the era of the Second Empire, that considerable efforts were made in it, both by the Government and private persons, to blot out the traces of the Vandalism which had prevailed under the First Empire and during the First Republic, especially with regard to churches. Here a capital sum, producing not less than fifteen hundred a-year of interest, was bequeathed by a pious individual for the purpose of restoration; and the will of the testator having been carefully attended to, the edifice stands forth again in something like its original splendour. The cathedral of Bayonne is about as large as one of our own cathedrals of the second order—to which, indeed, in its proportions and general style of architecture, it bears a close resemblance.

Of the works thrown up by the English during the last siege, not a vestige remains. The Blue House, as we used to call a chateau standing in the suburb of St Pierre, and in the garden of which we established our most formidable mortar-battery, retains no traces of the fire to which it was then exposed. The shot-holes are all filled up, the walls are whitewashed, and the avenue by which it is approached has been replanted. Nobody could tell that our axes cut down trees as umbrageous as those which now flank the roadway on either side, that their stems might be converted into platforms, and their tops and stouter branches into stockades and abattis. In one particular, however, commendable care has been taken to save from obliteration a memorial of the siege. The graves of the British officers who fell in the sortie are well kept up, each English consul as he came into office having received the charge from his predecessor, and all religiously attending to it.

The railway from Bayonne to the frontier passes over the Adour and the Nive upon a new bridge, higher up the stream than the old stone bridge. It then runs along the valley in which lie the small lakes or large ponds referred to in this narrative. These it leaves to the right, and crossing the chaussée, enters a tunnel driven beneath the ridge on which the mayor's house stands. By-and-by the train rushes through another valley, sighting the villages of Bidart and Gauthory, and so on to St Jean de Luz. The station for St Jean de Luz is at a point just outside the town, where the road to Ascaen branches off. Leaving it behind, we hurry through a succession of tortuous glens, and by-and-by, having traversed a deep cutting, we find ourselves at Handaye, the last town on the French frontier. We are now on the right of the great Spanish road, which crosses the Bidassoa at the same point where, in 1813, we found the bridge broken down, and its ruins blocked by a tête-de-pont. Here some delay takes place, national jealousies having contrived that the gauges on either side of the stream should be different, and the Customs regulations stringent. The traveller is not, however, put thereby to very serious inconvenience. If he be disposed to eat, he will find both at Handaye and at Irun excellent buffets; if he prefer spending an hour among the outward forms of nature, the views that meet his gaze on every side will well repay the time lent to survey them.

Leaving him there, I will ask my reader to return with me to the point where we last rested, and to visit in my company certain spots of which he will find mention made in the course of the Subaltern's narrative; and among these, one in particular will naturally attract his attention. It was but the other day the favourite summer haunt of an imperial household: it is still a place much resorted to by fashionable seekers after health. Sixty years ago it was nothing more than the quiet village of Biaritz, occupied in perpetuity by fishermen and lodging-house keepers, and visited in the autumn for sea-bathing purposes by the wealthier citizens of Bayonne. This latter phase of its existence is represented by a few old-fashioned houses which stretch vaguely along the southern ridge towards the church, and thence dip down again in the direction of the sea, till they reach Porte Vieux. Even these, however, are rapidly making way for more stately mansions, though enough of them still remain to present a striking contrast to the eastern or modern section of the town. This latter, facing the sea, extends from Porte Vieux well-nigh to the lighthouse. There the Villa Eugénie comes in, planted at the foot of the lighthouse hill, and occupying, with its pleasure-grounds and well-kept alleys, a space which, sixty years ago, was nothing more than a tract of barren sand.

You can reach Biaritz from Bayonne by rail, arriving at the station at Nigresse; or you may travel from Bayonne by a new road, which, turning off from the Spanish road at the fifth kilometre, avoids the village of Anglete, through which the old road ran. This latter, which, after crowning the heights of the Phare, led over an interesting country, is now quite deserted. At the point where it joins the great Spanish road used to stand a post-house, with a vast range of stables and out-buildings. The post-house, stables, and out-buildings are still there, but the business has gone from the place, and it is falling fast into decay. It was along that old road that the Subaltern and his two friends rode for their lives when chased by French cavalry out of Biaritz. Neglect has rendered the greater portion of it impassable, which indeed it would have become throughout, had not the Emperor caused it to be repaired where it abuts upon Biaritz, and carried it on a new line round the lake, and through the woods that surround the mayor's house. This promenade or drive, to which he gave the name of Bois de Boulogne, is extremely pretty in itself, and commands from various points glimpses of very interesting scenery. But the point of most interest to the English traveller is undoubtedly the mayor's house itself, which, with the grounds about it, the present proprietor, Monsieur la Bride, has had the good taste to preserve in all their leading features very much as they were when the four days' battle was fought.

The landscape, as seen from the top of the house, is magnificent. From it the traveller commands now, as Sir John Hope did sixty years ago, a full view of the entire battle-field, including Arcanques and Ustaritz, with all the country eastward as far as the Cambo Hills, and southwards to the Ebrun Mountains and the Spanish Pyrenees. The more minute features of the scene of action are likewise taken in. The hollow road in which the French formed for their last rush at the house, remains as it was on the 11th of December 1813. Between it and the house lies the triangular field, just outside the wood, where the carnage was fiercest, and of which the proprietor says, that, well manured by the dead, it still produces such crops as to command thrice the amount of rent that is given for any other similar extent of ground in the district. Beyond it, over the hill, and sloping towards Bayonne, extends the scraggy copse or belt of wood through which the fighting was close and desperate; and just below the railway lies the lake into which many of the French, horse and man, were driven. They were driven not without great promptitude of action on our part; for there the French cavalry fell upon us with such rapidity and determination, that, being scattered in loose order, we had just time, favoured by the swampy nature of the ground, to throw ourselves into circles and receive them. All these objects Monsieur la Bride points out with unwearied politeness to the English who visit him, not forgetting the graves of British officers whom their comrades buried in his garden, and of which he generously and religiously keeps the outlines sacred.

Leaving the mayor's house, and returning to the great road, we enter upon the common or broken plain where, on the 10th December 1813, the other corps of the left column of the army came up in support of the hard-pressed and hard-fighting fifth division. It was a wild bleak spot in winter, sixty years ago; it is little changed now. The redoubt which we threw up, and named after one of the mayor's daughters, has indeed disappeared; but the belt of wood round which the squadrons of the 12th and 16th Light Dragoons made their charge keeps its place exactly as it did then; and the hollow in which the brigade to which the Subaltern was attached bivouacked that night lacks only the embers of their watch-fires to make it precisely what it was when they left it. The same may be said of Bidart and Gauthory, two villages which we reach in succession—the former lying at the farther base of the eminence or plateau where the operations just referred to took place—the latter scattered on either side of the highway, some two or three miles nearer to St Jean de Luz. In both, the clusters of houses, which afforded winter quarters to the 85th Light Infantry, appear as if they had been evacuated but yesterday.

In St Jean de Luz few changes have been effected. The one great novelty is a sort of breakwater or digue which Napoleon III. began to construct, with a view to develop the capacities of the port as a harbour of refuge and an entrepôt of commerce. But the work is incomplete, and is not likely to be carried further till a more stable government than the present be set up in France. As to the bridge over the Nivelle, it is exactly in the state in which we left it; the piers of the arches which the French blew up stand where they did, as well as the beams and planks with which we replaced the broken roadway. It is pointed out to all who are curious in such matters as the Wellington Bridge. In other respects the town retains all its original characteristics. The quays, the churches, the hôtel de ville, the very shops themselves, the house which was Lord Wellington's headquarters, are precisely what they were; while, as if to preserve unbroken the associations of the past, the railway station itself has been constructed outside the town, and is not in any conspicuous manner connected with it.

Our next point of interest is Urogne. There it lies as it lay sixty years ago, in the low ground, overlooked by the heights which Soult had fortified, and which, he flattered himself, would stop our further progress. There, too, before descending the hillside on the right of the old carriage-road, stands the chateau, in the library of which we found, on the 11th of November 1813, a captured English mail. It seems to be, as far as outward appearances can be trusted, precisely what it was on that day when I carried off from it two bits of plunder—a Spanish grammar, which I still retain, and a small and prettily-enamelled pair of bellows. Alas! this latter, of which the value could not be overrated in bivouac, has long ago disappeared. Sic transit gloria mundi. Gone, too, is the three-gun battery, the fire from which swept the main street of the town, and struck against the old church wall without passing through it. My blessing be upon that sacred pile! It gave me shelter in the night between the 10th and the 11th, and some hundreds of brave men besides, all of them wearied with long hours of watching and battle. They had not failed before lying down to cover with the consecrated earth of the churchyard such of their comrades as had fallen. Where now are they themselves?

"Their swords are rust,
Their bodies are dust,
Their souls are with the Lord, we trust."

The little town or village of Urogne has lost all traces of the struggle which went on, first to carry, and afterwards to keep it. Its four straight streets, its "place" or square, the central point of which is the church just referred to, are all as if the sound of war had never been heard among them. So appear to be the hedgerows and deep shady lanes that give to the surrounding district an aspect singularly English. As we approach the frontier, however, and in a still more remarkable degree after we pass it, a great change becomes perceptible. If we put our trust in outward appearances, Handaye, on the Trench side of the Bidassoa, might have been the scene of a battle last year or last month. Almost every house in the town, with the exception of a few recently constructed, are more or less in ruins. It seems never to have recovered the first shock of the invasion on the 8th October 1813. All the inhabitants fled that day, leaving their dwellings to their fate, and few ever returned to reclaim and restore them. In like manner Fontarabia, of which the view from Handaye is very fine, is still as it was sixty years ago—a ruinous city. The town stands within a circle of stone walls, the church being especially perceptible over them; but the walls still exhibit their ancient breaches, never in all human probability to be repaired. So likewise, as you pursue your journey, leaving the heights of San Marcial on your left hand, and bearing down towards Irun, the spectacle which meets your gaze is that of a country not long delivered from the miseries of war. The narrow glen through which the river runs waves indeed with Indian corn, as it did sixty years ago; and the slopes of the hills on the French side, below the bridge, are covered with vines, which, as in Lombardy, festoon themselves over tall poles, or from the boughs of poplars. But the houses, wherever you encounter them—the chateau equally with the cottage and farmhouse—seem to be in a state of dilapidation. To be sure, this district bore the brunt of the Carlist rising five-and-thirty years ago; yet the practised eye can detect here and there relics of the great Duke's army, especially in the mounds which mark the spots where, before advancing into France, he took the precaution to block the gorges of passes with a succession of redoubts.

Passages is as quiet and beautiful now as it ever was. Along the south side of the land-locked bay the railroad winds, from above which, and indeed on every hand, cork woods look down upon a harbour little frequented, yet capable of affording shelter to no inconsiderable navy. Passages seems to be not only unchanged but unchangeable. It is not so with St Sebastian. There all things are new. The fortifications have disappeared; and where bastion and curtain once stood, long boulevards are drawn out. The town has been rebuilt with great regularity; and along the banks of the Urumea, where our storming-parties crossed, the process of construction is still going on. St Sebastian, in fact, has ceased to be one of the keys of Spain towards France. The citadel alone remains to tell that such it once was. The town is now a fashionable watering-place, with its promenades running seaward, and its umbrageous walks commanding one of the finest views in the world, both inland and over the broad Atlantic.

Such is the general aspect of a tract of country which, peaceful, almost somnolent, as it has become, is, and must be to the end, associated in the memory of the writer of these pages with scenes of great enjoyment, though they be of warfare. For the aged live most fondly upon the past, as the young do upon the future, till both alike lose themselves in that vast present, which, for aught he knows to the contrary, may be as near to the latter as to the former.

And now a word or two respecting the volume which is again submitted for public consideration, after passing through many editions, and reaching to the forty-sixth year of its separate existence. Whence it came to pass that it was written at all, from what materials it was compiled, and how it made its way into popular favour, are points which naturally keep their hold upon the memory of the author, and may not, perhaps, be without some interest to his readers.

Though a mere boy, barely seventeen years of age, when I embarked for the seat of war in the summer of 1813, I was so fortunate as to have formed a close friendship with a man of more matured years and experience than myself—Charles Grey, the younger of Morwick, in Northumberland, the captain of the company to which I was attached, and as good a soldier, in the best sense of that term, as the British army has ever produced. To him I was indebted for many useful customs; and, among others, for the habit of noting down, at the close of every day, brief notices of the most memorable of the events that might have distinguished it while passing. A small blank-paper volume—a little memorandum-book—with a pencil attached, was his constant companion and mine; and regularly as the night closed in we drew them from our bosoms, and, often by the light of our bivouac fire, registered in a couple of lines the materials of much thought in after-years. The characters thus loosely sketched, we filled in with ink on the first convenient opportunity; and so contrived, amid the bustle and excitement of a campaign, each to keep his journal with a degree of accuracy which cannot always be predicated of the diaries of men better furnished with all the appliances of authorship.

I can hardly tell how it happened that these records of a young soldier's life during the progress of the war, both in the Peninsula and America, were not lost. No care whatever was taken of them by me after my return home; indeed I gave them, unless my memory be at fault, to my sister, and for some years never thought of inquiring whether they were in existence. But an occasional paper or two contributed to 'Blackwood's Magazine,' descriptive of detached adventures in the Peninsula, having been well received, it was suggested to me—I think by the late Mr Blackwood himself—that a personal narrative of my military service, in a connected form, would be popular. I took up the idea, and worked it out with all my heart; for it would be sheer affectation to deny even now, when time has wrought its accustomed changes on me, and a long dedication of my best energies to different pursuits has greatly modified my tastes, that the years which were spent amid the toils and dangers of active warfare, are those on which I continue to look back as the happiest in my life. And if this be the case now, it is hardly necessary to acknowledge, that the feeling was stronger in the year 1825, when the first page of 'The Subaltern' was written. Nor must the moralist blame me for this, without inquiring further. They who write and speak of war as of a succession of horrors, and nothing else, know not what they are describing. Under the admirable discipline of the great Duke of Wellington, a British camp was a community better regulated by far than any town or city in the world where one-half the amount of human beings congregate. There was little crime, no violence—I had well-nigh said, no vice anywhere. By stragglers from the rear, offences might be committed; and the absence, from the hospitals, of religious instruction and comfort, was sorely felt. But the Duke of Wellington was not to blame for that; indeed, his public despatches prove that he made many, though fruitless efforts, to remedy the evil. On the other hand, the lives and properties of the peaceable inhabitants were as secure, wherever his influence extended, as if their country had been under the management of the most efficient civil government; and if, during the progress of active operations, houses and gardens suffered, the loss thereby sustained was made good to the owners by bills upon the English treasury. Hence, though it may be very shocking to witness the death, by violence, of our fellow-creatures, and sadder still, when the fray is over, to contemplate the wrecks which war has left behind, the day of battle, be it remembered, is not of constant recurrence; while the intervals that came between one and the other of these crowning operations of the campaign were, wherever the Duke of Wellington commanded, fruitful in enjoyment. We had the full spring-time of youth about us then. We, the Duke's devoted followers, had neither care for the past nor anxiety in regard to the future. Our constitutions, hardened by much exposure to the open air, kept us above the reach of sickness, or else failed us quite. And as I, for one, never knew what sickness was, except when wounds—and these not very severe—induced it, my memory does not bring back, at this moment, one hour, or half-hour, of all that were spent in Spain and the south of France, of which I would erase the record, were it granted me so to do, or scruple to live it over again. There are darker griefs in civil life than warfare such as that of which I now speak occasions. For, even in reference to the highest of all concerns, I am not sure whether, to a well-constituted mind, the tented field be not as apt a school of piety and true devotion as the crowded capital, or even the quiet village.

Of the manner in which the work was begun and carried on, it is hardly worth while to make mention. It appeared originally as a series of papers in 'Blackwood's Magazine,' and obtained, perhaps, as large a share of public favour as was ever bestowed upon a narrative of the kind. For this, both I and my publisher were grateful; and the latter having proposed to me to collect the papers and bring them out as a separate volume, I readily acted on his suggestion. And now it was that the measure of my pride as an author was filled up, on hearing, from more than one quarter, that the little book had attracted the attention, and received the approval, of the Duke of Wellington. I was recommended also to solicit his Grace's permission to dedicate the volume to him, and I did so. The following is the Duke's reply, addressed, be it remembered, to one who had not at that time the honour of being even by appearance known to him, and with whom he had never exchanged a word. They who saw the Duke only from afar spoke of him as cold and heartless. There is evidence, as it seems to me, in this letter, of a temperament the very opposite of cold and heartless.

"London, 9th Nov. 1826.

"Dear Sir,—I have this day received your letter of the 7th inst., and I beg to assure you that you have been correctly informed that I had read your work with the greatest interest, and that I admired the simplicity and truth with which you had related the various events which you had witnessed, the scenes in which you had been an actor, and the circumstances of the life which you had led as an officer of the 85th Regiment in the army in the Peninsula and south of France.

"I should be happy of the opportunity of testifying my sense of the merits of your work by consenting to the dedication to me of the Second Edition, only that I have long been under the necessity of declining to give a formal consent to receive the dedication of any work.

"I conceive that by such consent I give a sort of tacit guarantee of the contents of the work so dedicated. I know that I should be considered to have placed myself in that situation by some who might not perhaps approve of those sentiments. From what I have above stated, you will see that I could have no objection to stand in the situation described in relation to your work; and I must admit that it would be better to draw a distinction between good and meritorious works and others, and to give my sanction, so far as to consent to receive the compliment of their dedication gives that sanction, to the first and not to the last. But then there comes another difficulty. Before I give such sanction I must peruse the work proposed to be dedicated to me; and I must confess that I have neither time nor inclination to wade through the hundreds, I might almost say thousands, of volumes offered to my protection, in order to see whether their contents are such as that I can venture to become a species of guarantee for their truth, their fitness, &c. &c. I have therefore taken the idlest and the shortest way of getting out of this difficulty, by declining to give a formal consent to receive the dedication of any work. This mode of proceeding frequently gives me great pain, but in no instance has it given more than on this occasion, as you will perceive by the trouble which I give you to peruse and myself to write, these reasons for declining to give a formal consent to accept the compliment which you have been so kind as to propose to me.

"If, however, you should think proper to dedicate your Second Edition to me, you are at perfect liberty to do so; and you cannot express in too strong terms my approbation and admiration of your interesting work.—I have the honour to be, dear Sir, yours most faithfully,

Wellington."

"I was informed when I landed at Dover in April of the change of your line of life and circumstances by one of your former brother officers."

I need scarcely say that of the indirect sanction thus afforded I gladly availed myself; and it is a melancholy satisfaction to be able to add, that the acquaintance thus begun ripened, on the Duke's part, into kind and generous feelings towards myself—on mine, into sentiments of reverence and attachment, which have long survived their illustrious object, and will end only when I follow him to "the land where all things are forgotten."

The Dedication took this shape:—

TO HIS GRACE,

ARTHUR, DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

My Lord Duke,—I trust that I shall not be deemed guilty of an act of unpardonable presumption, if I venture to dedicate to your Grace a little volume, of the merits of which you have been pleased to speak in terms far more flattering than they deserve.

The Subaltern's story is a plain relation of so much of a soldier's active career as was passed in the army under your Grace's command. The narrator's rank and position were not such as to afford him an insight into the plans of those campaigns in which it was his fortune to take an humble part; neither has he made any attempt to describe events to which he was not an eyewitness, or to offer opinions upon subjects concerning which he neither is nor was a competent judge. But it is a matter of high gratification to him to be aware, that his sketches have received the sanction of your Grace's approval; and that you have pronounced them to be correct pictures of the scenes which they seek to represent.

It is scarcely necessary to add, that the space of time spent where your Grace won glory for yourself, and incalculable benefits for the whole of Europe, was the happiest in his life; and that it adds not a little to the satisfaction arising from a glance back into the stirring scenes which marked it, that he is enabled, thus publicly, to subscribe himself, with sincere admiration and respect,—My Lord Duke, your Grace's most obedient servant, and follower in a few bloody fields,

The Subaltern.

March 1845.

"The Subaltern" has run a long course, and kept its ground in a manner which I could not have anticipated. It was one of the first works of the kind which appeared, and to this circumstance, perhaps, may in some measure be attributed the general approbation with which all classes of readers received it. But I am not the less forward, on that account, to express my sense of the obligation under which the public laid me; for I am largely its debtor in reference not to this volume alone but to others.

I have used no freedoms with the present edition, further than to correct here and there a little inaccuracy of language, and to do more justice than my ignorance of the facts enabled me on other occasions to do, to a gallant officer, long ago deceased, whom I numbered among my personal friends. Sir William Herries, then Captain Herries, was on the Adjutant-General's staff of the left column of the British army, and attached, as such, to the family of Lieutenant-General Sir John Hope. He was close to that noble soldier when, during the sortie from Bayonne, the latter was wounded, and his horse shot under him; and though repeatedly urged by the wounded man to leave him, Captain Herries refused to do so. Indeed he dismounted, and was endeavouring to extricate the General from the dead horse under which he lay, when a body of French troops advanced along the lane, and fired a volley. From the effect of that discharge Captain Herries never recovered. He, too, was severely wounded, and carried into Bayonne, where, the next day, it was found necessary to amputate his leg.

My friend Captain Grey, as in another publication I have stated at length, was killed at New Orleans, during the night action that occurred soon after the landing of the advanced-guard of the British army. My dog long survived her active services in the field; and continued to the last the faithful and sagacious companion that I had ever found her. She was well advanced in years, but still able to attend her master in his quiet walks through his quiet parish, when an adder bit her, and she died. She was buried in the middle of the little lawn, on which the windows of the drawing-room in the vicarage at Ash next Sandwich look out; and an acacia-tree, planted at her head, marks the spot where she lies.

So much for the circumstances which led to the first publication of the following pages, and to the issues of the experiment which was then tried; and should it seem to the reader that, in detailing them, too much of the humour of the gossip has been indulged, he and I shall enter into no controversy; for I am content to acknowledge the fault, and to pray him to pardon it.

G.R. GLEIG.

London, 1872.

THE SUBALTERN.

CHAPTER I.

It was on a fine morning in May 1813 that the 85th Regiment of Light Infantry, in which I held a lieutenant's commission, began to muster on the parade-ground at Hythe. The order to prepare for immediate service in the Peninsula had reached us two days previously; and on the morning to which I allude, we were to commence our march for that purpose. The point of embarkation was Dover, a port only twelve miles distant from our cantonments, where a couple of transports, with a gun-brig as convoy, were waiting to receive us.

The short space of time which intervened between the arrival of the route and the eventful day which saw its directions carried into effect, was spent by myself and my brother officers in making the best preparations which circumstances would permit for a campaign. Sundry little pieces of furniture, by the help of which we had contrived to render our barrack-rooms somewhat habitable, were sold for one-tenth of their value; a selection was made from our respective wardrobes of such articles of apparel as, being in a state of tolerable preservation, promised to continue for some time serviceable; canteens were hastily fitted up, and stored with tea, sugar, and other luxuries; cloaks were purchased by those who possessed them not, and put in a state of repair by those who did;—in a word, everything was done which men similarly circumstanced are apt to do, not forgetting the payment of debts or the inditing of farewell letters in due form to absent friends and relatives. Perhaps the reader may be curious to know with what stock of necessaries the generality of British officers were wont, in the stirring times of the old war, to be content. I will tell him how much I myself packed up in two small portmanteaus, so formed as to be an equal balance to each other when slung across the back of a mule; and as my kit was not remarkable either for its bulk or its tenuity, he will not greatly err if he accept it as a sort of criterion by which to judge of those of my comrades.

In one of these portmanteaus, then, I deposited a regimental jacket, with all its appendages of wings, lace, &c.; two pairs of grey trousers; sundry waistcoats, white, coloured, and flannel; a few changes of flannel drawers; half-a-dozen pairs of worsted stockings, and as many of cotton. In the other were six shirts, two or three cravats, a dressing-case competently filled, one undress pelisse, three pairs of boots, two pairs of shoes, with pocket-handkerchiefs, &c. &c., in proportion. Thus, though not encumbered by any useless quantity of apparel, I carried with me quite enough to load a mule, and to insure myself against the danger of falling short for at least a couple of years to come; and after providing these and all other necessary articles, I retained five-and-twenty pounds in my pocket. This sum, when converted into bullion, dwindled down, indeed, to £17, 18s.; for in those days we purchased dollars at the rate of 6s. apiece, and doubloons at five pounds; but even £17, 18s. was no bad reserve for a subaltern officer in a marching regiment, though it happened to be a crack one.

I was a great deal too busy, both in body and mind, to devote to sleep many of the hours of the night which preceded the day of our intended departure. My bodily labours, indeed, which consisted chiefly in packing my baggage, and bidding adieu to the few civilians with whom I had formed an acquaintance, came to a close two hours before midnight; but the body was no sooner at rest than the mind began to bestir itself. "So," said I, "to-morrow I commence my military career in earnest." Well, and had not this been my strong desire from the first moment that I saw my name in the 'Gazette'? Had it not been the most prominent petition in my daily prayers, for nearly twelve months past, not to be kept idling away my youth in the country towns of England, but to be sent, as speedily as possible, where I might have an opportunity of acquiring a practical knowledge of the profession which I had embraced? The case is even so. And without meaning to proclaim myself a fire-eater, I will venture to say, that no individual in the corps experienced greater satisfaction than I at the prospect before him. But there were other thoughts which obtruded themselves upon me that night, and they savoured a good deal of the melancholy.

I thought of home—of my father, my mother, and my sisters; I thought of the glorious mountains and fertile plains of my native country, and could not help asking myself the question, whether it was probable that I should ever behold them again. The chances were that I should not; and as my home had always been to me a scene of the purest and most perfect happiness—as I loved my relatives tenderly, and knew that I was tenderly beloved by them in return—it was impossible for me not to experience a pang of extreme bitterness at the idea that, in all human probability, I should see their faces no more.

On the other hand, curiosity, if I may call it by so feeble a term, was on full stretch respecting the future. Now at length I was about to learn what war really was; how hostile armies met, and battles were decided: and the resolutions which I consequently formed as to my own proceedings, the eagerness with which I longed for an opportunity to distinguish myself, and the restlessness of my imagination, which persisted in drawing the most ridiculous pictures of events which never were and never could be realised, created altogether such a fever in my brain as rendered abortive every attempt to sleep. I went to bed at ten o'clock, for the purpose of securing a good night's rest, and of being fresh and vigorous in the morning, but eleven, twelve, and one found me wide awake; nor could I have lain in a state of unconsciousness much above an hour when the sound of the bugle restored me to my senses.

At the first blast I sprang from my bed, and, drawing aside the curtain of my window, looked out. The day was just beginning to break; the parade-ground, into which I gazed, was as yet empty, only two or three figures, those of the trumpeters, who were puffing away with all their might, being discernible upon it; and not a sound could be distinguished except that which their puffing produced. The moon was shining brightly overhead; not a breath of air was astir; in short, it was just half-past three o'clock, and the time of parade was four. I dropped the curtain again, and addressed myself to my toilet.

Having completed this, I waited for the second summons, and then walked forth. Were I to live a hundred years I shall never forget that morning. Day had dawned—that is to say, the light of the moon was overpowered by the increasing brilliancy of the twilight. A thick haze, however, which rose from the low grounds, rendered objects even more indistinct and obscure than they had been half an hour previously. When I opened my door, therefore, though a confused hum of voices, a clattering of canteens, the tread of footsteps, and occasionally the clash of arms struck upon my ear, I could discern nothing. This did not last long. The rising sun gradually dispelled the fog, and, in a few moments, I beheld companies mustering in all form. Mingling in the ranks I could likewise distinguish the dress of women; and, as the noise of assembling gradually subsided into the stillness of order, the half-suppressed shriek, and the half-stifled sob, became more and more audible.

There are not many incidents in human life more striking in themselves, or to him who has to deal with them for the first time more harrowing, than the departure of a regiment upon foreign service. By the customs of the army, only six women per company, who are chosen by lot out of the most highly respected of the whole band, are allowed to follow their husbands. The casting of lots is usually deferred till the evening previous to the departure of the corps, probably with the humane design of leaving to each woman, as long as it can be left, the enjoyment of that greatest of all earthly blessings, hope. But the consequence is, that a full sense of her forlorn condition coming all at once upon the wretched creature who is to be abandoned, produces, in many instances, a violence of grief, the display of which it is impossible to witness with any degree of indifference. Many were the agonising scenes of the kind which it was my fortune this day to witness; but there was one so peculiarly distressing, so much more affecting in all respects than the rest, that I am tempted to give a detailed account of it, even at the risk of being thought a writer of romance.

About three months previous to the day of embarkation, a batch of recruits had joined the regiment from Scotland. Among them was a remarkably fine young Highlander, a native, if I recollect right, of Balquhidder, called Duncan Stewart. Duncan was, in all respects, a good soldier; he was clean, sober, orderly, and well-behaved; but he seemed to be of a singularly melancholy temper; never mixing in the sports and amusements of his comrades, nor speaking except when he was obliged to speak. It so happened that the pay-sergeant of Duncan's company was likewise a Highlander; and Highlanders being of all classes persons the most national, he soon began to interest himself about the fate of the young recruit. At first Duncan shrank back even from his advances; but it is not natural for the human heart, especially in youth, to continue long indifferent to acts of kindness; so Duncan gradually permitted honest M'Intyre to insinuate himself into his good graces, and they became before long bosom friends.

When they had continued for some weeks on a footing of intimacy, Duncan did not scruple to make his friend, the sergeant, acquainted with the cause of his dejection. It was this:—

Duncan was the son of a Highland farmer, who, like many of his countrymen in the same locality, cultivated barley for the purpose of making whisky; in plain language, was a determined smuggler. Not far from the abode of Stewart dwelt an exciseman of the name of Young, who, being extremely active in the discharge of his duty, had, on various occasions, made seizure of his neighbour's kegs as they were on their march towards the low country. This was an offence which the Highlander could not forgive; and there subsisted, in consequence, between the smuggler and the gauger, a degree of antipathy far surpassing anything of which it is easy for us to form a conception. It must, however, be confessed, that the feeling of hatred was all on one side. Stewart hated Young for presuming to interfere with his calling, and despised him because he had the misfortune to be born in the shire of Renfrew; whereas Young was disposed to behave civilly to his neighbour on every occasion except when whisky-casks happened to come in the way.

Gauger Young had an only and a very pretty daughter, with whom Duncan, as a matter of course, fell in love. The maiden returned his love, at which I am by no means surprised, for a handsomer or more manly-looking youth one would not desire to see; but alas! old Stewart would not hear of their union—commanding his son, under penalty of his heaviest malediction, not to think of her again. The authority of parents over their children, even after the latter have attained to manhood, is in Scotland very great; so Duncan would not dispute his father's will, and, finding all entreaty to alter it useless, he determined to sacrifice inclination to duty, and to meet his pretty Mary no more.

To this resolution he adhered for several days; but, to use his own words, "Gang where I would, and do what I liket, I aye saw her before me. I saw her ance, to tell her what my father had said; indeed we were baith gey sure how it would be, before I spak to him ava; and, oh! the look she gae me, M'Intyre; I ne'er forgot it, I never can forget it. It haunted me like a ghaist night and day."

The consequence of constantly beholding such a vision may easily be imagined. Duncan forgot his determination and his duty, and found himself, one evening, he scarce knew how, once more walking with Mary by the loch-side. This occurred again and again. The meetings were the more sweet because they were secret; and they ended as such stolen interviews generally do among persons of their station in life—Duncan was assured of becoming a father before he was a husband.

This, however, was not to be. Duncan was too tenderly attached to Mary to suffer disgrace to fall upon her, even though he should incur the threatened penalty of a father's curse; so he resolved, at all hazards, to make her his wife. The reader is, no doubt, aware, that marriages are much more easily contracted in Scotland than on the south side of the Tweed. An exchange of lines, as it is called—that is to say, a mutual agreement to live as man and wife, drawn up and signed by a young man and young woman—constitutes as indissoluble a union in North Britain as if the marriage ceremony had been read or uttered by a clergyman; and to this method of uniting their destinies Duncan and Mary had recourse. They addressed a letter, the one to the other, in which he acknowledged her to be his wife, and she acknowledged him to be her husband; and, having made an exchange of the documents, they became, to all intents and purposes, a married couple.

Having thus gone in direct opposition to his father's will, Duncan was by no means easy in his own mind. He knew the unforgiving temper of the man with whom he had to deal; he knew likewise that his disobedience could not long be kept a secret, and the nearer the period approached which must compel a disclosure, the more anxious and uncomfortable he became. At length the time arrived when he must either acknowledge his marriage or leave Mary to infamy. It was the season of Doune Fair, and Duncan was intrusted with the care of a flock of sheep which were to be disposed of at that market. Having bid farewell to his wife, he set out, still carrying his secret with him, but determined to disclose it, by letter, as soon as he should reach Doune. His object in acting thus was, partly to escape the first burst of his father's anger, and partly with the hope that, having escaped it, he might be received at his return with forgiveness; but alas! the poor fellow had no opportunity of ascertaining the success of his scheme.

When he reached Doune, Duncan felt himself far too unhappy to attend to business. He therefore intrusted the sale of his sheep to a neighbour, and, sitting down in one of the public-houses, wrote that letter which had been the subject of his meditations ever since he left Balquhidder. Having completed this task, Duncan bravely determined to forget his sorrows for a while; for which purpose he swallowed a dose of whisky, and entered into conversation with the company about him, among whom were several soldiers—fine, merry, hearty fellows—who, with their corporal, were on the look-out for recruits. The leader of the party was a skilful man in his vocation; he admired the fine proportions of the youth before him, and determined to enlist him if he could. For this purpose more whisky was ordered—funny stories were told by him and his companions—Duncan was plied with dram after dram, till at last he became completely inebriated, and the shilling was put into his hand. No time was given him to recover from his surprise; for, long ere the effects of the liquor had evaporated, Duncan was on his way to Edinburgh. Here he was instantly embarked with a number of young men similarly circumstanced; and he actually reached headquarters without having had an opportunity so much as to inform his relatives of his fate.

The sequel of Duncan's story is soon told: Having obtained permission from the commanding officer, he wrote to Scotland for his wife, who joyfully hastened to join him. Her father did what he could, indeed, to prevent this step—not from any ill-will towards his daughter, to whom he had behaved with great kindness in her distress, but because he knew how uncomfortable was the sort of life which she must lead as the wife of a private soldier. But Mary resisted every entreaty to remain apart from Duncan. She had been in a state of utter misery during the many days in which she was left in ignorance of his fate; and now that she knew where he was to be found, nothing should hinder her from following him. Though far advanced in pregnancy, she set out instantly for the south of England; and, having endured with patience all inconveniences attendant upon her want of experience as a traveller, she succeeded in reaching Hythe just one week previously to the embarkation of the regiment.

This ill-fated couple were hardly brought together when they were once more doomed to part. Poor Mary's name came up among the roll of those who should remain behind the regiment; and no language of mine can do justice to the scene that followed. I was not present when the women drew their tickets, but I was told by M'Intyre that when Mary unrolled the slip of paper, and read upon it the fatal words, "To be left," she looked as if heaven itself were incapable of adding one additional pang to her misery. Holding it with both hands, at the full stretch of her arms from her face, she gazed upon it for some minutes without speaking a word, and then crushing it between her palms, fell senseless into the arms of a woman who stood near.

That night was spent by Duncan and his wife exactly as it was to be supposed that it would be spent. They did not so much as lie down; but the moments sped on in spite of their watchfulness, and at last the bugle sounded. When I came upon the ground, I saw Duncan standing in his place. Mary was not near him; the wives of the few soldiers who were left behind to form a depot having kindly detained her in the barrack-room. But just before the column began to move, she rushed forth; and the scream which she uttered, as she flew towards Duncan, was heard throughout the whole of the ranks.—"Duncan, Duncan!" the poor thing cried, as she clung wildly round his neck; "Oh Duncan, Duncan Stewart, ye're no gawn to leave me again, and me sae near being a mother! Oh Sergeant M'Intyre, dinna tak him awa!—Oh sir, ye'll let me gang wi' him?" she added, turning to one of the officers who stood by; "for the love of Heaven, if ye hae ony pity in ye, dinna separate us!"

Poor Duncan stood all this while in silence, leaning his forehead upon the muzzle of his firelock, and supporting his wretched wife upon his arm. He shed no tears—which is more than I can say for myself, or indeed for almost any private or officer upon the parade—his grief was evidently beyond them. "Ye may come as far as Dover at least," he at length said, in a sort of murmur; and the poor creature absolutely shrieked with delight at the reprieve.

The band now struck up, and the column began to move—the men shouting, partly to drown the cries of the women, and partly to express their own willingness to meet the enemy. Mary walked by the side of her husband; but she looked more like a moving corpse than a living creature. She was evidently suffering acutely, not only in mind but in body; indeed we had not proceeded above three miles on our journey before she was seized with the pains of labour. It would have been the height of barbarity to have hindered her unfortunate husband, under these circumstances, from halting to take care of her; so, having received his promise to join the regiment again before dark, we permitted him to fall out of the ranks. Fortunately a cottage stood at no great distance from the roadside, into which he and his friend M'Intyre removed her; and while there, I have reason to believe, she was received with great humanity, and treated with kindness; indeed the inhabitants of the cottage must have been devoid of everything human except the form, had they treated a young woman so situated otherwise than kindly.

A few hours' march brought the regiment, in high spirits and good order, into Dover. Every window was thronged, every doorway filled, in the streets through which we passed; and hearty and cordial were the expressions of goodwill with which their occupants greeted us. We answered these salutations with a ringing cheer, and proceeded onwards. Happily for us, the transports which were to carry us to the seat of war had been brought alongside the pier. There was no need, therefore, of boats for the conveyance to their berths either of persons or baggage; and as the men were fresh and all of them sober, the process of embarkation went on with perfect regularity and promptitude. The consequence was that by noon, or a little later, all whom duty did not detain on board of ship were free to dispose of themselves as they preferred. Hence, some to lay in sea-stock, others to amuse themselves,—the great bulk of the officers went on shore, and spent by groups, at one or other of the hotels, the last evening which not a few of them were ever destined to spend in England. Among others, I went ashore as soon as I had attended to the comforts of my division; but my mind was too full of the image of Mary to permit my entering with gusto into the various amusements of my friends. I preferred walking back in the direction of Hythe, with the hope of meeting M'Intyre, and ascertaining how the poor creature did. I walked, however, for some time, before any traveller made his appearance. At length, when the interest which I had felt in the fate of the young couple was beginning in some degree to moderate, and I was meditating a return to the inn, I saw two soldiers moving towards me. As they approached, I readily discovered that they were Duncan and his friend; so I waited for them. "Duncan Stewart," said I, "how is your wife?" The poor fellow did not answer, but, touching his cap, passed on. "How is his wife, M'Intyre?" said I to the sergeant, who stood still. The honest Scotchman burst into tears; and, as soon as he could command himself, he laconically answered, "She is at rest, sir." From this I guessed that she was dead; and, on more minute inquiry, I learned that it was even so; she died a few minutes after they removed her into the cottage, without having brought the child into the world. An attempt was made to save the infant, by performing the Cæsarean operation, but without effect; it hardly breathed at all.

Though the officer who commanded the depot was sent for, and volunteered to take the responsibility upon himself if Duncan wished to remain behind for the purpose of burying his wife, the poor fellow would not avail himself of the offer. All that he desired was an assurance from the officer that he would see his dear Mary decently interred; and, as soon as the promise was given, the young widower hastened to join his regiment. He scarcely spoke after; and he was one of the first who fell after the regiment landed in Spain.

CHAPTER II.

I have seldom witnessed a more beautiful summer's day than that on which our ships cast loose from their moorings and put to sea. It was past noon before the tide rose, consequently the whole town of Dover was afoot to watch our departure. Crowds of well-dressed people stood upon the pier, bidding us farewell with hearty cheers, and waving of their hats and handkerchiefs—salutes which we cordially answered, by shouting and waving ours in return. But the wind was fair, and the tide in our favour. Objects on shore became gradually more and more indistinct; the shouts grew fainter and fainter, and at length were heard no more. All the sail was set which our frail masts were capable of carrying; and, long before dark, nothing could be distinguished of Dover or its magnificent cliffs except a faint and vapoury outline.

The favourable breeze which carried us rapidly beyond the Straits of Dover, did not, however, last long. We had just caught sight of the low-lying point of Dungeness, when it suddenly chopped round, and blew a perfect hurricane in our teeth. It was, indeed, with the utmost difficulty that we succeeded in getting so near the headland as to obtain some shelter from the rolling sea which came up Channel; and here we had the misery to remain, consuming our sea-stock to no purpose, and growling over the inconstancy of the windy element for a space of time considerably exceeding a week. I have spent many disagreeable weeks—that is, many weeks which might have been more profitably and more pleasantly spent; but one more utterly insipid than this, more galling to the spirits, or more trying to the temper, I cannot recollect. Even now, at the distance of more than half a century, I remember it, and the very name of Dungeness is abomination in mine ears.

At last the gale moderated, and we once more put to sea; but only to be driven hither and thither by the most provokingly adverse weather to which men thirsting for military glory were ever exposed. Brighton, Worthing, Hastings, Eastbourne, all made their appearance in succession, and all remained so long in sight that we cordially wished them engulfed in the ocean. At the same tedious rate we moved onwards till Plymouth harbour lay before us; into which we were necessitated to put, for the purpose of renewing our fresh provisions and water.

In this place nearly another precious week was wasted; consequently July was far advanced ere we could be said to have commenced our voyage in earnest; nor was it till the 13th day of August that the bold outline of the Spanish coast became discernible. In crossing the Bay of Biscay we had been baffled by continual calms, and tossed about by the swell which usually prevails there. Our sails were, for the most part, useless, flapping indolently upon the masts; and though we did our best to keep up a good heart, we were all, both officers and men, beginning to wish ourselves anywhere rather than cooped up in a transport, when a cry of "land" from the masthead attracted our attention.

We had kept our direct course so well, notwithstanding frequent calms and adverse breezes, that the only coast we made, after losing sight of the Scilly Isles, was that of Biscay. The province of Biscay is in general rugged and mountainous, the Pyrenees extending in some places to the water's edge; and hence the voyager who beholds that coast for the first time is apt to imagine himself near the conclusion of his voyage long before the situation of the vessel authorises him so to do. Such was precisely the case with us on the present occasion. Turning our eyes in the direction to which the look-out seaman pointed, and beholding a line of coast so bold that almost all its features were clearly distinguishable, we fondly flattered ourselves that this evening, or the next morning at latest, would see us on shore. But hour after hour passed by without bringing us in any sensible degree nearer to the object of our gaze; and though the wind, which had hitherto blown against us, was now in our favour, daylight departed, leaving us almost as much at a loss as ever, to say whether we had gained upon the land or otherwise.

Next morning, when I ascended the deck, I was delighted to perceive that we were not more than three or four miles from shore, and that we were moving steadily along at the rate of five miles and a half in the hour. By-and-by a merchant vessel hailed and informed us of the battles of the Pyrenees and their results, and of the investiture of St Sebastian; and as the day wore on we had the farther gratification of seeing the gun-brig, under whose convoy we sailed, make prize of a tight-built American privateer schooner. But nothing as yet could be discovered of the harbour of Passages, towards which we were bound; and this day, accordingly, passed as others had done, under the galling pressure of hope deferred.

On the 17th of August, the first decisive indication of our approach to the seat of war was given in the sound of a cannonade, heard at first indistinctly, but becoming every hour more and more audible. This, we had little doubt, proceeded from the town of St Sebastian, and from the batteries of its besiegers; but it was in vain that we turned our glasses in the direction of the sound, with the hope of ascertaining whether or no the supposition was correct. Though we strained our eyes with the utmost anxiety as long as daylight lasted, nothing could be descried which repaid the exertion; and we were once more compelled to contemplate with resignation the prospect of spending another night in the extreme confinement of a cabin. The dawn of the following day, however, excited new and livelier emotions, when we found ourselves within a few hours' sail of the landing-place, and in a situation perhaps as interesting as can well be imagined to a soldier about for the first time to confront war.

On ascending the deck at six o'clock in the morning of the 18th, I perceived that we were lying under the influence of a dead calm, within range of the guns of the Castle of St Sebastian, and at the distance of perhaps a mile and a half from shore. This fortress is built upon the summit of a perpendicular rock, of some two or three hundred feet high, the base of which is washed on three sides by the sea; and when viewed, as we then saw it, from the water, presents a very formidable appearance. Its works, owing to their great height, are placed completely beyond the reach of molestation from a hostile squadron; while powerful batteries, rising tier above tier, wherever a platform in the rock has permitted one to be established, threaten with destruction any vessel which may rashly venture within reach of their fire.

On the right of the castle is a small bay, which forms an extremely commodious harbour, and which is sheltered from the weather by a little island or mole, so placed as that only one ship at a time can pass between it and the fort. On the left of the town the river Urumea passes close under the walls, and joins the sea; and at the distance of perhaps a mile and a half, or two miles, several high hills enclose the place on every side, between which and the ramparts the country is flat, and the soil sandy and unfruitful.

The reader has not, I daresay, forgotten that, after the battle of Vittoria, Sir Thomas Graham, at the head of the fifth division of the British army, achieved a succession of petty victories over detached bodies of the enemy, and finally sat down before St Sebastian. On the 17th of July, the convent of St Bartholome, which is built upon one of the heights just alluded to, and which the French had fortified with great diligence and care, was taken; and, on the same night, ground for the trenches was broken. As the troops worked for their lives, blue-lights being thrown out from the city, and a smart fire kept up upon them, they succeeded in establishing for themselves pretty safe cover before morning; and the sandy soil of the place being favourable to such operations, the first parallel was drawn within a moderate space of time. The trenches, indeed, were completed, and breaching-batteries erected, by the 21st, on the morning of which day upwards of forty pieces of ordnance opened their fire upon the place; and so incessant and so effectual was their practice, that on the evening of the 24th a breach was effected.

The breach appearing to be practicable, and Sir Thomas being aware that the advance of the army was delayed only till this important place should fall, he determined to lose no time in bringing matters to the issue of a storm; and orders were accordingly given that the troops should form in the trenches after dark, and be ready to commence the assault as soon as the state of the tide would permit the river to be forded. This occurred about two o'clock in the morning of the 25th, when the storming-party advanced with great gallantry to the attack. But whether it was that the breach was not sufficiently assailable, or that some panic seized the leading divisions, the attack failed. A sudden cry of "Retreat, retreat!" arose just as the first company had gained the summit of the rampart. It spread with extraordinary rapidity through the column; and some houses which were close to the town wall taking fire, all became confusion and dismay. Those who were already on the breach turned round and rushed against their comrades behind them; of these many missed their footing, and fell; and the enemy keeping up a tremendous fire of grape, musketry, and grenades all the while, the whole column lost its order and tractability. A retreat, or rather a flight, began in real earnest; and happy was he who first made his way once more across the Urumea, and found himself sheltered from destruction in the trenches. The loss in this affair amounted, on our part, to several hundred men, of whom many, who had been only wounded, and had fallen within high-water mark, were carried off by the returning tide, and drowned.

From the period of this failure till some days after our arrival in the country, no farther attempts were made upon St Sebastian; and the besieged were consequently enabled to repair, in a great degree, the devastation which had been committed upon their fortifications. The causes of this inactivity on the part of the besiegers were, first, the want of ammunition, of which a supply had been long expected from England, but which adverse winds had detained; and, secondly, sundry demonstrations, on the part of the French army, as if with a view to resume offensive operations, and raise the siege. Whilst these were in progress, it was deemed unwise to land any fresh stores; indeed, most of those already in position were removed; and hence, when we passed under the walls of the fort, the tri-coloured flag floated proudly from the battlements.

On the high grounds which begirt the town, the white tents of the besiegers were, however, discernible, and to the left the Portuguese standard waved in the wind. But all was quietness there. The trenches seemed to be empty, except of their ordinary guards; the batteries were unprovided with artillery, and some even in ruins; the only token of hostility, indeed, which was exhibited on either side, came from the town, from which an occasional shot was fired, as the allied pickets or sentinels relieved one another, or a group of officers, more curious than wise, exposed themselves unnecessarily to observation. Nevertheless, the whole presented a spectacle in the highest degree interesting and grand, especially to eyes as yet unaccustomed to war and its "sublimities."

I was gazing with much earnestness upon the scene before me, when a shot from the castle drew my attention to ourselves, and I found that the enemy were determined not to lose the opportunity which the calm afforded, of doing as much damage as possible to the ships which lay nearest to them. The ball passed over our deck, and fell harmless into the water. The next, however, struck only a few feet from our bow; and the third would have been perhaps still better directed, had not a light breeze fortunately sprung up, and carried us on our course. It soon wafted us beyond the range of cannon; and the enemy perceiving that his balls fell short, ceased to waste them.

By this time we had approached within a short distance of Passages; and, at eight o'clock, that wished-for harbour came in view. Perhaps there are few ports in the world more striking, in every respect, than Passages. As you draw near to it, you run along a bold rocky shore, in which no opening can be discerned; nor is it till he has reached the very mouth of the creek that a stranger is inclined to suspect that a harbour is there. The creek itself cannot be more than fifty yards wide: it runs directly up between overhanging cliffs, and presents altogether the appearance rather of an artificial cut than of an aperture of nature's formation. From the bare faces of these cliffs various kinds of dwarf trees and shrubs grow out in rich luxuriance, and their summits are crowned with groves of lime and cork trees.

Passing through the creek, we arrived in a spacious basin or harbour, on the left of which is built a little straggling town. Here the scene became highly picturesque and beautiful. The houses, though none of the whitest or most clean in external appearance, were striking from the peculiarity of their structure; with balconies projecting from the upper stories, and wooden staircases leading to them from without. The absence of glass, too, from most of the windows, which were furnished only with wooden lattices, powerfully impressed upon my mind that I was no longer in happy England. Nor did the general dress and appearance of both men and women fail to interest one who beheld them for the first time. The men, with their broad hats, swarthy visages, mustachoed lips; red, blue, or yellow sleeved waistcoats; their brown breeches, stockings, and shoes with coloured ties; their scarlet sashes fastened round the waist, and brown jacket slung over one shoulder, formed a remarkable contrast to the smock-frocked peasantry whom I had left behind. With the dress of the women I was not so much struck, because I had seen garments not dissimilar in Scotland. They wear, for the most part, brown or scarlet petticoats, with a handkerchief tied round the neck and bosom, so as to form a sort of stomacher. Their waists are long, and the head and feet bare; their hair being permitted to hang over their backs in ringlets, if it be not gathered up into a knot. But the expressive countenances of these creatures—their fine dark laughing eyes, their white teeth, and brunette complexion—are extremely pleasing.

To complete the picture, the background behind Passages is on all hands beautifully romantic. Hills rise one above another to a very considerable height, all of them covered with rich herbage and ample foliage; while far away in the distance are seen the tops of those stupendous mountains which form a barrier, and no imaginary one, between France and Spain.

Though we entered the harbour as early as nine o'clock in the morning, and were ready for disembarkation in ten minutes afterwards, that event, so ardently desired and so long deferred, did not occur till a late hour in the evening. Soldiers are, as every person knows, mere machines; they cannot think for themselves, or act for themselves on any point of duty; and as no orders had been left here respecting us, no movement could be made till intelligence of our arrival had been sent to the General commanding the nearest division. This having been done at last, we were directed to come on shore; and all the boats in the harbour, as well those belonging to the vessels lying there, as to the native fishermen, were put in requisition to transport us. In spite of every exertion, however, darkness had set in ere the last division reached the land; and hence we were unable to do more than march to a little wooded eminence about a couple of miles from the town, where we bivouacked.

This was the first night of my life which I had ever spent in so warlike a fashion; and I perfectly recollect, to this hour, the impression which it made upon me. It was one of the most exquisite delight. The season chanced to be uncommonly mild; not a breath of air was stirring; everything around me smelt sweet and refreshing, after a long imprisonment on board of ship; above all, I felt that soldiering was no longer an amusement. Not that there was any peril attending our situation, for we were at least ten miles from the garrison of St Sebastian, and perhaps twenty from the army of Marshal Soult; but the circumstance of being called upon to sleep under the canopy of heaven, the wrapping myself up in my cloak, with my sabre hanging on the branch of a tree over my head, and my dog couching down at my heels, these things alone were sufficient to assure me that my military career had begun in earnest.

When I looked round me again, I saw arms piled up, and glittering in the light of twenty fires, which were speedily kindled, and cast a bright glare through the overhanging foliage. I saw men enveloped in their greatcoats, stretched or sitting round these fires in wild groups; I heard their merry chat, their hearty and careless laugh, with now and then a song or a catch chanted by one or two: all these things, I recollect, were delightfully exciting. I leant my head against a tree, and putting my pipe in my mouth, I puffed away in a state of feeling which any monarch might envy, and which, in truth, I have never experienced since.

When regiments are employed upon active service, everything like a general mess is laid aside. The officers divide themselves into small coteries of two, three, or four, according as they happen to form mutual friendships, or find the arrangement attended with convenience. I was fortunate enough to have contracted an intimacy with one of my comrades, whose memory I have never ceased to cherish with the fondest affection, and whose good qualities deserve that his memory should be cherished with affection as long as the power of thinking and reflecting remains by me. He is now at peace, and lies, beside two others of his companions in arms, at the bottom of a garden. But let that pass for the present. My friend was an old campaigner. He had served during the greater part of the Peninsular war, and was therefore perfectly acquainted with the course which soldiers ought to pursue, if they desire to keep their health, and to do their duty effectually. At his suggestion I had brought with me a fowling-piece; he, too, brought his; between us we mustered a couple of greyhounds, a pointer, and a spaniel; and were indifferently furnished with fishing-rods and tackle. By the help of these we calculated on being able, at times, to add something to the fare allowed us in the way of rations; and the event proved that our calculations had not been formed upon mistaken grounds.

With him I spent the greater part of this night—chatting, sometimes of days gone by, and sometimes of the probabilities of the future. Though several years older than myself, Grey had lost none of the enthusiasm of the boy, and he was a perfect enthusiast in his profession. He described to me other scenes in which he had taken part, other bivouacs in which he had shared; and effectually hindered me from losing any portion of that military excitement with which I first sat down. But at length our eyelids began to grow heavy, in spite of all the whispers of romance, and every one around us was fast asleep. We accordingly trimmed our fire to keep it burning till after daybreak, and having drunk our allowance of grog to the health of our friends and relatives at home, we wrapped our cloaks about us and lay down. In ten minutes I was in the land of forgetfulness.

CHAPTER III.

Day had fully dawned when the general stir of the troops around me put an end to my repose. I opened my eyes, and remained for half a minute in a state of entire bewilderment, so new and so splendid was the prospect which met them. We had bivouacked upon a well-wooded eminence—standing, as it were, in the very centre of an amphitheatre of mountains. Behind us lay the beautiful little bay of Passages, tranquil and almost motionless, under the influence of a calm morning, though rendered more than usually gay by the ships and boats which covered its surface. In front, and to the right and left, rose, at some little distance off, hill above hill, not rugged and barren, like those among which we afterwards took up our abode, but shaggy with the richest and most luxuriant groves of plane, birch, and mountain-ash. Immediately beneath was a small glen, covered partly with the stubble of last year's barley, and still loaded with an abundant crop of unreaped Indian corn; whilst a little to the rear from the spot where I had slept, stood a neat farmhouse, having its walls hidden by the spreading branches of a vine, and studded with clusters of grapes approaching rapidly to perfection. In a word, it was a scene to which the pencil might perhaps do justice, but which defies all the powers of language adequately to describe.

I arose in the same enthusiastic frame of mind with which I had gone to sleep, and assigned myself willingly to the task of erecting huts for our own accommodation and that of the men—no tents having as yet been issued to us. This was speedily effected. Large stakes were felled and driven into the earth, between which, in order to form the walls, thinner and more leafy branches were twisted, and these being covered with twigs so closely wedged as to prove impervious to any passing shower, formed a species of domicile not perhaps very commodious, but extremely habitable. Such was our occupation during the greater part of the morning; and at night the corps lay down comfortably sheltered against dews and damps.

The following day was spent chiefly in purchasing horses and mules, which were brought in great abundance by the country people into the camp. For these we of course paid considerably more than their just value; but it was necessary to procure them without delay, as we were in hourly expectation of a move. Nearly a week elapsed, however, and we still remained in the same situation; nor was it till the evening of the 27th that the long-expected route arrived.

In the meanwhile I had not been idle, nor had I confined myself with any strictness within the bounds of the camp. Much of my time was spent in seeking for game of various kinds among the stupendous cliffs around—a quest in which I was not always unsuccessful. On other occasions I mounted my newly-purchased horse, and rode from point to point, wherever the hope of obtaining a better view of the glorious scenery of the Lower Pyrenees invited. Nor was the camp before St Sebastian neglected; to it I paid repeated visits, and perhaps I cannot do better, at this stage of my narrative, than give some account of the state in which I found it.

In a former chapter I stated that St Sebastian occupies a neck of land which juts into the sea, being washed on two sides by the waters of the Bay of Biscay, and on the third by the river Urumea. This stream, though inconsiderable in respect of width, cannot be forded, at least near the town, except at low tide. It therefore adds not a little to the general strength of the place. But the strength of the place depends far more on the regularity and solidity of its fortifications than on its natural situation. Across the isthmus, from the river to the bay, is erected a chain of stupendous masonry, consisting of several bastions and towers, connected by a well-sheltered curtain, and covered by a ditch and glacis; while the castle, built upon a hill, completely commands the whole, and seems to hold the town, and everything in it, at its mercy.

The scenery round St Sebastian is in the highest degree interesting and fine. As has been already mentioned, the ground, beginning to rise on all sides about a mile and a half from the glacis, soon becomes broken into hill and valley, mountain and ravine. Numerous orchards cover the lowest of these heights, with here and there a vineyard, a chateau, and a farmhouse intervening; whilst far away, in the background, are seen the rugged tops of the Quatracone and other gigantic mountains which overhang the Bidassoa, and divide Spain from France.

The tents of the besiegers were placed upon the lower range of hills, about two miles and a half distant from the town. They were so pitched as that they should, as far as possible, be hidden from the enemy; and for the attainment of that end the uneven nature of the country gave great facilities. They stood, for the most part, among the orchards and in the valleys and ravines with which the place abounds. Leading from them to the first parallel were cut various covered-ways—that is to say, roads so sunk in the ground as that troops might march along without exposing themselves to the fire of the enemy; and the parallel itself was drawn almost upon the brow of the ridge. Here, or rather in the ruined convent of St Bartholome, was established the principal magazine of powder, shot, working-tools, and other necessaries for the siege; and here, as a matter of course, the reserve or main body of the picket-guard was stationed.

The first parallel extended some way beyond the town, on both sides, and was connected with the second, as that again was with the third, by other covered-ways, cut in an oblique direction towards the enemy's works; but no sap had been attempted. The third parallel, therefore, completed the works of the besiegers, and it was carried within a hundred yards of the foot of the rampart. In each of these batteries were built, as well as on the brows of all the surrounding heights. As yet, however, they were masked by slight screens of sand and turf, though the guns were placed once more in many of them, and the rest were rapidly filling.

There is no species of duty in which a soldier is liable to be employed so galling or so disagreeable as a siege. Not that it is deficient in causes of excitement, which, on the contrary, are in hourly operation, but it ties him so completely down to one spot, and breaks in so repeatedly upon his hours of rest, and exposes him so constantly to danger, and that too at times and in places where no honour is to be gained, that we cannot greatly wonder at the feelings of bitterness which generally prevail, among the privates at least of a besieging army, towards the garrison which does its duty by holding out to the last extremity. On the present occasion I found much of that tone of mind among the various brigades which lay before St Sebastian. They could not forgive the French garrison, which had now kept them during six weeks at bay, and they burned with anxiety to wipe off the disgrace of a former repulse; there was, therefore, little mention made of quarter, when the approaching assault chanced to be alluded to.

The governor of St Sebastian was evidently a man of great energy of mind, and of very considerable military talent. Everything which could be done to retard the progress of the siege he did. The breach which had been effected previous to the first assault was now almost entirely filled in. Many new works were in course of erection; and, which was not, perhaps, in strict accordance with the laws of modern warfare, they were erected by British prisoners. We could see these poor fellows labouring at their tasks in full regimentals; and the consequence was, that they were permitted to labour on without a single gun being turned against them. Nor was this all that was done to annoy the assailants. Night after night petty sorties were made, with no other apparent design than to disturb the repose and to harass the spirits of the besiegers; for the attacking party seldom attempted to advance farther than the first parallel, and was uniformly beaten back by the pickets and reserve.

During the last ten days the besieging army had been busily employed in bringing up ammunition, and in dragging into battery one of the most splendid trains of heavy ordnance which had ever at that time been placed at the disposal of an English general. On the evening of the 26th these matters were all completed. No fewer than sixty pieces of artillery, some of them thirty-two, and none of lighter metal than eighteen-pounders, were mounted against the town; whilst twenty mortars, of different calibres, prepared to scatter death among its defenders, and bade fair to reduce the place itself to a heap of ruins.

These arrangements being completed, it was deemed prudent, previous to the opening of the batteries, to deprive the enemy of a little redoubt which stood upon an island in the harbour, and in some degree enfiladed the trenches. For this service a detachment, consisting of a hundred men, a captain, and two subalterns, was allotted, who, filing from the camp soon after nightfall, embarked in the boats of the cruisers. Here the soldiers were joined by a few seamen and marines, under the command of a naval officer; and the whole having made good their landing under cover of darkness, advanced briskly to the assault. The enemy were taken by surprise; only a few shots were fired on either side; and in the space of five minutes, the small fort, mounting four guns, with an officer and thirty men, the whole of the garrison, fell without bloodshed into the hands of the assailants.

So trifling, indeed, was the resistance offered by the French garrison, that it disturbed not the slumbers of the troops in camp. The night of the 26th, accordingly, passed by in quiet; but as soon as the morning of the 27th dawned, affairs assumed a different appearance. Soon after daybreak, a single shell was thrown from the heights on the right of the town, as a signal for the batteries to open; and then a tremendous cannonade began. The first salvo was one of the finest things of the kind I ever witnessed. Without taking the trouble to remove the slight covering of sand and turf which masked their batteries, the artillerymen, laying their guns by such observations as small apertures left for the purpose enabled them to effect, fired upon the given signal, and so caused the guns to clear a way for themselves against future discharges; nor were these tardy in occurring. So rapid, indeed, were the gunners in their movements, and so well sustained their fire throughout all the hours of daylight on the 27th, the 28th, the 29th, and the 30th, that by sunset on the latter day not only was the old breach reduced to its former dilapidated condition, but a new and a far more promising aperture was effected.

In the mean time, the enemy had not been remiss in their endeavours to silence the fire of the besiegers, and to dismount their guns. They had, indeed, exercised their artillery with so much goodwill, that most of the cannon found in the place after its capture were unserviceable; being melted at the touch-holes, or otherwise damaged, from too frequent use. But they fought, on the present occasion, under every imaginable disadvantage; for not only was our artillery much more than a match for theirs, but our advanced trenches were lined with troops, who kept up an incessant and deadly fire of musketry upon the embrasures. The consequence was, that the fire from the town became every hour more and more feeble, till it dwindled away to the discharge of a single mortar from beneath the ramparts.

I have said that by sunset on the 30th the old breach was reduced to its former dilapidated state, and a new and a more promising one effected. It will be necessary to describe, with greater accuracy than I have yet done, the situation and actual state of these breaches.

The point selected by Sir Thomas Graham as most exposed, and offering the best mark to his breaching artillery, was on that side of the town which looks towards the river. Here there was no ditch, nor any glacis; the waters of the Urumea flowing so close to the foot of the wall as to render the one useless and the other impracticable. The whole of the rampart was consequently bare to the fire of our batteries; and as it rose to a considerable height, perhaps twenty or thirty feet above the plain, there was every probability of its soon giving way to the shock of the battering guns. But the consistency of that wall is hardly to be imagined by those who never saw it. It seemed as if it were formed of solid rock; and hence the breach, which, to the eye of one who examined it only from without, appeared at once capacious and easy of ascent, proved, when attacked, to be no more than a partial dilapidation of the exterior face of the masonry. Nor was this all; the rampart gave way, not in numerous small fragments, such as might afford a safe and easy footing to those who were to ascend, but in huge masses, which, rolling down like crags from the face of a precipice, served to impede the advance of the column almost as effectually as if they had not fallen at all. The two breaches were about a stone's-throw apart. Both were commanded by the guns of the castle, and both were flanked by projections in the town wall. Yet such was the path by which our troops must proceed, if any attempt should be made to carry the place by assault.

That this attempt would be made, and that, too, on the morrow, every man in the camp was perfectly aware. The tide promised to answer about noon, and noon was accordingly fixed upon as the time of attack; the question therefore arose, who, by the morrow's sunset, would be alive to speak of it, and who would not. While this surmise very naturally occupied the minds of the troops in general, a few more daring spirits were at work devising means for furthering the intended assault, and securing its success. Conspicuous among these was Major Snodgrass, an officer belonging to the 52d British regiment, but in command, on the present occasion, of a battalion of Portuguese. Up to the present night only one ford, and that at some little distance from both breaches, had been discovered. After carefully examining the stream through a telescope, and from a distance, Major Snodgrass had conceived the idea that there must be another ford, so far above that already known as to carry those who should cross by it at once to the foot of the smaller breach; and so entirely had this persuasion taken possession of his mind, that though the moon was in her first quarter, and gave considerable light, he devoted the whole of the night of the 30th to a personal trial of the river. He found, as he expected, that it was fordable at low water immediately opposite to the smaller breach, for he crossed it in person, the water reaching but little above his waist. Nor was he contented with having ascertained that fact; he clambered up the face of the breach at midnight, gained its summit, and looked down upon the town. How he contrived to elude the vigilance of the French sentinels, I know not; but that he did elude them, and that he performed the gallant act which I have just recorded, is perfectly well known to all who served at this memorable siege.

So passed the night of the 30th, an interval of deep anxiety to many—of high excitement to all. Many a will was made, as soldiers make their wills, ere sleep closed their eyes. About an hour before day the troops were, as usual, under arms; and then the final orders were given for the assault. The division was to enter the trenches about ten o'clock, in what is called light marching order—that is, leaving their knapsacks, blankets, &c., behind, and carrying with them only their arms and ammunition; and the forlorn-hope was to move forward as soon as the tide should appear sufficiently low to permit their crossing the river. This post was assigned to certain detachments of volunteers who had come down from the various divisions of the main army, for the purpose of assisting in the assault of the place. These were to be followed by the 1st, or Royal Regiment of Foot; that by the 4th; that by the 9th; and it again by the 47th; whilst several battalions of Portuguese were to remain behind as a reserve, and to act as circumstances should require. Such were the orders issued at daybreak on the 30th of August; and all who heard prepared cheerfully to obey them.

It is a curious fact, but a fact it is, that the morning of the 31st rose darkly and gloomily, as if the elements had been aware of the approaching conflict, and were determined to add to its awfulness by their disorder. A close and oppressive heat pervaded the atmosphere; lowering and sulphureous clouds covered the face of the sky, and hindered the sun from darting upon us one enlivening ray, from morning till night. A sort of preternatural stillness, too, was in the air; the birds were silent in the groves; the very dogs and horses in the camp, and cattle on the hillside, gazed in apparent alarm about them. Moreover, as the day passed on, and the hour of attack drew near, the clouds gradually collected into one black mass directly over the devoted city; and almost at the instant when our troops began to march into the trenches, the storm burst forth. Still, it was comparatively mild in its effects. An occasional flash of lightning, succeeded by a burst of thunder, was all that we felt, though this was enough to divert, in some degree, the attention of many from their own more immediate circumstances.

The forlorn-hope took its station at the mouth of the most advanced trench, about half-past ten o'clock. The tide, which had long turned, was now fast ebbing; and these gallant fellows beheld its departure with a degree of feverish anxiety, such as he only can imagine who has stood in a similar situation. Not on any previous occasion since the commencement of the present war had a town been assaulted by daylight; nor, as a necessary consequence, were the assailants in a condition to observe distinctly beforehand the preparations which were making for their reception. There was, therefore, something not only interesting but novel in beholding the muzzles of the enemy's cannon, from the castle and other batteries, turned in such a direction as to flank the breaches; while the glancing of bayonets, and the occasional rise of caps and feathers, gave notice of the line of infantry which was forming underneath the parapet. And that no evidence might be wanting of the vigilance wherewith all ranks among the enemy were animated, officers might be seen, here and there, leaning their telescopes over the top of the rampart, or through the opening of an embrasure, and prying with deep attention into our arrangements.

Nor were our own officers, particularly those of the engineers, idle. With admirable coolness they exposed themselves to a dropping fire of musketry, which the enemy at intervals kept up, whilst they examined and re-examined the state of the breaches—a procedure which cost the life of as brave and experienced a soldier as that distinguished corps has produced. I allude to Sir Richard Fletcher, chief engineer to the army, who was shot through the head only a few minutes before the column advanced to the assault.

It would be difficult to convey to the mind of an ordinary reader anything like a correct notion of the state of feeling which takes possession of a man waiting for the commencement of a battle. In the first place, time appears to move upon leaden wings; every minute seems an hour, and every hour a day. Then there is a strange commingling of levity and seriousness within himself—a levity which prompts him to laugh he scarce knows why, and a seriousness which urges him from time to time to lift up a mental prayer to the Throne of Grace. On such occasions little or no conversation passes. The privates generally lean upon their firelocks, the officers upon their swords; and few words, except monosyllables, at least in answer to questions put, are wasted. On these occasions, too, the faces of the bravest often change colour, and the limbs of the most resolute tremble, not with fear, but with anxiety; while watches are consulted, till the individuals who consult them grow weary of the employment. On the whole, it is a situation of higher excitement, and darker and deeper feeling, than any other in human life; nor can he be said to have felt all which man is capable of feeling who has not gone through it.

Noon had barely passed, when, the low state of the tide giving evidence that the river might be forded, the word was given to advance. Silent as the grave the column moved forward. In an instant the leading files had cleared the trenches, and the others poured on in quick succession after them. Then the work of death began. The enemy having reserved their fire till the head of the column gained the middle of the stream, opened with deadly effect. Grape, canister, musketry, shells, grenades, every species of missile, in short, which modern warfare supplies, were hurled from the ramparts, beneath which our gallant fellows dropped like corn before the reaper; insomuch that, in the space of two minutes, the river was choked up with the bodies of the killed and wounded, over whom, without stopping to discriminate the one from the other, the advancing divisions pressed on.

The opposite bank was soon gained, and the short space between the landing-place and the foot of the breach cleared, without a single shot having been returned by the assailants. But here a very alarming prospect awaited them. Instead of a wide and tolerably level chasm, the breach presented the appearance of an ill-built wall, thrown considerably from its perpendicular, to ascend which, even though unopposed, would be no easy task. It was, however, too late to pause; besides, men's blood was hot, and their courage on fire; so they pressed on, clambering up as they best could, and effectually hindering one another from falling back, by the eagerness of the rear ranks to follow those that were in front. Shouts and groans were now mingled with the roar of cannon and the rattle of musketry; our front ranks, likewise, had an opportunity of occasionally firing with effect, and the slaughter on both sides was dreadful.

At length the head of the column forced its way to the summit of the breach, where it was met in the most gallant style by the bayonets of the garrison. When I say the summit of the breach, I do not mean that our soldiers stood upon a level with their enemies, for this was not the case. There was a high step, perhaps two or three feet perpendicular, which the assailants must needs surmount before they could stand face to face with the garrison, and a considerable space of time elapsed ere that object was attained. For bayonet met bayonet here, and sabre sabre, in close and desperate strife, the one party being unable to advance a foot, the other making no progress in the endeavour to force them back.

Things had continued in this state for nearly a quarter of an hour, when Major Snodgrass, at the head of the 13th Portuguese regiment, dashed across the river by his own ford, and made for the lesser breach. The attack was made in the most cool and determined manner; but here, too, obstacles almost insurmountable opposed themselves; indeed it is highly probable that the place would scarcely have been carried at all but for the adoption of an expedient never before tried in modern warfare. The general commanding ordered the guns from our own batteries to fire upon the top of the breach. Nothing could exceed the beauty and correctness of the practice. Though the shot passed within a couple of feet of the heads of the British soldiers who stood nearest to the enemy, not an accident occurred; while, from the murderous effect of the fire, the French suffered terribly.

The cannonade had been kept up but a few minutes when a sudden explosion took place, such as drowned every other noise, and apparently confounded, for an instant, the combatants on both sides. A shell from one of our mortars had burst near the train which communicated with a quantity of gunpowder placed under the breach. This mine the French had intended to spring as soon as our troops should have made good their footing, or established themselves on the summit; but the fortunate accident just referred to anticipated them. It exploded while three hundred grenadiers, the elite of the garrison, stood over it, and instead of sweeping the storming party into eternity, it only cleared a way for their advance. It was a spectacle as appalling and grand as the imagination can conceive, the sight of that explosion. The noise was more awful than any which I have ever heard before or since; while a bright flash, instantly succeeded by a smoke so dense as to obscure all vision, produced an effect upon those who witnessed it which no powers of language are adequate to describe. Such, indeed, was the effect of the whole occurrence, that for perhaps half a minute after not a shot was fired on either side. Both parties stood still to gaze upon the havoc which had been produced, insomuch that a whisper might have caught your ear for a distance of several yards.

The state of stupefaction into which they were at first thrown did not, however, last long with the British troops. As the smoke and dust of the ruins cleared away, they beheld before them a space empty of defenders, and they instantly rushed forward to occupy it. Uttering an appalling shout, the troops sprang over the dilapidated parapet, and the rampart was their own. Now then began all those maddening scenes which are witnessed only in a successful storm, of flight and slaughter, and parties rallying only to be broken and dispersed; till, finally, having cleared the works to the right and left, the soldiers poured down into the town.

To reach the streets, our men were obliged to leap about fifteen feet, or to make their way through the burning houses which adjoined the wall. Both courses were adopted, according as different parties were guided in their pursuit of the flying enemy; and here again the battle was renewed. The French fought with desperate courage; they were literally driven from house to house, and from street to street; nor was it till a late hour in the evening that all opposition on their part ceased. Then, however, the governor, with little more than a thousand men, retired into the castle, whilst another detachment, of perhaps two hundred, shut themselves up in a convent.

As soon as the fighting began to wax faint, the horrors of plunder and rapine succeeded. Fortunately there were few females in the place; but of the fate of the few which were there, I cannot even now think without a shudder. The houses were everywhere ransacked, the furniture wantonly broken, the churches profaned, the images dashed to pieces; wine and spirit cellars were broken open; and the troops, heated already with angry passions, became absolutely mad by intoxication. All order and discipline were abandoned. The officers had no longer the slightest control over their men, who, on the contrary, controlled the officers; nor is it by any means certain that several of the latter did not fall by the hands of the former while vainly attempting to bring them back to a sense of subordination.

Night at last set in, though the darkness was effectually dispelled by the glare from burning houses, which one after another took fire. The morning of the 31st had risen upon St Sebastian as neat and regularly built a town as any in Spain: long before midnight it was one sheet of flame; and by noon on the following day, little remained of it except its smoking ashes. The houses being lofty, like those in the Old Town of Edinburgh, and the streets straight and narrow, the fire flew from one to another with extraordinary rapidity. At first some attempts were made to extinguish it, but these soon proved useless: and then the only matter to be considered was how, personally, to escape its violence. Many a migration was accordingly effected from house to house, till at last houses enough to shelter all could no longer be found, and the streets became the place of rest to the majority.

The spectacle which these presented was truly shocking. A strong light falling upon them from the burning houses disclosed crowds of dead, dying, and intoxicated men huddled indiscriminately together. Carpets, rich tapestry, beds, curtains, wearing apparel—everything valuable to persons in common life—were carelessly scattered about upon the bloody pavement; whilst, from the windows above, fresh goods were continually thrown, sometimes to the damage of those who stood or sat below. Here you would see a drunken fellow whirling a string of watches round his head, and then dashing them against the wall; there another, more provident, stuffing his bosom with such smaller articles as he most prized. Next would come a party rolling a cask of wine or spirits before them, with loud acclamations, which in an instant was tapped, and, in an incredibly short space of time, emptied of its contents. Then the ceaseless hum of conversation, the occasional laugh and wild shout of intoxication, the pitiable cries or deep moans of the wounded, and the unintermitted roar of the flames, produced altogether such a concert as no man who listened to it can ever forget.

Of these various noises the greater number began gradually to subside as night passed on; and long before dawn there was a fearful silence. Sleep had succeeded inebriety with the bulk of the army. Of the poor wretches who groaned and shrieked three hours ago, many had expired; and the very fire had almost wasted itself by consuming everything upon which it could feed. Nothing, therefore, could now be heard except an occasional faint moan, scarcely distinguishable from the heavy breathing of the sleepers; and even that was soon heard no more.

CHAPTER IV.

That the connection of the narrative might not be interrupted, I have detailed, in the preceding chapter, the events attendant upon the assault and capture of St Sebastian, instead of drawing the reader's attention to the movements of the particular corps to which I chanced to be attached. These, however, are soon related. On the evening of the 26th an order arrived, by which we were directed to march on the following day, and to join that division of the army which occupied the pass of Irun. It was promptly obeyed; and after an agreeable journey of four hours, we took up our abode in a barren valley, surrounded on every side by steep and rugged mountains, where we found huts already erected for our accommodation.

We remained here in a state of quiet till the morning of the 30th, when, at three o'clock, an aide-de-camp arrived in the camp with directions for us instantly to retrace our steps, and to join the army before St Sebastian. We were perfectly aware that the town was to be stormed on the following day, and, of course, were not reluctant to obey a command which led us to the assistance of our comrades. The ranks were accordingly formed with goodwill, and by seven o'clock we had reached our ground.

It was the design of Sir Thomas Graham to embark a detachment of troops in the boats of the fleet, who should assault the castle at the moment when the main body moved from the trenches. The corps to which I belonged was selected for this purpose. But on reconnoitring the face of the cliff, it was at once perceived that, to make any attempt of the kind, would only devote to certain destruction the luckless detachment which should be so employed. This part of the plan was accordingly abandoned; and a few boats only being manned, for the purpose of making a feint, and for causing, if possible, a diversion, the remainder, with the exception of such as were chosen to accompany the storming party, returned, by the morrow's dawn, to the front.

I have already stated that the morning of the 31st rose darkly and gloomily, and that, just as the besiegers had begun to fill the trenches, a storm burst forth. It continued to increase in violence and sublimity every moment; so that, when our leading files emerged from their cover, one of the most fearful thunderstorms to which I ever listened had attained its height. Nor was this the only circumstance which added to the terrors of that eventful day. Marshal Soult, aware of the importance of St Sebastian, and full of that confidence which a late appointment to command generally bestows, made on the 31st a desperate effort to raise the siege. At the head of a column of fifteen thousand infantry he crossed the Bidassoa near Irun, and attacked with great spirit the heights of St Marcial. These were defended only by Spanish troops, which gave way almost immediately, and were driven to the tops of the hills; but here, seeing a brigade or two of British troops in reserve, they rallied, and maintained their ground with considerable resolution. By this means it so happened that, whilst one division of the army was hotly engaged in the assault of St Sebastian, the divisions in front were in desperate strife with the troops of Marshal Soult; while the heavens thundered in an awful manner, and the rain fell in torrents. In one word, it was a day never to be forgotten by those who witnessed its occurrence—it was a day which I, at least, shall never forget.

It is impossible to describe, with any degree of fidelity, the appearance which St Sebastian presented when the dawn of the 1st of September rendered objects visible. The streets, which had lately been covered with the living as well as the dead, were now left to the occupation of the latter; and these were so numerous, that it puzzled the beholder to guess where so many sleeping men could have found room to lie. The troops, however, returned not, with the return of light, to their accustomed state of discipline. Their strength being recruited by sleep, and their senses restored, they applied themselves with greater diligence than ever to the business of plunder. Of the houses few now remained, except in a state of ruin; but even the ruins were explored with the most rapacious eagerness, not so much for jewels and other valuables as for wine and spirits. Unfortunately, many cellars were this day discovered, which, in the hurry and confusion of last night, had escaped detection; and the consequence was, that in the space of a very few hours intoxication once more prevailed throughout the army.

Of St Sebastian, and the proceedings within it, I can say no more from personal observation, my post being now with the advance of the army; but I may as well add, that the castle still held out, and continued so to do, till the 8th of September. It was, however, as we afterwards discovered, wholly unprovided with shelter against the shells which were unintermittingly thrown into it; and hence, after suffering every possible misery during a whole week, the governor was at last obliged to surrender. About nine hundred men, the remains of a garrison of four thousand, became by this measure prisoners of war, and such British prisoners as had escaped the horrors of the siege were recaptured; but the place itself was utterly valueless, being in a state of the most complete dilapidation.

The whole of the 1st of September was spent under arms, and in a state of deep anxiety, by the troops which occupied the pass of Irun, inasmuch as various movements in the French lines appeared to indicate a renewal of hostilities. Many bullock-cars, laden with wounded Spaniards, passed in the meanwhile through our encampment; and the groans and shrieks of these poor fellows, as the jolting of their uneasy vehicles shook their wounds open afresh, by no means tended to elevate the spirits, or add to the courage of those who heard them. Not that there was any reluctance on our part to engage: I believe a reluctance to fight was never felt by Britons when the enemy were in sight; but a few of the real effects of war, contemplated in a moment of coolness and inaction, seldom has the effect of adding fuel to the valorous fire which is supposed at all moments to burn in the breast of a soldier; and, in truth, this was a piteous sight.

Of all the classes of men with whom I ever had intercourse, the Spanish surgeons are, I think, the most ignorant and the most prejudiced. Among the many amputations which during the war they were called upon to perform, about one-half, or more than half, proved fatal. Their mode of dressing other wounds was, moreover, at once clumsy and inefficient; and hence the mangled wretches who passed us this morning were not only suffering acutely from the natural effect of their hurts, but were put to more than ordinary torture on account of the clumsy and rude manner in which their hurts had been looked to.

Though I have no intention of writing a history of the campaigns of 1813 and 1814, it is necessary, for the purpose of rendering my journal intelligible, to give, in this stage of it, some account of the relative situations of the British and French armies.

The two kingdoms of France and Spain are divided, towards the shores of the Bay of Biscay, by the river Bidassoa—an inconsiderable stream, which, rising about the centre of the Peninsula, follows the winding course of one of those many valleys with which the Pyrenees abound, and falls into the sea near the ancient town of Fontarabia. The Bidassoa is perfectly fordable in almost all places, at the distance of ten miles from its mouth; whilst immediately opposite to Fontarabia itself there is one part where, at low tide, a passage may be effected, the water reaching only to the chest of him who crosses. About two or three miles from Irun, which is distant something less than a league from Fontarabia, is another ford, across which a bridge had been built, but which, at the period of my narrative, was in ruins; consequently, there were two separate fords leading to the pass of Irun, by both or either of which an army might advance with safety.

On either side of this little stream, the mountains, except at the passes of Irun, Roncesvalles, &c., rise so abruptly as to form an almost impassable barrier between the one kingdom and the other. The scenery of the Bidassoa is, in consequence, romantic and striking in the extreme; for not only are the faces of the hills steep and rugged, but they are clothed, here and there, with the most luxuriant herbage; whilst frequent streams pouring down from the summits, form, especially after rain, cascades that are exceedingly picturesque, and in some instances almost sublime. The river itself is clear, and rapid in its course—winding, as mountain streams generally do, where hills come in to impede their progress; and that it is not deficient in excellent trout, I am still a living witness, having, with my friend Captain Grey, more than once fished it.

At the period of which I am now speaking, the armies of Lord Wellington and Marshal Soult occupied the opposite banks of this little stream. Our pickets were stationed on the rise of the Spanish hills; those of the French on the faces of their own mountains; whilst the advanced sentinels were divided only by the river, which measured, in many places, not more than thirty yards across. But the French, whatever their faults may be, are a noble enemy. The most perfect understanding prevailed between them and us, by which not only the sentries continued free from danger, but the pickets themselves were safe from wanton surprisal; no attack upon an outpost being under any other circumstances thought of, unless it was meant to be followed up by a general engagement.

For myself, my situation was, as I have already stated, in a bleak valley, distant nearly three miles from the river, and surrounded on every side by bold and barren precipices. In such a place there was little either to interest or amuse; for of the French army we could see nothing; and of game, in quest of which I regularly proceeded, there was a woeful scarcity. There, however, we remained till the morning of the 5th, without any event occurring worthy of notice, unless a fortunate purchase of two excellent milch-goats, which I effected from a Spanish peasant, be deemed such. But on that day our position was changed; and the glorious scenery to which the march introduced us far more than compensated for the fatigues occasioned by it.

It is by no means the least pleasing circumstance in the life of a soldier upon active service that he never knows, when he awakes in the morning, where he is to sleep at night. Once set in motion, and, like any other machine, he moves till the power which regulates his movements shall call a halt; and wherever that halt may occur, there, for the present, is his home. Such a man has not upon his mind the shadow of a care; for the worst bed which he can meet with is the turf; and he seldom enjoys a better than his cloak or blanket. Give him but a tent—and with tents the commander of the forces had lately supplied us—and he is in luxury; at least as long as the summer lasts, or the weather continues moderate; nor had we as yet experienced any blasts against which our tents furnished not a sufficient shelter.

The sun was just rising on the morning of the 5th of September when our tents were struck, the line of march formed, and ourselves en route towards the base of one of the highest hills which hemmed us in on every side. Along the face of this mountain was cut a narrow winding path, for the accommodation, in all probability, of goatherds or muleteers, who contrive to transport articles of luxury and clothing into the wildest districts where human inhabitants are to be found. It was, however, so rough and so precipitous, as effectually to hinder our men from preserving anything like order in their ranks; and thus caused a battalion of little more than six hundred bayonets to cover an extent of ground measuring, from front to rear, not less than three quarters of a mile. Of course the fatigue of climbing, loaded as we were with arms, ammunition, and necessaries, was great; and as the heat of the day increased it became almost intolerable. But we toiled on in good spirits, hoping that each vale or level at which we arrived would prove the place of our rest, and not a little delighted with the romantic scenery to which every turning in the road introduced us.

We had continued this arduous journey during five hours, when, on reaching the summit of an isolated green hill, at the back of the ridge already described, four mounted officers crossed us, one of them riding a little ahead of the rest, who, on the contrary, kept together. He who rode in front was a thin, well-made man, apparently of the middle stature, and not yet past the prime of life. His dress was a plain grey frock, buttoned close to the chin; a cocked-hat, covered with oilskin; grey pantaloons, with boots, buckled at the side; and a steel-mounted light sabre. Though I knew not who he was, there was a brightness in his eye which bespoke him something more than an aide-de-camp or a general of brigade; nor was I long left in doubt. There were in the ranks many veterans who had served in the Peninsula during some of the earlier campaigns; these instantly recognised their old leader, and the cry of "Duro, Duro!" the familiar title given by the soldiers to the Duke of Wellington, was raised. This was followed by reiterated shouts, to which he replied by taking off his hat and bowing; when, after commending the appearance of the corps, and chatting for a moment with the commanding officer, he advised that a halt should take place where we were, and rode on.

As I had never seen the great Captain of the day before, it will be readily imagined that I looked at him on the present occasion with a degree of admiration and respect such as a soldier of seventeen years of age, devoted to his profession, is likely to feel for the man whom he regards as its brightest ornament. There was in his general aspect nothing indicative of a life spent in hardships and fatigues; nor any expression of care or anxiety in his countenance. On the contrary, his cheek, though bronzed with frequent exposure to the sun, had on it the ruddy hue of health, while a smile of satisfaction played about his mouth, and told, more plainly than words could have spoken, how perfectly he felt himself at his ease. Of course I felt, as I gazed upon him, that an army under his command could not be beaten; and I had frequent opportunities afterwards of perceiving how far such a feeling goes towards preventing a defeat. Let troops only place perfect confidence in him who leads them, and the sight of him, at the most trying moment, is worth a fresh brigade.

In compliance with the recommendation of Lord Wellington, the corps halted on the beautiful green hill to which it had attained; but two full hours elapsed ere the baggage came up. In the mean time, by far the greater number among us, myself included, threw ourselves down upon the grass, and fell fast asleep; from which we were not roused till the arrival of the tents summoned us to the not less agreeable occupation of boiling our kettles and preparing breakfast. This was quickly commenced; and having satisfied the cravings of hunger, we dispelled every source of annoyance to which we were subject.

CHAPTER V.

I have seldom looked upon scenery more romantic than that which surrounded the spot where we were now halted. For the last four or five hours we had been gradually ascending the mountains, and at length found ourselves on the top of a green hill, which, when contrasted with the bold heights that begirt it, might be deemed a valley, though itself many thousand feet above the level of the sea. One side of this grassy platform appeared perfectly perpendicular. In this direction it was separated from a steep ridge by a narrow ravine, so deep and so rugged that all attempts to trace its base were fruitless. On another side it connected itself with the Quatracone; on a third, that by which we had advanced, it sloped gradually downwards till the view became lost in hanging forests; whilst behind us, only a little green declivity divided it from other similar hills, which afforded a comparatively smooth passage to the Foundry of St Antonio.

It was here that, during the succession of battles which Soult had hazarded about a month before, one division of the French army made several daring efforts to break the Allied line; and where, in truth, the line was for a time virtually broken. To this the appearance of all things around bore testimony. Not only the ground of our encampment, but the whole of the pass, was strewed with broken firelocks, pikes, caps, and accoutrements; whilst here and there a mound of brown earth, breaking in upon the uniformity of the green sod, marked the spot where some ten or twelve brave fellows lay asleep. In the course of my wanderings, too, I came upon sundry retired corners, where the remains of dead bodies—such remains as the wolves and vultures had left—lay still unburied; and these, by the direction in which they leaned towards one another, led me to conclude that the contest had been desperate, and that the British troops had been gradually borne back to the very edge of the precipice. That some of them were driven beyond its edge is indeed more than probable; for, at one place in particular, I remarked a little group of French and English soldiers lying foot to foot close beside it.

I need not inform my reader that eagles, vultures, and kites are faithful followers of an army. They were particularly abundant here—whether because a more than ordinary supply of food was furnished to them, or that their nests were built among the rocks of the Quatracone, I know not; but they wheeled and careered over our heads so daringly as almost to challenge a pursuit. I took my gun accordingly, on the morning after our arrival, and clambered up the face of the mountain; but all my efforts to get within shot of these wary creatures proved abortive. The fatigue of the excursion was, however, more than compensated by the glorious prospect which it opened to my gaze; and which, though it may perhaps be equalled, cannot, I firmly believe, be surpassed in any quarter of the world.

From the top of the Quatracone the traveller looks down, not only upon the varied scenery which all mountainous districts present, but upon the fertile plains of Gascony, the waters of the Bay of Biscay, and the level fields of the Asturias. The towns of Bayonne, St Jean de Luz, Fontarabia, Irun, St Sebastian, Vittoria, and many others, lie beneath, diminished, indeed, into mere specks, but still distinguishable; whilst, southward, forests of pine and groves of cork-trees, rugged precipices and dark valleys, present a striking contrast to these abodes of man. The day on which I scaled the mountain chanced to be particularly favourable; there was not a cloud in the sky, nor the slightest haze in the atmosphere; and hence, though I failed in obtaining the object in quest of which I had quitted the camp, I returned to it in the evening more than usually delighted with the issue of my ramble.

We remained in this delightful position only two days; and on the morning of the 6th of September, once more struck our tents. Noon had passed, however, before we began to move; when, taking the direction of the Foundry, we ascended the chain of green hills before us, till we had attained an eminence directly over the Bidassoa, and consequently within sight of the enemy's camp. Our march was by no means an agreeable one. We had scarcely left our ground when the rain began to fall in torrents; and as the baggage travelled more slowly than ourselves, we were doomed to wait a full hour upon the side of a bleak hill before any shelter against the storm could be procured. But such things in the life of a soldier are too common to be much esteemed. The baggage arrived at last. Our tent was speedily pitched, our cigars lighted, our wine mulled, our cloaks and blankets spread upon the ground, and ourselves as snug and light-hearted as men could desire to be.

It is an invariable custom, when armies are in the field, for such corps as compose the advanced line to muster under arms every morning an hour before daybreak. On the present occasion we formed the advance, a few Spanish pickets being the only troops between us and the enemy; and we were consequently roused from our comfortable lairs and put under arms long before the dawn appeared. A close column was then formed, in which our men stood still as long as the darkness lasted; but when the eastern sky began to redden, they were permitted to pile their arms and move about. And, in truth, the extreme chillness which in these regions accompanies the first approach of daylight, rendered such an indulgence extremely acceptable. We could not, however, venture far from our arms; because, if an attack should be made at all, this was exactly the hour at which we might look for it; but we contrived, at least, to keep our blood in circulation by running round them.

The approach of day among the Pyrenees in the month of September is a spectacle which it falls not to the lot of every man to witness, and it is one which can hardly be imagined by him who has not beheld it. For some time after the grey twilight breaks, you behold around you only one huge sea of mist, which, gradually rising, discloses, by fits, the peak of some rugged hill, and gives to it the appearance of a real island in a real ocean. By-and-by the mountains become everywhere distinguishable, looming, as a sailor would say, large through the haze; but the valleys continue long enshrouded, the fogs which hang upon them yielding only to the rays of the noonday sun. Along a valley immediately beneath our present position a considerable column of French infantry made their way during one of the late actions; and so perfect was the cover afforded by the mist, that, though the sun had risen some time, they penetrated, wholly unobserved, to the brow of the hill. On the present occasion no such attempt was made; but we were kept at our post till the fog had so far dispersed as to render objects half-way down the gorge distinctly visible. As soon as this occurred the column was dismissed, and we betook ourselves each to his favourite employment.

For myself, my constant occupation, whenever circumstances would permit, was to wander about, with a gun over my shoulder, and a dog or two hunting before me, not only in quest of game, but for the purpose of viewing the country to the best advantage, and making, if possible, my own observations upon the different positions of the hostile armies. For this purpose I seldom took a direction to the rear, generally strolling on towards the advanced pickets, and then bending my course to the right or left, according as the one or the other held out to me the best prospect of obtaining an accurate survey of both encampments. On the present occasion I turned my steps toward the heights of San Marcial. This was the point which Soult assailed with the greatest vigour, in his vain attempt to raise the siege of St Sebastian, at the time when the assault of that city was proceeding. It was defended on that day by Spaniards, and Spaniards only, whom Lord Wellington's despatch represented as having repulsed the enemy with great gallantry. For my own part, I could not but admire the bravery of the troops who, however superior in numbers, ventured to attack such a position. The heights of San Marcial rise so abruptly over the bed of the Bidassoa, that it was only by swinging myself from bough to bough that I managed, in many places, to descend them at all; yet a column of fifteen thousand Frenchmen forced their way nearly to the summit, and would have probably succeeded in carrying even that, but for the opportune arrival of a brigade of British Guards. These latter were not, indeed, engaged, but they acted as a reserve; and the sight of them inspired the Spanish division with courage enough to maintain their ground, and check the farther progress of the assailants.

From the brow of these heights I obtained a tolerably distinct view of the French encampment, for a considerable distance, both to the right and left. The range of hills which it occupied was in some points less lofty, in others even more rugged and more lofty, than that on which I now stood. Between me and it flowed the Bidassoa, through a valley, narrow indeed—not more, perhaps than a gunshot across—but rich and beautiful in the extreme; not only on account of the shaggy woods which in a great measure overspread it, but because of the luxuriant corn-fields, meadows, and farmhouses, which lay scattered along both banks of the river. The outposts of the French army occupied their own side of this glen, their sentinels being posted at the river's brink: ours—that is, the Spanish pickets—were stationed about half-way down the hill, and sent their vedettes no farther than its base. For the white tents of the British army I looked round in vain. These were generally pitched in woody hollows, so as to screen them entirely from the gaze of the enemy, and to shelter their inmates as much as might be from the storms; but the well-built huts of the French soldiers were in many places distinguishable. Certainly a Frenchman is far more expert in the art of hutting himself than a soldier of any other nation. The domiciles upon which I now gazed were not like those lately occupied by us, composed of branches of trees only, covered over with twigs and withering leaves, and devoid of chimneys by which smoke might escape. On the contrary, they were good, substantial cottages, with clay walls and regularly-thatched roofs, which the builders had erected in long straight streets; the camp of each brigade and battalion presenting rather the appearance of a settled village than of the temporary abiding-place of troops in active service. By the aid of my telescope I could distinguish French soldiers, some at drill, others at play, near their huts; nor could I but admire the perfect light-heartedness which seemed to pervade men who had been so lately beaten.

At this period the right of the French army occupied the high ground above the village of Handaye, and rested upon the sea; while our left, taking in the towns of Irun and Fontarabia, rested upon the sea also. The French left was stationed upon a mountain called La Rhune, and was supported by a strongly-fortified post upon the hill, or rather the rock of the Hermitage. Our right, on the other hand, was posted in the pass of Roncesvalles, and along the mountains beyond it; but from the spot which I now occupied, it could not be descried. Thus the valley of the Bidassoa alone separated us from one another, though that may appear a barrier sufficient when the extreme steepness of its banks is considered.

Having remained here long enough to satisfy my curiosity, I turned my steps homewards, taking the direction of the deep valley which lay beneath our camp. It was not without considerable difficulty that I succeeded in reaching its base; and when there, I was particularly struck with the extreme loneliness, the more than usual stillness, of all things about me. I looked round in vain for game. Not a living creature seemed to tenant the glen: there was not a bird of any kind or description among the branches; but a deathlike silence prevailed, the very breezes being shut out, and the very leaves motionless. I sat down by the edge of a little stream, somewhat weary, and oppressed with thirst, yet I felt a strong disinclination to drink; the water looked so slimy and blue, I could not fancy it. I rose again and pursued its course, hoping to reach some linn, where it might present a more tempting appearance. At length thirst overcame me; and, though there was no improvement in the hue of the water, I had stooped down and applied my lips to its surface, when, accidentally casting my eye a little to the right, I beheld a man's arm sticking up from the very centre of the rivulet. It was black and putrid, and the nails had dropped from some of the fingers. Of course I started to my feet without tasting the polluted element; nor could I resist a momentary squeamishness at the idea of having narrowly escaped drinking this tincture of human carcasses.

In this manner I continued to while away four or five days, strolling about amid some of the wildest scenes which nature is capable of producing, as often as the weather would permit; and amusing myself, the best way I could, under cover of the canvas when the rains descended and the winds blew. Among other discoveries effected in the course of these rambles were two remarkable caves, having the appearance rather of deserted mines than of natural cavities. I had not, however, any opportunity of exploring them, for on the morning which I had intended to devote to that purpose we once more abandoned our camp, and moved to a new position. This was a little hill at the foot of the mountains which we had lately occupied, distant about two miles from Irun, and a mile from the highroad; and it proved one of the most agreeable posts of any which had been assigned to us since our landing. There we remained stationary till the advance of the army into France; and as the business of one day very much resembled that of another, I shall not weary my reader by going much into detail, but state, in few words, only some of the more memorable of the adventures which gave a character to the whole space of time in its progress.

In the first place, the main business of the army was to fortify its position by throwing up redoubts here and there, wherever scope for a redoubt could be found. Secondly, frequent visits were paid, by myself and others, to Irun and Fontarabia—towns of which little could be said in praise at any time, and certainly nothing then. They were both entirely deserted, at least by the more respectable of their inhabitants; indeed, the latter was in ruins, crowded with Spanish soldiers, muleteers, followers of the camp, sutlers, and adventurers. The keepers of gaming-houses had remained, it is true, and they reaped no inconsiderable harvest from their guests; but, with the exception of these, and of other characters not more pure than they, few of the original tenants of houses now occupied them. Again, there was a capital trouting stream before us in the Bidassoa, of which my friend and myself made good use. And here I cannot but again remark upon the excellent understanding which prevailed between the hostile armies, and their genuine magnanimity towards one another. Many a time have I waded half across the little river, on the opposite bank of which the enemy's pickets were posted, the French soldiers coming down in crowds to watch my success, and to point out particular pools or eddies where the best sport was to be had. On such occasions the sole precaution which I took was to dress myself in a scarlet jacket, and then I might approach within a few yards of their sentries without risk of molestation.

It fell to my lot one morning, while the corps lay here, to go out in command of a foraging party. We were directed to proceed along the bank of the river, and to bring back as much green corn, or rather ripe corn—for, though unreaped, the corn was perfectly ripe—as our horses could carry. On this occasion I had charge of twenty unarmed men, and about fifty horses and mules; and I must confess that I was not without apprehension that a troop of French cavalry would push across the stream and cut us off. Of course I made every disposition for a hasty retreat, desiring the men to cast loose their led animals should any rush be made at us, and to make the best of their way to the pickets; but happily we were permitted to cut down the maize at our leisure, and to return with it unmolested. But enough of these details—as soon as I have related the particulars of an excursion which a party of us made to St Sebastian, for the purpose of amusing, as we best could, the period of inaction.

I have already stated that the citadel, after enduring the miseries of a bombardment during a whole week, finally surrendered on the 8th of September. It was now the 15th, when I, with two or three others—who, like myself, were desirous of examining the condition of a place which had held out so long and so vigorously—mounted our horses soon after sunrise, and set forth. The road by which we travelled was both sound and level, running through the pass of Irun, a narrow winding gorge, overhung on both sides by rugged precipices, which in some places are hardly fifty yards apart. This we followed for about twelve miles, when, striking off to the left, we made our way, by a sort of cross-road, over hill and dale, till we found ourselves among the orchards which crown the heights immediately above the town. We had directed our course thither, because a medical friend, who was left in charge of such of the wounded as could not be moved, had taken up his quarters there in a large farmhouse, which he had converted into a temporary hospital; and to him we looked for beds and entertainment. Nor were we disappointed; we found both, and they proved to be greatly superior in quality to any which had fallen to our lot since we landed.

The reader will easily believe that a man who has spent some of the best years of his life amid scenes of violence and bloodshed must have witnessed many spectacles highly revolting to the more delicate feelings of our nature; but a more appalling picture of war passed by—of war in its darkest colours—those which distinguish it when its din is over—than was presented by St Sebastian and the country in its immediate vicinity, I certainly never beheld. While an army is stationary in any district, you are wholly unconscious of the work of devastation that may be going on—you see only the hurry and pomp of hostile operations; but when the tide has rolled by, and you turn to the spot over which it last swept, the effect upon your own mind is such as cannot even be imagined by him who has not experienced it. Little more than a week had elapsed since the division employed in the siege of St Sebastian moved forward. Their trenches were not yet filled up, nor their batteries demolished; yet the former had in some places fallen in of their own accord, and the latter were beginning to crumble to pieces. We passed them by, however, without much notice. It was, indeed, impossible not to acknowledge that the perfect silence was far more awful than the bustle and stir that lately pervaded them; whilst the dilapidated condition of the convent, and of the few cottages which stood near it, stripped as they were of roofs, doors, and windows, and perforated with cannon-shot, inspired us, now that they were deserted, with sensations somewhat gloomy. But these were trifles—a mere nothing when compared with the feelings which a view of the town itself excited.

As we pursued the main road, and approached St Sebastian by its ordinary entrance, we were at first surprised at the slight degree of damage done to its fortifications by the fire of our batteries. The walls and battlements beside the gateway appeared wholly uninjured, the very embrasures being but slightly defaced. But the delusion grew gradually more faint as we drew nearer, and had totally vanished before we reached the glacis. We found the draw-bridge fallen down across the ditch, in such a fashion that the endeavour to pass was not without danger. The folding gates were torn from their hinges, one lying flat on the ground, the other leaning against the wall; whilst our own steps, as we moved along the arched passage, sounded loud and melancholy.

Having crossed this, we found ourselves at the commencement of what had once been the principal street in the place. No doubt it was in its day both neat and regular; but of the houses nothing now remained except the outward shells, which, however, appeared to be of a uniform height and style of architecture. As far as I could judge, they stood five stories from the ground, and were faced with a sort of freestone, so thoroughly blackened and defiled as to be hardly cognisable. The street itself was, moreover, choked up with heaps of ruins, among which were strewed about fragments of household furniture and clothing, mixed with caps, military accoutrements, round-shot, pieces of shell, and all the other implements of strife. Neither were there wanting other evidences of the drama which had been lately enacted here, in the shape of dead bodies, putrefying and infecting the air with the most horrible stench. Of living creatures, on the other hand, not one was to be seen—not even a dog or a cat; indeed we traversed the whole city without meeting more than six human beings. These, from their dress and abject appearance, struck me as being some of the inhabitants who had survived the assault. They looked wild and haggard, and moved about here and there, poking among the ruins as if they were in search of the bodies of their slaughtered relatives, or had hoped to find some little remnant of their property. I remarked that two or three of them carried bags over their arms, into which they thrust every trifling article of copper or iron which came in their way.

From the streets—each of which resembled, in every particular, that which we had first entered—we proceeded towards the breach, where a dreadful spectacle awaited us. We found it covered with fragments of dead carcasses, to bury which it was evident that no effectual attempt had been made. I afterwards learned that the Spanish corps which had been left to perform this duty, instead of burying, endeavoured to burn the bodies; and hence the half-consumed limbs and trunks which were scattered about, the effluvia arising from which was beyond conception overpowering. We were heartily glad to quit this part of the town, and hastened, by the nearest covered-way, to the castle.

Our visit to it soon convinced us that, in the idea which we had formed of its vast strength, we were deceived. The walls were so wretchedly constructed that in some places, where no shot could have struck them, they were rent from top to bottom by the recoil of the guns which surmounted them. About twenty heavy pieces of ordnance, with a couple of mortars, composed the whole artillery of the place; and there was not a single bomb-proof building in it except the governor's house. A large bakehouse, indeed, which seemed to have been hollowed out of the rock, had escaped damage; but the barracks were everywhere perforated and in ruins. That the garrison must have suffered fearfully during the week's bombardment everything in and about the place gave proof. Many holes were dug in the earth, and covered over with planks and large stones, into which, no doubt, the soldiers had crept for shelter; but these were not capable of protecting them, at least in sufficient numbers.

Among other places, we strolled into what had been the hospital. It was a long room, containing, perhaps, twenty truckle bedsteads, all of which were entire, and covered with straw paillasses. Of these, by far the greater number were dyed with blood, though only one had a tenant. We approached, and lifting a coarse sheet which covered it, we found the body of a mere youth, evidently not more than seventeen years of age. There was the mark of a musket-ball through his chest; but he was so fresh, had suffered so little from the effects of decay, that we feared he might have been left to perish of neglect. I trust we were mistaken. We covered him up again, and quitted the place.

We had now gratified our curiosity to the full, and turned our backs upon St Sebastian, not without a chilling sense of the horrible points in our profession. This, however, gradually wore off as we approached the quarters of our host, and soon gave place to the more cheering influence of a substantial dinner, and a few cups of indifferently good wine. We slept soundly after our day's journey; and, starting next morning with the lark, returned to our beautiful encampment above Irun.

CHAPTER VI.

Thus passed nearly four weeks, the weather varying, as at this season it is everywhere liable to do, from wet to dry, and from storm to calm. The troops worked sedulously at the redoubts, till seven-and-thirty, commanding and flanking all the most assailable points between Fontarabia and the Foundry, were completed. For my own part, I pursued my ordinary routine, shooting or fishing all day long, whenever leisure was afforded, or rambling about amid scenery grand beyond all power of language to describe. In one of these excursions I stumbled upon another cave, similar in all respects to those which I had before been hindered from exploring. Determined not to be disappointed this time, I returned immediately to the camp, where, providing myself with a dark lantern, and taking a drawn sword in my hand, I hastened back to the spot. As I drew near, the thought that very possibly it might be a harbour for wolves came across me, and half tempted me to stifle my curiosity; but curiosity overpowered caution, and I entered. Like most adventures of the kind, mine was wholly without danger. The cave proved, as I suspected it would be, a deserted mine, extending several hundred feet under ground, and ending in a heap of rubbish, as if the roof had given way, and choked up farther progress. I found in it only an old iron three-legged pot, which I brought away with me, as a trophy of my hardihood.

It was now the 5th of October, and, in spite of repeated rumours of a move, the army still remained quiet. Marshal Soult, however, appeared fully to expect our advance, for he caused a number of hand-bills to be scattered through the camp by the market people, most of whom were in his pay, warning us that Gascony had risen en masse; and that, if we dared to violate the sacred soil, every man who ventured beyond the camp would be murdered. These hand-bills were printed in French and Spanish; and they came in, in increased quantities, about the time that intelligence of Buonaparte's disastrous campaign in Russia reached us. Of course we paid to them no attention whatever; nor had they the most remote effect in determining the plans of our leader, who probably knew as well as the French general how affairs really stood.

I shall not soon forget the 5th, the 6th, or the 7th of October. The first of these days I had spent among the woods, and returned to my tent in the evening with a tolerably well-stored game-bag; but, though fagged with my morning's exercise, I could not sleep. After tossing about upon my blanket till near midnight, I rose, and, pulling on my clothes, walked out. The moon was shining in cloudless majesty, and lighted up a scene such as I never looked upon before, and shall probably never look upon again. I had admired the situation of our camp during the day, as it well became me to do; but when I viewed it by moonlight—the tents moist with dew, and glittering in the silver rays which fell upon them, with a grove of dwarf oaks partly shading them, and the stupendous cliffs distinctly visible in the background—I thought, and I think now, that the eye of man never beheld a scene more exquisitely beautiful. There was just breeze enough to produce a slight waving of the branches, which, joined to the unceasing roar of a little waterfall at no great distance, and the occasional voice of a sentinel, who challenged as any one approached his post, produced an effect altogether too powerful for me to portray, at this distance of time, even to myself. I walked about for two hours in a state of high excitement and delight, which might be sobered, but was not broken, by the thought that thousands who slept securely under that moon's rays, would sleep far more soundly under another.

I returned to my couch of fern about two in the morning, and slept, or rather dozed, till daybreak; when, having waited the usual time under arms with the men, I set off again, with my dog and gun, to the mountains. But I was weary with last night's watching, and a friend, in something of my own mood of mind, overtaking me, we sat down to bask in the sun upon a lofty rock which overlooked the camp. There we remained till gathering clouds warned us of a storm; when, hurrying home, the information so long expected was communicated to us—namely, that we were to cross the river and attack the heights above it on the morrow.

I am no fire-eater, nor ever professed to be one; but I confess that the news produced in me very pleasurable sensations. We had been stationary in our present position so long, that all the objects round were become familiar; and variety is everything in the life of a soldier. Besides, there was the idea of invading France—an idea which, a few years previously, would have been scouted as visionary: this added much to the pleasurable excitement which the prospect of a move created. Not that I was thoughtless of what might be my own fate; on the contrary, I never yet went into action without making up my mind beforehand for the worst. But you become so familiarised with death, after you have spent a few months amid such scenes as I had lately witnessed, that the thought loses most of its terrors, and is considered only as a blank in the lottery of which you may have purchased a ticket. It may come; and if so, why, there is no help for it; but you may escape, and then there are new scenes to be witnessed, and new adventures to be encountered.

As the attack was to be made at an early hour, the troops were ordered to lie down as soon after dark as possible, in order that they might be fresh and in good spirits for the work of to-morrow. In the meanwhile, the clouds continued to collect over the whole face of the sky, and the extreme sultriness of the atmosphere indicated an approaching thunderstorm. The sun went down lowering and ominously; but it was not till the first night-relief had been set—that is, about eight or nine o'clock in the evening—that the storm burst upon us. Then, indeed, it came, and with a degree of sublimity which accompanies such a storm only amid such scenery. The lightning was very vivid; and the peals of thunder, echoed back as they were by the rocks and mountains near, sounded more like one continued rending of the elements than the intermitted discharges of an electric cloud. Happily, little or no rain fell, at least for a time; by which means I was enabled to sit at the door of my tent and watch the storm; nor have I been frequently more delighted than with its progress.

Immediately opposite to where I sat was a valley or glen, beautifully wooded, at the bottom of which flowed a little rivulet, which came from the waterfall already alluded to. This was completely laid open to me at every flash, as well as the whole side of the mountain beyond; near the summit of which a body of Spanish soldiers were posted in a lonely cottage. It was exceedingly curious to catch sight of this hut, with warlike figures moving about it, and arms piled beside it; of the bold heights around, with the stream tumbling from its rocky bed, and the thick groves and the white tents—and then to have the whole hidden from you in a moment. I sat and feasted my eyes till the rain began to descend; when the storm gradually abating, I stretched myself on the ground, and, without undressing, wrapt myself in my cloak and fell asleep.

It was, as nearly as I can now recollect, about four o'clock next morning when I was roused from my slumber by the orderly sergeant of the company. By this time the storm had completely passed away, and the stars were shining in a sky perfectly cloudless. The moon had, however, gone down; and the red glare from decaying fires, which, for want of fuel, were fast dying out, was the only light that helped us to find our proper places. The effect of this dull light, as it fell upon the soldiers mustering in solemn silence, was, however, exceedingly fine. You could not distinguish either the uniform or the faces of the men; you saw only groups collecting together, with arms in their hands; which there needed but a slight stretch of imagination, amid this wild forest scenery, to mistake for banditti, instead of regular troops. I started to my feet at the first summons; and, having buckled on my sabre, stowed away some cold meat, biscuit, and rum in a haversack, and placed it, with my cloak, across the back of my horse, I swallowed a cup or two of coffee, and felt myself ready and willing for any kind of service whatever.

In little more than a quarter of an hour the corps was under arms, each man in his place. We had already been joined by two other battalions, forming a brigade of about fifteen hundred men; and an hour before sunrise, just as the first streaks of dawn were appearing in the east, the word was given to march. Our tents were not on this occasion struck: they were left standing, with the baggage and mules, under the protection of a guard, for the purpose of deceiving the enemy's pickets, in whose view they were exposed, into the belief that nothing was going forward. And the measure was the more judicious that the state of the tide promised not to admit of our fording the river till past seven o'clock; long before which hour broad daylight would have set in. The object of our early movement was, therefore, to gain unobserved a sort of hollow, close to the left bank of the Bidassoa, from which, as soon as the stream should be passable, we might emerge.

As we moved in profound silence, we reached our place of ambuscade without creating the smallest alarm. There we laid ourselves down upon the ground, for the double purpose of more effectually avoiding a display, and of taking as much rest as possible. Whilst lying here, we listened, with eager curiosity, to the distant tread of feet, which marked the coming up of other divisions, and to the lumbering sound of artillery, as it rolled along the highroad. The latter increased upon us every moment, till at length three ponderous eighteen-pounders reached the hollow, and began to ascend the rising ground immediately in front of us. These were placed in battery, so as to command the ford, across which a stone bridge, now in ruins, was thrown; and by which we knew, from the position which we occupied, that we were destined to proceed. From what infatuation it arose that all these preparations excited no suspicion among the enemy, whose sentinels were scarce half musket-shot distant, I know not; but the event proved that they expected this morning anything rather than an attack.

Before I proceed to describe the circumstances of the battle, I must endeavour to convey to the minds of my non-military readers something like a clear notion of the nature of the position occupied by the right of the French army. I have already said that its extreme flank rested upon the sea. Its more central brigades occupied a chain of heights, not, indeed, deserving of the name of mountains, but still sufficiently steep to check the progress of an advancing force, and full of natural inequalities, well adapted to cover the defenders from the fire of the assailants. Along the face of these heights is built the straggling village of Handaye; and immediately in front of them runs the frith or mouth of the Bidassoa, fordable only at two points, one opposite Fontarabia, and the other in the direction of the main road. Close to the French bank of the river is a grove or strip of willows, with several vineyards and other enclosures, admirably calculated for skirmishers; while the ford beside the ruined bridge—the only one by which artillery could pass—was completely commanded by a fortified house, or tête-de-pont, filled with infantry. The main road, on the French side of the river, winds among overhanging precipices, not, indeed, so rugged as those in the pass of Irun, but sufficiently bold to place troops which might occupy them in comparative security, and to render a hundred resolute men more than a match for a thousand who might attack them. Yet these were the most assailable points in the whole position, all beyond the road being little else than perpendicular cliffs, shaggy with pine and ash trees.

Such was the nature of the ground which we were commanded to carry. As day dawned, I could distinctly see that the old town of Fontarabia was filled with British soldiers. The fifth division, which had borne the brunt of the late siege, and which, since the issue of their labours, had been permitted to rest somewhat in the rear, had been moved up on the preceding evening; and reaching Fontarabia a little before midnight, had spent some hours in the streets. Immediately in rear of ourselves, and in the streets of Irun, about eight thousand of the Guards and of the German Legion were reposing. A brigade of cavalry just showed its leading files at a turning in the main road, and a couple of nine-pounders stood close beside them. It was altogether a beautiful and an animating sight, not fewer than fifteen or twenty thousand British and Portuguese troops being distinguishable at a glance.

Away to our right, and on the tops of San Marcial, the Spanish divisions took their stations; nor could I avoid drawing something like an invidious comparison between them and their gallant allies. Half clothed, and badly fed, though sufficiently armed, their appearance certainly promised no more than their actions for the most part verified. Not that the Spanish peasantry are deficient in personal courage (and their soldiers were, generally speaking, merely peasants with muskets in their hands), but their corps were so wretchedly officered, and their commissariat so miserably supplied, that the chief matter of surprise is, how they came to fight at all. Even at this period of the war, when their country might be said to be completely freed from the invader, the subsistence of the Spanish army depended mainly on the heads of Indian corn, which the men gathered for themselves in the fields, and cooked by roasting them over their fires.

It will readily be imagined that we watched the gradual fall of the river with intense anxiety, turning our glasses, from time to time, towards the French lines, throughout which all remained most unaccountably quiet. At length a movement could be distinguished among the troops which occupied Fontarabia. Their skirmishers began to emerge from under cover of the houses, and to approach the river, and then in a moment the three eighteen-pounders opened from the heights above us. This was the signal for a general advance. Our column likewise threw out its skirmishers, which, hastening towards the ford, were saluted by a sharp fire of musketry from the enemy's pickets, and from the garrison of the tête-de-pont. But the latter was speedily abandoned as our people pressed through the stream, and our artillery kept up an incessant discharge of round and grape shot upon it.

The French pickets were driven in, and our troops established on the opposite bank, with hardly any loss on our side, though those who crossed by Fontarabia were obliged to hold their firelocks and cartouch-boxes above their heads, to keep them dry; and the water beside the bridge reached considerably above the knee. The alarm had, however, been communicated to the columns in rear, which hastily formed upon the heights, and endeavoured, but in vain, to keep possession of Handaye. That village was carried in gallant style by a brigade of the fifth division; whilst the first, moving steadily along the road, dislodged from their post the garrison of the hills which commanded it, and crowned the heights almost without opposition. A general panic seemed to have seized the enemy. Instead of charging us, as we moved forward in column, they fired their pieces, and fled without pausing to reload them; nor was anything like a determined stand attempted, till all their works had fallen into our hands, and much of their artillery was taken. It was one of the most perfect and yet extraordinary surprises I ever saw!

There were not, however, wanting many brave fellows among the French officers, who exerted themselves to rally their terrified comrades, and to restore the battle. Among these I remarked one in particular. He was on horseback; and, riding among a flying battalion, he used every means, both of threat and entreaty, to stop them; and he succeeded. The battalion paused, its example was followed by others, and in five minutes a well-formed line occupied what looked like the last of a range of green hills, on the other side of a valley into which we were descending.

This sudden movement on the part of the enemy was met by a corresponding formation on ours; we wheeled into line and advanced. Not a word was spoken, nor a shot fired, till our troops had reached about half-way across the little hollow, when the French, raising one of their discordant yells—a sort of shout, in which every man halloos for himself, without regard to the tone or time of those about him—fired a volley. It was well directed, and did considerable execution; but it checked not our approach for a moment. Our men replied to it with a hearty British cheer, and, giving them back their fire, rushed on to the charge.

In this they were met with great spirit by the enemy. I remarked the same individual who had first stopped their flight ride along the front of his men, and animate them to their duty; nor was it without considerable difficulty, and after having exchanged with them several volleys, that we succeeded in getting within charging distance. Then, indeed, another cheer was given, and the French, without waiting for the rush, once more broke their ranks and fled. Their leader was still as active as before. He rode among the men, reproached, exhorted, and even struck those near him with his sword; and it seemed as if he were about once more to rally them, when he fell. In an instant, however, he rose again, and mounted another horse; but he had hardly done so when a ball took effect in his neck, and he dropped dead. The fall of that man decided the day upon the heights of Handaye. The French troops lost all order and discipline, and making their way to the rear, each by himself as he best could, they left us in undisputed possession of the field.

Meanwhile, on the right of our army, and the extreme left of the enemy, a much more determined struggle was going forward. There Soult had added to the natural strength of his position by throwing up redoubts and batteries upon every commanding point; and hence it was not without suffering considerable loss that the light division succeeded in turning it. All attempts, indeed, to carry the Hermitage failed, though they were renewed with the most daring resolution till a late hour in the night. But of the operations of the army in these quarters I could see nothing, and therefore I will not attempt to describe them.

The day was far spent when our troops, wearied as much with the pursuit as with fighting, were commanded to halt, and to lie down in brigades and divisions along the heights which the enemy had abandoned. With us all became in a short time perfectly quiet; but the roar of musketry and the thunder of cannon still sounded on our right. As the darkness set in, too, the flashes became every moment more and more conspicuous, and produced, on account of the great unevenness of the ground, a remarkably beautiful effect. Repeated assaults being still made upon the Hermitage rock, the whole side of that conical hill seemed in a blaze; whilst every valley and eminence around it sparkled from time to time like the hills and valleys of a tropical climate when the fire-flies are out in millions. Nor were other and stronger lights wanting. Our troops, in the hurry of the battle, had set fire to the huts of the French soldiers, which now burst forth, and cast a strong glare over the entire extent of the field. On the whole, it was a glorious scene, and tended much to keep up the degree of excitement which had pervaded our minds during the day.

Our loss—I mean the loss of the corps to which I was attached—chanced to be trifling. No particular companion, or intimate acquaintance, of mine at least, had fallen, consequently there was nothing to destroy the feeling of pure delight which the meanest individual in an army experiences when that army has triumphed; nor do I recollect many happier moments of my life than when I stretched myself this evening beside a fire, near my friend Grey, to chat over the occurrences of the day. The quartermaster coming up soon after with a supply of provisions and rum, added indeed not a little to my satisfaction; for the stock which I had provided in the morning was long ago disposed of among those who had been less provident; and my meal was followed by a sleep such as kings might envy, though the heavens were my canopy and the green turf was my bed.

CHAPTER VII.

About an hour after sunrise, on the following morning, the tents and baggage, which had been left on the Spanish side of the river, came up; and we were once more enabled to shelter ourselves against the inclemency of the weather. And it was well that their arrival was not longer deferred, for we had hardly time to pitch the former when a heavy storm of wind and rain began, which, lasting with little intermission during two entire days, rendered our situation the reverse of agreeable. The position which we occupied was, moreover, exceedingly exposed: our camp stretched along the ridge of a bleak hill, totally bare of wood; indeed, the only fuel within our reach consisted of furze, the green and prickly parts of which we chopped and gave as forage to our horses, whilst the stems and smaller branches supplied us with very indifferent material for our fires.

The left column of the army had not long established itself in France ere crowds of sutlers, and other camp-followers, began to pour in. These persons, taking possession of such of the enemy's huts as had escaped the violence of our soldiers, opened their shops in due form along the highroad, and soon gave to the spot which they occupied the appearance of a settled village during the season of a fair, when booths and caravans of wild beasts crowd its little street. This village became, before long, a favourite resort of the idle, and of such as still retained a few dollars in their purses; and many were the bottles of nominal brown stout which, night after night, were consumed at the sign of the "Jolly Soldier."

I hardly recollect any period of my active life more devoid of interesting occurrences than that which intervened between the crossing of the Spanish border and the advance of the army towards Bayonne. We continued on the heights of Handaye from the 8th of October till the 9th of November, during the greater part of which time the weather was very inclement—cold showers of rain unceasingly falling, and tremendous gusts of wind prevailing. Indeed, we began to fear at last that nothing more would be done this season, and that we should either fall back to the towns of Irun and Fontarabia, or spend the winter under canvas. That we were wantonly kept here, no one imagined: on the contrary, we were quite aware that nothing but the protracted defence of Pampeluna hindered our advance; and joyful was the news which at length reached us that that important city had surrendered.

Of course I did not confine myself to my tent, or within the hounds of the camp, all this while. I shot and fished as usual; made excursions to the rear and to the front, as the humour directed; and adopted every ordinary expedient to kill time. On these occasions adventures were not always wanting, though they were, for the most part, such as would excite little interest were they repeated. But one I recollect which deserves narration more, perhaps, than the others, and that I will detail.

During the time that the British army occupied its position along the Spanish bank of the Bidassoa a vast number of desertions took place. As this was an event which had but rarely occurred before, many opinions were hazarded as to its cause. For my own part, I attributed it entirely to the operation of superstitious terror on the minds of the men, and for this reason: It is the usual custom, in planting sentinels in the immediate presence of an enemy, to station them in pairs, so that one may patrol as far as the next post while the other remains steady on his ground. Perhaps, too, the wish of giving greater confidence to the men themselves may have some weight in dictating the arrangement; at all events, there can be no doubt of the fact, and that much increased confidence does arise from it. Such, however, was the nature of the ground covered by our pickets among the Pyrenees, that in many places there was hardly room for a couple of sentinels to occupy a single post, and it was only at the mouths of the various passes that, for insuring the repose of the army, two were more desirable than one. Rugged as the country was, however, almost every foot of it had been contested; and the dead, falling among rocks and cliffs, were left in various instances, from necessity, unburied. It was exactly in those parts where the dead lay unburied that single sentinels were planted. That soldiers and sailors are often superstitious everybody knows; nor can it be pleasant for the strongest-minded among them to spend two or three hours of a stormy night beside a mangled and half-devoured carcass. Indeed, I have been myself more than once remonstrated with for desiring as brave a fellow as any in the corps to keep guard near one of his fallen comrades. "I don't care for living men," said the soldier; "but, for Godsake, sir, don't keep me beside him." And wherever I could yield to the remonstrance, I invariably did so. My own opinion, therefore, was, that many of our sentries became so unmanned by superstitious dread, that they could not keep their ground. They knew that if they returned to the picket a severe punishment awaited them; and hence they went over to the enemy rather than endure the pangs of a diseased imagination.

As a proof that my views were correct, it was remarked that the army had no sooner descended from the mountains, and taken up a position which required a chain of double sentinels to be renewed, than desertion in a great degree ceased. A few instances still occurred, as will always be the case where men of all tempers are brought together, as in an army; but they bore no proportion whatever to those which took place among the Pyrenees. With a view of stopping the practice entirely, an order was issued which prohibited the men from passing the advanced sentries, and assured all who might be caught on the neutral ground—that is, on the ground between the enemy's outposts and our own—that they should be arrested, brought back, and treated as deserters.

I had ridden towards the front one morning, for the purpose of visiting a friend in the fifth division, when I learned that three men had been seized a few days previously half-way between the two chains of posts, and that one of them had confessed that their intention was to desert. A court-martial was immediately ordered; the prisoners were condemned to be shot; and this was the day on which the sentence was to be carried into execution. I consequently found the division, on my arrival, getting under arms; and being informed of the circumstances, I determined, after a short struggle with my weaker feelings, to witness the proceeding.

It was altogether a most solemn and impressive spectacle. The soldiers took their stations and formed their ranks without speaking a word, and looked at one another with that peculiar expression which, without seeming to imply any doubt on their part of the perfect propriety of the measure, indicated sincere reluctance to become spectators of it. The same feeling evidently pervaded the minds of the officers; indeed, you could well-nigh perceive the sort of shudder which ran through the frames of all who were on parade.

The place appointed for the execution was a little elevated plain a few hundred yards in front of the camp, and near the picket from which the culprits had deserted. Hither the different battalions directed their steps; and the whole division being formed into three sides of a hollow square, the men "ordered" their arms, and stood still. At the vacant side of this square a grave was dug—the earth which had been excavated being piled up on its opposite bank; and this, as the event proved, was the spot to be occupied by the prisoners.

We had stood thus about five minutes, when the muffled drums of the corps to which the culprits belonged were heard beating the dead march; and they themselves, handcuffed and surrounded by their guards, made their appearance. One was a fine young fellow, tall and well made; another was a dark, thick-set, little man, about thirty years of age; and the third had nothing remarkable in his countenance except an expression of deep cunning and treachery. They all moved forward with considerable firmness, and took their stations on the mound, when, the word "Attention" being given, a staff-officer advanced into the centre of the square and read aloud the proceedings of the court. By these, sentence of death was passed upon all three; but the most villanous-looking among them was recommended to mercy, on the ground that he had added treachery to his other crimes.

As soon as the reading was finished, the prisoners were commanded to kneel down upon the ground, and a handkerchief was tied over the eyes of each. During the progress of this operation I looked round—not so much from curiosity as to give a momentary relief to my own excited feelings—upon the countenances of the soldiers. They were, one and all of them, deadly pale; indeed, the teeth of many were set close together, and their breathing seemed to be repressed. It was altogether a most harrowing moment.

The eyes of the prisoners being tied up, the guard was withdrawn from about them, and took post perhaps ten yards in their front. As soon as this was done, the same staff-officer who had read the proceedings of the trial, calling to the informer by name, ordered him to rise, for that the commander of the forces had attended to the recommendation of his judges, and spared his life. But the poor wretch paid no attention to the order; I question, indeed, whether he heard it; for he knelt there as if rooted to the spot, till a file of men removed him in a state of apparent stupor. What the feelings of his companions in crime must have been at this moment I know not; but their miseries were of short duration; for, a signal being given, about sixteen soldiers fired, and they were instantly numbered with the dead. The little man, I observed, sprang into the air when he received his wounds; the other fell flat upon his face; but neither gave the slightest sign of vitality afterwards.

The discharge of the muskets in the faces of the culprits was followed by a sound as if every man in the division had been stifled for the last five minutes, and now at length drew in his breath. It was not a groan, nor a sigh, but a sob, like that which you unconsciously utter after dipping your head under water. And now all excitement was at an end. The men were dead; they died by musket-shots; and these were occurrences, viewing them in the abstract, by far too common to be much regarded. But in order to give to the execution its full effect, the division formed into open column of companies and marched round the grave, on the brink of which the bodies lay; after which each corps filed off to its tents, and, long before dark, the scene of the morning was forgotten. Not but that it produced a good effect by checking the prevalence of the offence of which it was the punishment; but pity soon died away, and every feeling of disgust, if, indeed, any such had at all arisen, was obliterated. The bodies were thrown into the hole and covered up, and I returned to my tent to muse upon what I had seen.

I have stated that on the 3d of November intelligence of the fall of Pampeluna reached us. From that day we began to calculate in earnest upon a speedy renewal of operations, and to speculate upon the probable extent of our progress ere a new halt should be ordered, or the troops placed in quarters for the winter. But so much rain had fallen during the preceding fortnight that the cross-roads were wholly impassable; and, what was worse, there appeared no promise of a change in the weather.

I had the honour to be personally acquainted with the distinguished officer whose unlooked-for death in 1823 caused so great a sensation of sorrow throughout Scotland—I mean the Earl of Hopetoun, at that period Sir John Hope. Sir John had lately joined the army, relieving Sir Thomas Graham in the guidance of the left column, and taking rank as second in command under Lord Wellington. Whilst our division occupied the heights of Handaye, I spent several agreeable evenings in his company; the particulars attending one of which, as they had at the time a more than ordinary degree of interest in them, I shall take the liberty to repeat.

On the 7th of November I dined with the General. We sat down to table about six o'clock, and were beginning to experience as much satisfaction as good cheer and pleasant company can produce, when an orderly dragoon rode into the courtyard of the house. He was immediately admitted; and being ushered into the room where we sat, he handed a sealed packet to our host. Sir John opened it, glanced his eye over its contents, put it into his pocket, and motioning to the orderly to withdraw, renewed the conversation which had been interrupted. Though more than half suspicious that the packet contained intelligence of importance, we—I mean the General's guests and staff—soon returned to our former lively chat, when the clattering of another horse's hoofs was heard, and Colonel Delaney entered. He was accompanied by an officer of the corps of guides; and requesting permission to hold a few minutes private conversation with Sir John Hope, they all three retired together.

"We shall have something to do before twenty-four hours pass," said one of the aides-de-camp; "Delaney always brings warlike communications with him." "So much the better," was the general reply. "Let us drink to our host, and success to to-morrow's operations." The toast was hardly finished when Sir John returned, bringing with him only the officer of the corps of guides—Delaney was gone; but of the purport of the communication not a hint was dropped, and the evening passed on as if no such communication had been made.

About nine o'clock our party broke up, and we were wishing our friends good night, when a French officer, who had deserted, was brought in. He was civilly, but very coolly received. He had little information to give, except that a batch of conscripts had lately joined the army, most of whom were either old men or boys—so thoroughly was the youth of France by this time wasted, through a continuance of wars. We who were guests stayed not, however, to hear him out, but, mounting our horses, returned each to his tent.

On reaching the camp of my own corps, I found—as, indeed, I had expected to do—that the order for an attack was issued, and that the brigade was to be under arms by four o'clock next morning. Once more, therefore, I made up my mind for the worst; and having instructed my friend as to the manner in which I wished my little property to be disposed of—having assigned my sword to one, my pelisse to another, and my faithful dog to a third—I was, if you please, enthusiast enough to recommend my soul to the mercy of its Creator, and then lay down. For a while Grey and myself chatted, as men of any reflection so situated are wont to chat. We agreed, as indeed we always did on such occasions, each to act as executor to the other, and having cordially shaken hands, lest an opportunity of so doing should not occur again, we fell fast asleep.

I had slept, perhaps, an hour and a half, when I was awoke by the voice of the orderly sergeant, who came to inform us that the movement of the army was countermanded. I will not say whether the intelligence was received as acceptable or the reverse; indeed, I question whether we ourselves knew at the moment whether we were relieved by the reprieve or the contrary. One thing, however, is certain, that we did not sleep the less soundly from knowing that at least to-morrow was secured to us, to be passed in a state of vigour and vitality, though perfectly aware that the peril of a battle must be encountered before long; and hence that it was really a matter of very little moment whether it should take place now or a few days hence.

On mustering next morning upon the parade-ground, we learned that our intended operations were impeded only by the very bad state of the by-ways. Though the rain had ceased for some days past, such was the quantity which had fallen that no artillery could, as yet, move in any other direction than along the main road. The continuance of dry weather for eight-and-forty hours would, however, it was calculated, remove this obstacle to our advance; and hence every man felt that he had but a couple of days to count upon. By good fortune, these days continued clear and serene, and the justice of our calculations was in due time evinced.

CHAPTER VIII.

The 8th and 9th of November passed over without any event occurring worthy of recital. On the former of these days, indeed, we had the satisfaction to see a French gun-brig destroyed by one of our light cruisers, a small schooner, off the harbour of St Jean de Luz. She had lain there, as it appeared, for some time, and, apprehensive of falling into our hands, had ventured on that day to put to sea; but, being observed by a brig, and the schooner above alluded to, she was immediately followed, and after an action of nearly an hour's continuance, she blew up. Whether her crew had abandoned her previous to the explosion I had no means of ascertaining.

Meanwhile, among ourselves, and throughout the different divisions contiguous to us, a silence like that of a calm before a storm prevailed. Each man looked as if he knew that an attack was impending, though few conjectures were hazarded touching the precise moment of its occurrence. On the evening of the 9th, however, all doubt was at length removed. We were assembled at parade, or rather the parade was dismissed, but, the band continuing to play, the officers were waiting in groups about the colonel's tent, when an aide-de-camp riding up informed us that the army was to advance upon the morrow. The battalion to which I belonged was appointed to carry the village of Urogne—a place containing perhaps a hundred houses and a church; and we were to take post for the purpose an hour before daybreak on the highroad, close to the advanced sentinels. Of the disposition of other corps we knew nothing.

As soon as the aide-de-camp departed, we began, as people so circumstanced generally do, to discuss the propriety of our general's arrangements. On the present occasion we were more than usually convinced of the sagacity and profound skill of the noble lord. Our corps had been selected, in preference to many others, for a service, perilous, it is true, but therefore honourable. This showed that he knew at least on whom he could depend; and we, of course, were determined to prove that his confidence had not been misplaced.

Having passed an hour or two in this manner, we departed each to his own tent, in order to make the necessary preparations for the morrow. These were soon completed. Our baggage was packed; our horses and mules, which, for the sake of shelter, had been kept during the last ten days at certain houses in the rear, were called in; and provisions enough for one day's consumption put into a haversack. With this and our cloaks we directed a Portuguese lad, a servant of Grey, to follow the battalion upon a little pony, which we kept chiefly for such uses; and finally, having renewed our directions, the one to the other, respecting the conduct of the survivor in case either of us should fall, we lay down.

It was quite dark when I arose. Our fires had all burned out; there was no moon in the heavens, and the stars were in a great measure obscured by clouds; but we took our places instinctively, and in profound silence. On these occasions I have been always struck with the great coolness of the women. You seldom hear an expression of alarm escape them; indeed they become, probably from habit, and from the example of others, to the full as indifferent to danger as their husbands. I fear, too, that the sort of life which they lead, after they have for any length of time followed an army in the field, sadly unsexes them (if I may be permitted to coin such a word for their benefit); at least I recollect but one instance in which any symptoms of real sorrow were shown even by those whom the fate of a battle had rendered widows. Sixty women only being permitted to accompany a battalion, they are, of course, perfectly sure of getting as many husbands as they may choose; and hence few widows of soldiers continue in a state of widowhood for any unreasonable length of time; so far, indeed, they are a highly-favoured class of female society.

The column being formed, and the tents and baggage so disposed as that, in case of a reverse, they might be carried to the rear without confusion or delay, the word was given to move on. As our route lay over ground extremely uneven, we moved for a while slowly and with caution, till, having gained the highroad, we were enabled to quicken our pace. We proceeded thus, perhaps, about a mile, when the watch-fire of a German picket was seen. Then the order to halt being passed quietly from rank to rank, we ordered arms, and sat down upon the green banks by the roadside. Here we were directed to remain till there should be light enough to make surrounding objects clear, and a gun somewhere to the left of us should give the signal of attack.

Men are very differently affected at different times, even though the situations in which they may be cast bear a strong affinity to one another. On the present occasion, for example, I perfectly recollect that hardly any feeling of seriousness pervaded my own mind, nor, if I might judge from appearances, the minds of those around me. Much conversation, on the contrary, passed among us in whispers, but it was all of as light a character as if the business in which we were about to engage were mere amusement, and not that kind of play in which men stake their lives. Anxiety and restlessness, indeed, universally prevailed. We looked to the east, and watched the gradual approach of dawn; but it was with that degree of interest which sportsmen feel on the morning of the twelfth of August—or rather, perhaps, like that of a child in a box at Covent Garden, when it expects every moment to see the stage curtain lifted. We were exceedingly anxious to begin the fray, but we were quite confident of success.

In the meanwhile, such dispositions were made as the circumstances of the case appeared to require. Three companies, consisting of about a hundred and fifty men, were detached, under the command of a field-officer, a little to the right and left of the road, for the purpose of surprising, if possible, two of the enemy's pickets. The remaining seven, forming into column as day broke, extended their front so as to cover the whole breadth of the road, and made ready to rush at once, in what is called "double quick," upon the village. That it was strongly barricaded and filled with French infantry we were aware; but, by making our first attack a rapid one, we calculated on reaching the barricade before the enemy should have time to do us much damage by their fire.

We stood, perhaps, half an hour after these dispositions were effected before the signal was given, the dawn gradually brightening over the whole face of the sky. Now we could observe that we had diverged in some degree from the main road, and occupied with our little column a lane hemmed in on both sides by high hedges; presently we were able to remark that the lane again united itself with the road about a hundred yards in front of us; then the church and houses of the village began to show through the darkness like rocks or mounds; by-and-by the stubble-fields immediately around could be distinguished from green meadows; then the hedgerows which separated one field from another became visible. And now the signal-gun was fired. It was immediately answered by a couple of nine-pounders, which were stationed in a field adjoining to the lane where we stood; and the battle began.

The three detached companies did their best to surprise the French pickets, but without success, the French troops being too watchful to be easily taken. They drove them in, however, in gallant style; and the little column, according to the preconcerted plan, pressed forward. Meanwhile the houses and barricade of Urogne were thronged with defenders, who saluted us, as we approached, with a sharp discharge of musketry. The bullets whistled round us, but with less effect than might have been expected. A few men and one officer fell, the latter being shot through the heart. He uttered but a single word—the name of his favourite comrade—and expired. On our part we had no time for firing, but rushed on to the charge; whilst the nine-pounders already alluded to cleared the barricade with grape and canister. In two minutes we had reached its base; in an instant more we were on the top of it; when the enemy, as if panic-struck at the celerity of our movements, abandoned their defences and fled. We followed them through the street of the place, as far as its extremity; but having been previously directed to proceed no farther, we halted there, and they escaped to the high grounds beyond.

The position now attacked in front of St Jean de Luz was one of which Lord Wellington himself has said that he never beheld anything more formidable. It extended for about three miles along the ridge of a rising ground, the ascent of which was for the most part covered with thick wood and intersected by deep ditches. These natural defences Marshal Soult had strengthened with redoubts, open batteries, and breastworks; the completion of which was begun prior to our passage of the Bidassoa, and finished during our compulsory halt on the heights above Handaye. Towards our left, indeed—that is, towards the right of the enemy, and in the direction of the village which we had just carried—the works in question presented so commanding an appearance that our gallant leader deemed it unwise to attempt any serious impression there; and hence, having possessed ourselves of Urogne, we were directed to attempt nothing more than to keep it at all hazards, and to make, from time to time, a demonstration of advancing. This was done in order to deter Soult from detaching any of this corps to the assistance of his left, which it was the object of Lord Wellington to overwhelm, and which, after twelve hours of severe fighting, he succeeded in turning.

As soon as we had cleared the place of its defenders, we set about intrenching ourselves, in case any attempt should be made to retake the village. For this purpose we tore up the barricade erected by the French, consisting of casks filled with earth, manure, and rubbish, and rolling them down to the other end of the town, soon threw up a parapet for our defence. The enemy, meanwhile, began to collect a dense mass of infantry upon the brow of the hill opposite, and turning a battery of three pieces of cannon upon us, they swept the street with round-shot. These whizzing along, caused the walls and roofs of the houses to crumble; but neither the shot, nor the shells, which from time to time burst about us, did any considerable execution. By avoiding conspicuous places, we managed to keep well out of reach; and hence the chief injury done by the cannonade fell upon the proprietors of houses.

We found in the village a good store of brown bread and several casks of brandy. The latter were instantly knocked on the head and the spirits poured out into the street, as the best means of hindering our men from getting drunk; but the former was divided amongst us; and even the black bread issued to the French soldiers proved a treat to us, who had tasted nothing except biscuits, and these none of the most fresh, for the last three months. We were not, however, allowed much time to regale ourselves.

It was now about eleven o'clock, and the enemy had as yet made no attack upon us. We could perceive, indeed, from the glancing of bayonets through the wood in front, that troops were there mustering; and as the country was well adapted for skirmishing, being a good deal intersected with ditches, hedges, and hollow ways, it was deemed prudent to send out three or four companies to watch their movements. Among the companies thus sent out was that to which I belonged. We took a direction to the left of the village, and, being noticed by the enemy's artillery, were saluted with a shower of round-shot and shell. Just at this moment a tumbril or ammunition-waggon coming up, a shell from a French mortar fell upon it. It exploded, and two unfortunate artillery drivers who chanced to be sitting upon it were hurled into the air. I looked at them a moment after they fell. One was quite dead, and dreadfully mangled; the other was as black as a coal, but he was alive, and groaned heavily. He lifted his head as we passed, and wished us success. What became of him afterwards I know not, but there appeared little chance of his recovery.

Having gained a hollow road somewhat in advance of the village, we found ourselves in connection with a line of skirmishers thrown out by Colonel Halket from his corps of light Germans, and in some degree sheltered from the cannonade. But our repose was not of long continuance. The enemy having collected a large force of tirailleurs, came on with loud shouts, and every show of determination. His object seemed to be to catch us in the hollow way, where, because of the height and steepness of the bank, we should have been at his mercy. The word was therefore passed to move out and meet him, whereupon we clambered up the face of the acclivity and dashed forward.

It would be hard to conceive a more animating military spectacle than met the eye that day, as it moved to the right and left, tracing the British line. For the benefit of my more peaceable readers, I may as well mention that troops sent out to skirmish advance or retire in files; each file, or pair of men, keeping about five yards from the files on both sides of them. On the present occasion our line of skirmishers extended about a mile in both directions, all spread out in a sort of irregular order, and all firing independently of one another, as the opportunity of a good aim presented itself. On the side of the French, on the contrary, all was apparent confusion. Yet the French tirailleurs are by no means in disorder when they appear so. They are admirable skirmishers; and they gave our people this day a good deal of employment before they again betook themselves to the heights. They did not, however, succeed, as I suspect was their design, in drawing us so far from the village as to expose us to the fire of their masked batteries; but having followed them across a few fields only, we once more returned to our hollow road.

It was evident, from the numerous solid bodies of troops which kept their ground along the enemy's front, that the plan of Lord Wellington had been successful; and that no force had been sent from the right of Soult's army to the assistance of his left. The continuous roar of musketry and cannon which was kept up in that direction proved, at the same time, that a more serious struggle was going on there than any to which we were exposed. It was no rapid but intermitting rattle, like that which we and our opponents from time to time produced; but an unceasing volley, as if men were able to fire without loading, or took no time to load. At length Soult appeared to have discovered that he had little to dread upon his right. About three o'clock we could observe a heavy column beginning its march to the left; and at the same instant, as if to cover the movement, the enemy's skirmishers again advanced. Again we met them, as we had done before, and again drove them in; when, instead of falling back to the hollow way, we lay down behind a hedge, midway between the village and the base of their position. From this they made several attempts to dislodge us, but without effect; and here we remained till the approach of darkness put an end to the battle.

The sun had set about an hour when the troops in advance were everywhere recalled, and I and my companions returned to the village. Upon it we found that the enemy still kept up an occasional fire of cannon; and hence that the houses, which were extremely thin, furnished no sufficient shelter for the troops. It was accordingly determined to lodge the corps that night in the church; at the door of which, to our great satisfaction, my friend and I found that our Portuguese servant was waiting for us. The sumpter-pony was soon unladen; and provisions and grog being at the same time served out to the men, the graver business of the day was succeeded by universal jollity and mirth.

The spectacle which the interior of the church of Urogne presented that night was one which the pious founder of the fabric probably never contemplated. Along the two side aisles the arms of the battalion were piled, the men themselves occupying the centre aisle. In the pulpit were placed the big drum and other musical instruments, a party of officers taking possession of a gallery erected at the lower extremity of the building. For our own parts, Grey and myself asserted a claim to the space round the altar, which in an English church is generally railed in, but which in foreign churches is distinguished from the rest of the chancel only by its elevation. Here we spread out our cold salt beef, our brown bread, our cheese, and our wine; and here we ate and drank in that state of excited feeling which attends every man who has gone safely through the perils of such a day.

Nor was the wild nature of the spectacle around us diminished by the gloomy and wavering light which thirty or forty small rosin tapers cast over it. Of these, two or three stood beside us upon the altar. The rest were scattered about by ones and twos in different places, leaving every interval in a sort of shade, which gave a wider scope to the imagination than to the senses. The buzz of conversation, too, the frequent laugh and joke, and, by-and-by, the song, as the grog began to circulate, all these combined to produce a scene too striking to be soon forgotten.

As time passed on, all these sounds became more and more faint. The men, wearied with their day's work, dropped asleep one after another; and I, having watched them for a while, stretched out like so many corpses upon the paved floor of the church, wrapped my cloak round me, and prepared to follow their example. I laid myself at the foot of the altar; and though the marble was not more soft than marble usually is, I slept as soundly upon it as if it had been a bed of down.

CHAPTER IX.

We had slept about four or five hours, and the short hours of the morning were beginning to be lengthened, when our slumbers were disturbed by the arrival of a messenger from the advanced pickets, who came to inform us that the enemy were moving. As we had lain down in our clothes, with all our accoutrements on, we were under arms and in column in five seconds. It was not, however, deemed necessary that any immediate advance on our part should be attempted. We remained, on the contrary, quiet in the church; but, standing in our ranks, we were perfectly ready to march to any quarter where the sound of firing might bespeak our presence necessary.

We had stood thus about half an hour, when a second messenger from the outposts came in, from whom we learned that a blue-light had been thrown up within the enemy's lines, and that their fires were all freshly trimmed. "Is it so?" said some of our oldest veterans; "then there will be no work for us to-day—they are retreating:" and so, sure enough, it proved. As soon as dawn began to appear, a patrol was sent forward, which returned immediately to state that not a vestige of the French army was to be found. Their outposts and sentries were withdrawn, their baggage was all gone, and the whole of the right wing had disappeared. The truth was, as soon became apparent, that Lord Wellington's plan of attack had succeeded at every point. The enemy's left was turned. His redoubts, after some hard fighting, were taken; and our people getting into his rear, left to Marshal Soult no alternative except retreat. On his right, as I have already explained, no serious impression could be made. There his position defied us. But our feint deceived him into the hope that we might knock our heads against a wall; and he delayed too long sending to the quarter where real danger threatened the reinforcements that were needed. They arrived in time to see that their vantage-ground was lost; and both right and left withdrew, quietly and in good order, as soon as darkness set in.

The intelligence of the enemy's retreat was received with infinite satisfaction. Not that there was the smallest disinclination on our part to renew the battle; but the battle being won, there remained for us the rapture of the chase, than which, in the operations of war, there is nothing more exciting. Very properly, however, the men received orders to strengthen themselves against contingencies by eating, before they began their march. This they did in the little square or place whither the battalion was moved out of the church, and round their piled arms—their breakfast, like our own, consisting of such scraps of bread and meat as remained from the supper of the previous evening.

While others were thus employed, I went, with two or three officers, to visit the spot where we had deposited such of our messmates as fell in the battle of yesterday. It is not often that a soldier is so fortunate—if indeed the circumstance be worth a wise man's regard—as to be laid to his rest in consecrated ground. Our gallant comrades enjoyed that privilege on the present occasion. The soldiers had collected them from the various spots where they lay, and brought them in, with a sort of pious respect, to the churchyard. Here they dug a grave—one grave, it is true, for more than one body; but what boots it?—and here they entombed them, carefully tearing up the green sod, and carefully replacing it upon the hillock. For my own part, I had little time to do more than wish rest to their souls; for the corps was already in motion, and in five minutes we were in the line of march.

It was dark when the movement began, consequently objects could not be distinguished at any considerable distance; but the farther we proceeded, the more strongly the day dawned upon us. Having cleared the village, we came to a bridge thrown across a little brook, for the possession of which a good deal of fighting had taken place towards evening on the previous day. Here we found several French soldiers lying dead, as well as one of our own men, who had ventured too far in pursuit. A little way beyond the bridge, and to the left of the road, stood a neat chateau of some size. This our advanced party was ordered to search; and as I chanced to be in command of the detachment, the office of conducting the search devolved upon me.

I found the house furnished after the French fashion, and the furniture in a state of perfect preservation; nor did I permit the slightest injury to be done to it by my men. The only article, indeed, which I was guilty of plundering, was a grammar of the Spanish language, thus entitled—"Grammaire et Dictionnaire François et Espagnol—Nouvellement Revû, Corrigé et Augmenté par Monsieur de Maunory: Suivant l'Usage de la Cour d'Espagne." Upon one of the boards is written—Appartient a Lassalle Briguette, Lassallee. The book is still in my possession; and as our countries are now at peace, I take this opportunity of informing Mr Briguette that I am quite ready to restore to him his property, provided he will favour me with his address.

The room from which I took the volume just alluded to was the library, and by no means badly stored with books. There was not, however, much time to decipher the title-pages; for, independently of the necessity under which we lay of pushing forward as soon as we had ascertained that none of the enemy were secreted here, my attention was attracted by a mass of letters scattered over the floor. The reader may judge of my surprise, when, on lifting one to examine its contents, I found it to be in the handwriting of my own father, and addressed to myself. It was of a later date, too, than any communication which I had received from home; and beside it were lying about twenty others, directed to different officers in the same division with myself. This let me into a secret. The house in which I now stood had been the official headquarters of Marshal Soult. A courier, who was bringing letters from Lord Wellington's headquarters, had been cut off by a patrol of the enemy's cavalry; and hence all our epistles, including sundry billets-doux from fair maidens at home, had been subjected to the scrutiny of the French marshal and his staff.

Leaving other epistles to their fate, I put my own in my pocket, and, stuffing my volume of plunder into my bosom, pushed on. About a hundred yards in rear of the chateau we arrived at the first line of works, consisting of a battery for two guns, with a deep trench in front of it. It was flanked both on the right and left by farmhouses, with a good deal of plantation, and a couple of garden walls, and would have cost our people no inconsiderable loss had we been foolhardy enough to attack it. It was erected just upon the commencement of the rising ground. On passing it we found ourselves at the ascent of a bare hill, about the altitude, perhaps, of Shooter's Hill, and not dissimilar in general appearance, the summit of which was covered by three redoubts, connected, the one with the other, by two open batteries. As we gazed at these, we could not but remark to ourselves how painful must have been the feelings of the French general when compelled to abandon them; and we, of course, paid the compliments which were his due to our own leader, by whose judicious management the labours of months were rendered profitless to such an adversary.

We had just cleared the intrenchments when a cry arose from the rear, "Make way for the cavalry!" Our men, accordingly, inclined to the right of the road, when the 12th and 16th light dragoons rode past at a quick trot, sending out half a troop before them to feel their way. The object of this movement, as we afterwards found, was to hinder, if possible, the destruction of the bridge at St Jean de Luz; but the attempt succeeded only in part, the enemy having already set fire to their train.

"Push on, push on," was now the word. We accordingly quickened our pace, and reached St Jean de Luz about nine o'clock; but we were too late to secure a passage of the Nivelle, the bridge being already in ruins. Our cavalry had reached it only in time to see the mine exploded, which the French troops had dug in its centre arch; and hence a halt became necessary till the chasm thus created should be filled up. The effect was remarkably striking; the whole of the first and fifth divisions, with the King's German legion, several brigades of Portuguese, and two divisions of Spanish troops, came pouring up, till the southern suburb of St Jean de Luz was filled with armed men, to the number of perhaps twenty or thirty thousand.

It is probably needless for me to say that we found St Jean de Luz for the most part abandoned by its inhabitants. Here and there, indeed, a few faces were protruded from windows and balconies, and feeble cries of Vivent les Anglois! and the waving of threescore or so of handkerchiefs, greeted our progress. But the persons so conducting themselves belonged exclusively to the lower orders, for the gentry and municipality were gone. It is just to add, however, that in the course of a very few days both the gentry and municipal authorities returned, and that they, and indeed all the inhabitants of the place, were not only protected from insult and wrong, but encouraged to resume, as they did, their usual occupations.

While the column halted till the bridge should be so far repaired as to permit the infantry to cross, I happened to stray a little from the main street, and beheld, in a lane which ran parallel with the river, a spectacle exceedingly shocking. I saw no fewer than fifty-three donkeys standing with the sinews of the hinder legs cut through. On inquiring from an inhabitant the cause of this, he told me that these poor brutes, being overloaded with the baggage of the French army, had knocked up; when the soldiers, rather than suffer them to fall into our hands in a serviceable condition, hamstrung them all. Why they were not merciful enough to shoot them, I know not; unless, indeed, they were apprehensive of causing an alarm among us by the report. But what their caution hindered we performed: the poor creatures were all shot dead ere we advanced.

The town of St Jean de Luz covers about as much ground, and, I should imagine, contains about as many inhabitants, as Carlisle or Canterbury. It is divided into two parts by the river Nivelle, which falls into the sea about a couple or three miles below, at a village, or rather port, called Secoa. Like other French towns of its size, St Jean de Luz is not remarkable for its air of neatness; but there are in it a good market-place, two or three churches, and a theatre. The Nivelle, where it flows through the city, may be about the width of the Eden or the Isis. It is rendered passable, and the two quarters of the city are connected, by a stone bridge of three arches—beside which, the stream itself is fordable, both for cavalry and infantry, at low water. When we came in this morning the tide was up, but it had been for some time on the turn; and hence, in about a couple of hours, we were perfectly independent of the repairs. By this time, however, the broken arch had been united by means of planks and beams of wood; but as the junction was none of the most firm, it was deemed prudent to send the troopers through the water, the infantry only crossing by the bridge. Along with the cavalry was sent the artillery also; and thus, by noon on the 11th of November, the whole of the left column had passed the Nivelle.

We had hardly quitted St Jean de Luz when the weather, which during the entire morning had looked suspicious, broke, and a cold heavy rain began to fall. This lasted without any intermission till dark, by which means our march became the reverse of agreeable; and we felt as if we would have given the enemy a safe-conduct as far as Bayonne, in return for permission to halt and dry ourselves before a fire. But of halting no hint was dropped; nor was it till our advanced-guard came up with the rear of the French army, posted in the village of Bidart, and along the heights adjoining, that any check was given to our progress. As it was now late, the sun having set and twilight coming on, it was not judged expedient to dislodge the enemy till morning; in consequence of which our troops were commanded to halt. But there was no cover for them. Only a few cottages stood near the road, and the tents were at least fourteen miles in the rear; the night was accordingly spent by most of us on the wet ground.

From the moment that the rain began to fall we remarked that the Spanish, and in some instances the Portuguese troops, setting the commands of their officers at defiance, left their ranks, and scattered themselves over the face of the country. While this was going on, I have good reason to believe that several horrible crimes were perpetrated. Of the French peasants, many, trusting to our proclamations, remained quietly in their houses; these were, in too many instances, plundered and cruelly treated by the marauders, who were, I suspect, urged on to the commission of numerous atrocities by a feeling far more powerful than the desire of plunder. A strong and overwhelming thirst of vengeance drew, I am convinced, many to the perpetration of terrible deeds; indeed, one case of the kind came under my own immediate notice, which I shall here relate.

About three o'clock in the afternoon, a temporary check took place in the line of march, when the corps to which I belonged was about two miles distant from Bidart. A brigade of cavalry alone was in front of us. A Portuguese brigade, including one regiment of caçadores, was in our rear. We stood still in our places; but the caçadore regiment, breaking its ranks, rushed in a tumultuous manner towards two or three cottages on the left of the road. The officers, with the utmost difficulty, recalled them; but a few individuals, as the event proved, succeeded in their effort of insubordination. These, however, were not noticed at the time, and it was thought that all were where they ought to be.

A little way, perhaps a couple of hundred yards, in front, stood another French cottage, surrounded by a garden, and detached from all others. In about five minutes after order had been restored, we heard a female shriek come from that cottage. It was followed by the report of a musket; and ere we had time to reach the spot, another shot was fired. We ran up and found a poor old French peasant lying dead at the bottom of the garden. A bullet had passed through his head, and his thin grey hairs were dyed with his own blood. We hastened towards the house; and just as we neared the door, a caçadore rushed out, and attempted to elude us. But he was hotly pursued and taken. When he was brought back, we entered the cottage, and, to our horror, we saw an old woman, in all probability the wife of the aged peasant, lying dead in the kitchen.

The desperate Portuguese did not deny having perpetrated these murders. He seemed, on the contrary, wound up to a pitch of frenzy. "They murdered my father, they cut my mother's throat, and they ravished my sister," said he; "and I vowed at the time that I would put to death the first French family that fell into my hands. You may hang me, if you will, but I have kept my oath, and I don't care for dying." It is unnecessary to add that the man was hanged; indeed, not fewer than eighteen Spanish and Portuguese soldiers were tucked up, in the course of this and the following days, to the branches of trees. But I could not at the time avoid thinking that if any shadow of excuse for murder can be framed, the unfortunate Portuguese who butchered this French family deserves the benefit of it.

I have said that the greater part of the left column spent this night in no very comfortable plight, upon the wet ground. For ourselves, we were moved into what had once been a grass field, just at the base of the hill of Bidart, but which, with the tread of men's feet and horses' hoofs, was now battered into mud. Here, with the utmost difficulty, we succeeded in lighting fires, round which we crowded as we best might. But the rain still came down in torrents; and though our lad arrived shortly after with the cloaks, and rations of beef and biscuit and rum were served out to us, I cannot enumerate this among the nights of pure enjoyment which my life as a soldier has frequently brought in my way.

CHAPTER X.

When I awoke next morning, I found myself lying in a perfect puddle beside the decaying embers of a fire. The rain had come down so incessantly and with such violence during the night, that my cloak, though excellent of its kind, stood not out against it, and I was now as thoroughly saturated with water as if I had been dragged through the Nivelle. Of course my sensations were not of a very pleasant nature; but I considered that I was far from singular in my condition, and, like my comrades, I laughed at an evil for which there was no remedy.

Having remained under arms till day had fully dawned, we began to make ready for a further advance. When we lay down on the preceding evening, several brigades of French troops were in possession of Bidart. These we naturally laid our account with attacking; but on sending forward a patrol, it was found that the village had been abandoned, and that Soult had fallen back to his intrenched camp in front of Bayonne. Our parade was accordingly dismissed; and we remained in the same situation for about four hours, when the arrival of the tents and baggage invited us to make ourselves somewhat more comfortable. For this purpose the brigade was moved about a quarter of a mile to the left of the main road; and there, on a skirt of turf comparatively sound and unbroken, the camp was pitched.

In the immediate vicinity of the tents stood a small farmhouse, or rather a large cottage, containing three rooms and a kitchen. Thither a good many of the officers, and myself among the number, removed their canteens and portmanteaus, till no fewer than forty-five individuals, including servants as well as masters, found a temporary shelter under its roof. I am sure, after all, that I was not more comfortable there than I should have been in my tent; but I fancied that to sleep upon a bed once more, even though it was a French one, would prove a luxury; and I made the experiment. It is needless to add that the bed contained whole hordes of living occupants besides myself, and that I did not venture again to dispute with them the possession of their ancient domain.

From the 12th to the 17th November nothing occurred to myself, nor were any movements made by the left of the British army worthy of being related. The rain continued, with hardly any intermission, during the whole of that time, rendering the cross-roads utterly impassable for artillery, and holding out no prospect of fresh battles or fresh adventures. It was indeed manifest that the troops could not be kept much longer in the field without material injury to their health, which began already to be threatened with dysentery and ague. Nor is it surprising that the case should be so; for the tents were not proof against showers so heavy and incessant as fell, and canvas, when once completely soaked, allows water to pass through it like a sieve. The consequence was that our men were never dry, and many began to exhibit symptoms of the complaints above alluded to.

Under these circumstances, we received with sincere rejoicing an order in the evening of the 17th to strike our tents at dawn next morning, and to march into winter quarters. The rain descended, however, in such torrents, that though a temporary inconvenience promised to lead to permanent comfort, it was deemed prudent to delay fulfilling that order for at least some hours. We accordingly remained quiet till about one o'clock in the afternoon of the 18th, when, the weather breaking up, and the sun shining out, our camp was struck, and we turned our faces towards the cantonments which had been allotted to us.

Having cleared the few fields which intervened between the situation of the camp and the highroad, we left Bidart behind, and took a retrograde direction towards St Jean de Luz. We had not, however, proceeded above five or six miles, and were still a full league distant from the town, when, on reaching a cross-road which ran in a direction to the left, we filed off and made for a piece of elevated country, over which some half-dozen farmhouses were scattered. These were assigned to the corps to which I belonged. We accordingly halted on a sort of common near the centre of them, and having cast lots as to which house should fall to the share of the different companies, Grey, myself, and two others, with about a hundred men, took possession of one, with which we were perfectly satisfied.

It would be difficult for an ordinary reader to form any adequate notion of the extreme satisfaction which soldiers experience when first they establish themselves in winter quarters. As long as the weather continues fine, and summer suns shed their influence over it, there are indeed few places more agreeable than a camp. But it is not so after the summer has departed. I have already hinted that against heavy and continued rains a tent supplies but an inadequate shelter. A tent is, moreover, but a narrow chamber, in which it is not easy so much as to stand upright, excepting in one spot, and where all opportunity of locomotion is denied. It furnishes, moreover, little protection against cold—to light a fire within being impossible on account of the smoke; and hence the only means of keeping yourself warm is to wrap your cloak or a blanket about you, and to lie down. Occasionally, indeed, I have seen red-hot shot employed as heaters; but the kind of warmth which arises from heated iron is, at least to me, hardly more agreeable than that which is produced by charcoal. In a word, however enthusiastic a man may be in his profession, he begins, about the end of October or the beginning of November, to grow heartily tired of campaigning, and looks forward to a few weeks' rest, and a substantial protection against cold and damps, with almost as much pleasure as he experiences when the return of spring calls him once more into the field.

The farmhouses in the south of France, like those in Spain, are rarely provided with fireplaces in any other apartment than the kitchen. It is, indeed, customary for families to live during the winter months entirely with their servants; and hence the want of a fireplace in the parlour is not felt any more than in the bedrooms. I observed, likewise, that hardly any maison of the kind was furnished with glazed windows, wooden lattices being almost universally substituted. These, during the summer months, are kept open all day, and closed only at night; and I believe that the extreme mildness of the climate renders an open window at such seasons very agreeable. On the present occasion, however, we anticipated no slight annoyance from the absence of these two essential matters, a chimney and a window in our room; and we immediately set our wits to work to remove the evil.

Both Grey's servant and my own chanced to be exceedingly ingenious fellows; the former, in particular, could, to use a vulgar phrase, turn his hand to anything. Under his directions we set a party of men to work, and, knocking a hole through one corner of our room, we speedily converted it into a fireplace. To give vent to the smoke, we took the trouble to build an external chimney, carrying it up as high as the roof of the house; and our pride and satisfaction were neither of them trifling when we found that it drew to admiration. I cannot say that the masonry was very exact, or that the sort of buttress added to the mansion improved its general appearance; but it had the effect of rendering our apartment exceedingly comfortable, and that was the sole object which we had in view.

Having thus provided for our warmth, the next thing to be done was to manufacture such a window as might supply us with light, and at the same time resist the weather. For this purpose we lifted a couple of lattices from their hinges, and having cut out four panels in each, we covered the spaces with white paper soaked in oil. The light thus admitted was not, indeed, very brilliant, but it was sufficient for all our purposes; and we found, when the storm again returned, that our oil-paper stood out against it stoutly. Then, having swept our floor, unpacked and arranged the contents of our canteen, and provided good dry hay-sacks for our couches, we felt as if the whole world could have supplied no better or more desirable habitation.

To build the chimney and construct the window furnished occupation enough for one day; the next was spent in cutting wood, and laying in a store of fuel against the winter. In effecting this, it must be confessed that we were not over-fastidious as to the source from which it was derived; and hence a greater number of fruit-trees were felled and cut to pieces than perhaps there was any positive necessity to destroy. But it is impossible to guard against every little excess when troops have established themselves in an enemy's country; and the French have just cause of thankfulness that so little comparative devastation marked the progress of our armies. Their own, it is well known, were not remarkable for their orderly conduct in such countries as they overran.

I have dwelt upon these little circumstances longer perhaps than their insignificance in the eyes of my reader may warrant, but I could not help it. There is no period of my life on which I look back with more unmixed pleasure than that which saw me for the first time set down in winter quarters. And hence every trifling incident connected with it, however unimportant to others, appears the reverse of unimportant to me. And such, I believe, is universally the case when a man undertakes to be his own biographer. Things and occurrences which, to the world at large, seem wholly undeserving of record, his own feelings prompt him to detail with unusual minuteness, even though he may be conscious all the while that he is entering upon details which his readers will scarcely take the trouble to follow.

Having thus rendered our quarters as snug as they were capable of being made, my friend and myself proceeded daily into the adjoining woods in search of game; and as the frost set in we found them amply stored, not only with hares and rabbits, but with woodcocks, snipes, and other birds of passage. We were not, however, so fortunate as to fall in with any of the wild boars which are said to frequent these thickets, though we devoted more than one morning to the search; but we managed to supply our own table, and the tables of several of our comrades, with a very agreeable addition to the lean beef which was issued out to us. Nor were other luxuries wanting. The peasantry, having recovered their confidence, returned in great numbers to their homes, and seldom failed to call at our mansion once or twice a-week with wine, fresh bread, cider, and bottled beer; by the help of which we continued to fare well as long as our fast-diminishing stock of money lasted. I say fast-diminishing stock of money, for as yet no addition had been made to that which each of us brought with him from England; and though the pay of the army was now six months in arrear, but faint hopes were entertained of any immediate donative.

It was not, however, among regimental and other inferior officers alone that this period of military inaction was esteemed and acted upon as one of enjoyment. Lord Wellington's fox-hounds were unkennelled; and he himself took the field regularly twice a-week, as if he had been a denizen of Leicestershire, or any other sporting county in England. I need not add that few packs in any county could be better attended. Not that the horses of all the huntsmen were of the best breed, or of the gayest appearance; but what was wanting in individual splendour, was made up by the number of Nimrods; nor would it be easy to discover a field more fruitful in laughable occurrences, which no man more heartily enjoyed than the gallant Marquess himself. When the hounds were out, he was no longer the Commander of the Forces, the General-in-Chief of three nations, and the representative of three sovereigns, but the gay merry country gentleman, who rode at everything, and laughed as loud when he fell himself as when he witnessed the fall of a brother sportsman.

Thus passed about twenty days, during the greater number of which the sky was clear and the air cold and bracing. Occasionally, indeed, we varied our sporting life by visits to St Jean de Luz, and other towns in the rear, and by seeking out old friends in other divisions of the army. Nor were we altogether without military occupation. Here and there a redoubt was thrown up for the purpose of rendering our position doubly secure; and the various brigades of each division relieved one another in taking the duty of the outposts. A trifling skirmish or two likewise tended to keep us alive; but these were followed by no movement of importance, nor were they very fatal either to the enemy or ourselves.

The position which Lord Wellington thus took up extended from the village of Bidart on the left to a place called Garret's House on the right. It embraced various other villages, such as that of Arcanques, Gauthory, &c. &c., between these points, and kept the extremities of the line at a distance of perhaps six or seven miles from each other. To a common observer it certainly had in it nothing imposing, or calculated to give the idea of great natural strength. On the left, in particular, our troops, when called into the field, occupied a level plain, wooded indeed, but very little broken; whilst at different points in the centre there were passes easy of approach, and far from defensible in any extraordinary degree. But its strength was well tried, as I shall take occasion shortly to relate; and the issue of the trial proved that no error had been committed in its selection.

Of the manner in which the right and centre columns were disposed I knew but little. The left column, consisting of the first and fifth divisions, of two or three brigades of Portuguese infantry, one brigade of light and one of heavy cavalry, was thus posted: The town of St Jean de Luz, in which Lord Wellington had fixed his quarters, was occupied by three or four battalions of Guards; its suburbs were given up to such corps of the German legion as were attached to the first division. In and about the town the light cavalry was likewise quartered; whilst the heavy was sent back to Handaye and the villages near it, on account of the facility of procuring forage which there existed. The Spaniards had again fallen back as far as Irun, and were not brought up during the remainder of the winter; but the Portuguese regiments were scattered, like ourselves, among a number of detached cottages near the road. In the village of Bidart was posted the fifth division, a battery or two of field-artillery, and the men and horses attached to them; and to it the duty of watching the enemy, and keeping possession of the ground on which the pickets stood, was committed. Thus, along the line of the highroad was housed a corps of about fifteen thousand infantry, twelve hundred cavalry, and a due proportion of artillery—all under the immediate command of Sir John Hope.

In direct communication with the head of this column was the light division, under the command of Major-General Baron Alten. It consisted of the 43d, 52d, and 95th regiments, of a brigade or two of caçadores, and mustered in all about four or five thousand bayonets. These occupied the church and village of Arcanques, situated upon a rising ground, and of considerable natural strength. Beyond this division again lay the fourth; in connection with which were the third, the seventh, and the second divisions; whilst the sixth took post a little in the rear, and acted as a reserve, in case a reserve should be wanting.

I have said that Lord Wellington's headquarters were in St Jean de Luz. Here also Sir John Hope, and several generals of division and of brigade, established themselves; and here all the general staff of the army was posted. Of course the place was kept in a state of warlike gaiety, such as it had not probably witnessed before, at least in modern times; but everything was done which could be thought of to conciliate the goodwill of the inhabitants: nor was the slightest outrage or riot permitted. Such is the manner in which the British army was disposed of from the 18th of November, when it first went into cantonments, till the 9th of December, when it was found necessary once more to take the field.

CHAPTER XI.

I had been out with my gun during the whole of the 8th of December, and returned at a late hour in the evening, not a little weary with wandering, when the first intelligence communicated to me was that the corps had received orders to be under arms at an early hour next morning, when the whole of the army would advance. In a former chapter I have hinted that a continued tract of rainy weather drove Lord Wellington, earlier than he had intended, and against his inclination, into winter quarters. The consequence was, that the position of the army was not in every respect to his mind. The right, in particular, was too far thrown back; and the course of the Nivelle interfered in a very inconvenient degree with the communications between it and the left. We were accordingly given to understand that the object of our present movement was merely to facilitate the crossing of that river by Sir Rowland Hill's corps; and that as soon as this object was attained, we should be permitted to return in peace to our comfortable quarters.

In consequence of this information, Grey and myself made fewer preparations than we had been in the habit of doing on other and similar occasions. Instead of packing up our baggage, and ordering out our sumpter-pony and faithful Portuguese, we left everything in our apartment in its ordinary condition. Strict charges were indeed given to the servants that a cheerful fire and a substantial meal should be prepared against our return in the evening; but we put up neither food nor clothes for immediate use, in full expectation that such things would not be required.

The night of the 8th passed quietly over, and I arose about two hours before dawn on the 9th, perfectly fresh, and, like those around me, in high spirits. We had been so long idle, that the near prospect of a little fighting, instead of creating gloomy sensations, was viewed with sincere delight; and we took our places, and began our march towards the highroad, in silence, it is true, but with extreme goodwill. There we remained stationary till the day broke; when the word being given to advance, we pushed forward in the direction of Bayonne.

The brigade to which I belonged took post at the head of the first division, and immediately in rear of the fifth. The situation afforded to me on several occasions, as the inequalities of the road placed me from time to time on the summit of an eminence, very favourable opportunities of beholding the whole of the warlike mass which was moving; nor is it easy to imagine a more imposing or more elevating spectacle. The entire left wing of the army advanced in a single continuous column along the main road, and covered, at the most moderate computation, a space of four miles. As far, indeed, as the eye could reach, nothing was to be seen except swarms of infantry, clothed not only in scarlet, but in green, blue, and brown uniforms. Here and there a brigade of guns occupied a vacant space between the last files of one division and the first of another, and in rear of all came the cavalry. Of their appearance I was unable accurately to judge, they were so distant.

We had proceeded about five miles, and it was past eight o'clock, when, our advanced-guard falling in with the French pickets, a smart skirmish began. It was really a beautiful sight. The enemy made, it is true, no very determined stand; but they did not give up a rood of ground without exchanging a few shots with their assailants, who pressed forward, vigorously indeed, but with all the caution and circumspection which mark the advance of a skilful skirmisher. The column, in the meanwhile, moved slowly but steadily on; nor was it once called upon, during the whole of the day, to deploy into line.

When the light troops of an army are engaged as ours were this morning, the heavy infantry marches at a slow rate; and short halts or checks are constantly occurring. These befel to-day with unusual frequency. The fact, I believe, was, that Lord Wellington had no desire to bring his left into determined action at all. His object was fully attained as long as he kept the right of the enemy in a state of anxiety and irresolution; but the ground which we gained was in no degree important to the furtherance of the sole design which we had in view. Of course the tardiness of our motions gave a better opportunity of watching the progress of those connected with us; nor have I ever beheld a field-day at home more regularly gone through than this trifling affair of the 9th December.

It was getting somewhat late—perhaps it might be three or four o'clock in the afternoon—when our column, having overcome all opposition, halted on some rising ground about three miles from the walls of Bayonne. From this point we obtained a perfect view of the outworks of that town, as well as of the formidable line of fortifications which Soult had thrown up along the course of the Adour; but of the city itself we saw little, on account of several groves of elm and other trees which intervened. It will readily be imagined that we turned our glasses towards the intrenched camp with feelings very different from those which actuate an ordinary observer of the face of a strange country. That the French marshal had been at work upon these lines not only from the moment of his last defeat, but from the very first day of his assuming the command of the army of Spain, we were aware; and hence we were by no means surprised at beholding such an obstacle presented to our further progress in France. But I cannot say that the sight cast even a damp upon our usual confidence. We knew that whatever could be done to render these mighty preparations useless our gallant general would effect; and perhaps we were each of us vain enough to believe that nothing could resist our own individual valour. Be that as it may, though we freely acknowledged that many a brave fellow must find a grave ere these works could come into our possession, we would have advanced to the attack at the instant, not only without reluctance, but with the most perfect assurance of success.