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ADVENTURES WITH THE CONNAUGHT

RANGERS

ADVENTURES WITH THE
CONNAUGHT RANGERS
1809–1814

BY

WILLIAM GRATTAN, Esq.

LATE LIEUTENANT CONNAUGHT RANGERS

EDITED BY

CHARLES OMAN

FELLOW OF ALL SOULS' COLLEGE AND DEPUTY PROFESSOR OF MODERN HISTORY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD

NEW EDITION, ILLUSTRATED

WITH A PREFACE, NOTES, AND MAPS

LONDON

EDWARD ARNOLD

1902

All rights reserved

PREFACE

While engaged during the last ten years in the task of mastering the original authorities of the history of the Napoleonic wars, I have had to peruse many scores of diaries, autobiographies, and reminiscences of the British military and naval officers who were engaged in the great struggle. They vary, of course, in interest and importance, in literary value, and in the power of vivid presentation of events. But they have this in common, that they are almost all very difficult to procure. Very few of them have been reprinted; indeed, I believe that the books of Lord Dundonald, Sir John Kincaid, Gleig, John Shipp, and Colonel Mercer are wellnigh the only ones which have passed through a second edition. Yet there are many others which contain matter of the highest interest, not only for the historical student but for every intelligent reader. From these I have made a selection of ten or a dozen which seem to me well worth republishing.

Among these is the present volume—the reminiscences of a subaltern of the Connaught Rangers, the old 88th. William Grattan was one of the well-known Dublin family of that name—a first-cousin of Thomas Colley Grattan the novelist, and a distant kinsman of Henry Grattan the statesman; he joined the regiment as ensign on July 6, 1809. He went out to the 1st Battalion, and reached it on the Caya late in 1809; he served with it till the spring of 1813, when he went home on leave, having obtained his lieutenancy on April 12, 1812. Thus he was for more than four years continuously with the colours, and saw Busaco, Fuentes d’Oñoro, El Bodon, the storms of Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz, Salamanca, and the disastrous retreat from Burgos. He was only off duty for a few weeks in 1812, in consequence of a wound received at Badajoz. In the ranks of the 3rd Division—the “Fighting Division” as he is proud to call it—he saw a greater portion of the war than most of his contemporaries, though he missed Vittoria and the invasion of France which followed.

Grattan as an author had two great merits. He had a very considerable talent for describing battles--indeed some of his chapters would not have disgraced the pen of William Napier. Of the many memoirs which I have read, I think that his is on the whole the most graphic and picturesque in giving the details of actual conflict. His accounts of Fuentes D’Oñoro, Salamanca, and above all of the storm and sack of Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz, are admirable. The reader will find in them precisely the touches that make the picture live. His second virtue is a lively sense of humour. The Connaught Rangers were the most Irish of all Irish regiments, and the “boys that took the world aisy,” as Grattan calls them, were as strange a set to manage as ever tried an officer’s temper. “I cannot bring myself to think them, as many did, a parcel of devils,” writes Grattan; “neither will I by any manner of means try to pass them off for so many saints” (pp. 128–129); but whether good or bad, they were always amusing. For the exploits of Ody Brophy and Dan Carsons, of Darby Rooney and Barney Mackguekin, I must refer the reader to the book itself. Their doings, as recorded by the much-tried commander of their company, explain clearly enough Sir Thomas Picton’s addiction to drum-head court-martials, and Lord Wellington’s occasional bursts of plain and drastic language.[^[1]] But no one with any sense of the ludicrous can profess any very lasting feeling of indignation against these merry if unscrupulous rascals.

[1]. See, for example, his remarks on the 88th to Sir James M’Grigor, on page 259 of the latter’s autobiography.

It is clearly from the domestic annals of the 88th that Charles Lever drew the greater part of the good stories which made the fortune of Charles O’Malley. The reader will find many of the characters of that excellent romance appearing as actual historical personages in Grattan, notably the eccentric surgeon Maurice Quill, whose fame was so great throughout the British army that the novelist did not even take the trouble to change his name. His colleague Dr. O’Reily was almost as great an original. Many of the humours of Mickey Free seem to be drawn directly from the doings of Grattan’s servant Dan Carsons. Comparing the “real thing” with the work of fiction, one is driven to conclude that much of what was regarded as rollicking invention on Lever’s part, was only a photographic reproduction of anecdotes that he had heard from old soldiers of the Connaught Rangers.

Military diaries are often disappointing from one of two causes. Either the author slips into second-hand and second-rate narratives of parts of the campaign which he did not himself witness—things which he had better have left to the professed historian—or he fails to give us those small traits of the daily life of the regiment which are needed to make us realise the actualities of war. Grattan sometimes falls into the first-named fault, but never into the latter. He seems to have had an instinctive knowledge of what future generations would want to know concerning the old Peninsular army—its trials in the matter of pay, food, and clothing, its shifts and devices, its views of life and death. If any one wishes to know why Sir Thomas Picton was unpopular, or what the private and the subaltern thought about Lord Wellington, they will find what they seek in these pages. Nowhere else have I seen the psychology of the stormers of Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz dealt with in such a convincing fashion; let the reader note in particular pages 144–5 and 193–4.

I have to confess that in various parts of this reprint I have used the Editor’s license to delete a certain amount of the author’s original manuscript. Grattan had two besetting sins considered as a literary man. The first was one to which I have already made allusion. Not unfrequently he quitted his autobiographical narrative, and inserted long paragraphs concerning parts of the war of which he had no personal knowledge, e.g. about the movements of Hill’s corps in Estremadura, or of the Spaniards in remote corners of the Peninsula. These, as is natural, are often full of inaccuracies: sometimes (and this is a worse fault) they turn out to be taken almost verbatim from formal histories, such as those of Colonel Jones and Lord Londonderry. In one place I found thirty lines which were practically identical with a passage in Napier. In all cases these relate to parts of the war which did not come under Grattan’s own eyes: I have therefore ventured to omit them.

Grattan’s other weakness was a tendency to fly off at a tangent in the middle of a piece of interesting narrative, in order to controvert the statements of writers with whom he disagreed. He had one special foe—Robinson, the biographer of Sir Thomas Picton, on whom he wasted many an objurgatory paragraph. These small controversial points, on which he turns aside, break the thread of his discourse in the most hopeless fashion, and are now of little interest. I have often, though not always, thought it well to leave out such divagations. At the end of the work, in a similar fashion, a long criticism on a certain speech of the Duke of Wellington in the House of Lords has been omitted. It deals with the story of the long-delayed issue of the war-medal for the Peninsula. The whole point of Grattan’s remarks (caustic but well justified in most respects) was removed when the medal was at last actually distributed, a few months after he had made his complaint.

The present volume stops short at the end of the Peninsular war. Grattan’s pen travelled farther. Encouraged by the success of his first book, he issued two supplementary volumes: these are of very inferior interest, being mainly concerned with the doings of the 88th in their early campaigns, before the author had joined them. There is much about Buenos Ayres, the Low Countries, and Talavera. The rest is composed of amusing but very rambling reminiscences of garrison life in Canada in 1814, and in France in 1815–1816, and of character sketches of some of Grattan’s contemporaries, such as the unfortunate Simon Fairfield, concerning whom the reader will find certain information on pages 130–1 and 324 of this reprint. The whole of these two volumes consists of mere disjecta membra, much inferior in interest to the first two which the author had produced.

Grattan’s military service, which had begun in 1808, ended in 1817, in consequence of the enormous reductions in the effective of the army which were carried out after the evacuation of France began. His name last appears among combatant officers in the army list for March 1817, the month in which the 88th was reduced from two battalions to one, and many of its officers placed upon half pay. But he lived for thirty years longer, frequently descending into print in the United Service Journal, to controvert those who seemed to him to undervalue the services of the 88th or the old 3rd Division. In 1836 we find him residing at New Abbey, Kilcullen, and issuing a Vindication of the Connaught Rangers, which seemed so convincing to the officers of his old regiment, that they presented him with a present of plate to the value of 200 guineas “as a mark of their personal esteem and regard, and also in token of their warm admiration of his triumphant vindication of his gallant regiment from the attacks of the biographer [Robinson] of the late Sir Thomas Picton.” In 1847 he published the two volumes from which the present reprint is taken. In the following year he received his long-deserved Peninsular Medal. His last appearance in print was the publication of the two supplementary volumes of Anecdotes and Reminiscences, mentioned above, in the spring of 1853.

C. OMAN.

Oxford, November 1902.

THE OFFICERS OF THE 88TH
1809–14

Grattan’s Memoirs cannot be fully understood without a list of the comrades whom he is perpetually mentioning in the narrative. I therefore append the names of the officers of the 88th from the Army List of 1809–10. I have added to each of those who were killed or wounded during the war a note specifying the casualty. No less than 49 of the 103 names bear this addition!

Colonel

William Carr Beresford, Major-General, wounded at Salamanca, 22.7.12.

Lieutenant-Colonels

Alexander Wallace. John Taylor.

Majors

• Richard Vandeleur, died at Campo Mayor, 5.11.09.
• Daniel Colquhun.

• John Silver, killed at Busaco, 27.9.10.
• R. Barclay M‘Pherson.

Captains

• Robert B. M‘Gregor.
• Campbell Callendar.
• John Dunne.
• William C. Seton.
• Barnaby Murphy, wounded at Badajoz, killed at Salamanca, 22.7.12.
• Charles John Peshall, wounded at Badajoz, 6.4.12.
• James P. Oates, wounded at Badajoz, 6.4.12.
• William Adair M‘Dougall.
• William Hogan, killed at Salamanca, 22.7.12.
• Charles Tryon.
• John Groffer.
• Christopher Irwine, killed at Fuentes d'Oñoro, 5.5.11.

• Joseph Thomson, killed at Badajoz, 6.4.12.
• Richard R. Browne, wounded at Busaco, died at Pinhel, 1810.
• Peter Lindsay, killed at Badajoz, 6.4.12.
• H.G. Buller.
• Walter W. Adair, wounded at Salamanca, 22.7.12.
• Robert N. Nickle, wounded at Toulouse, 10.5.14.
• Henry M‘Dermott, wounded at Vittoria, 21.6.13; killed at Orthez, 27.2.14.
• George Henry Dansey, wounded at Busaco, 27.9.10.
• J. Macdonald.
• Robert Christie.

Lieutenants

• Duncan Robertson, Adj.
• George Bury.
• John Bower Lewis.
• Richard Bunworth.
• William Flack, wounded at Ciudad Rodrigo, 19.1.12.
• William Mackie.
• James Flood, wounded at Vittoria, 21.6.13.
• Richard Fitzpatrick, wounded at Vittoria 21.6.13; wounded at Orthez, 27.2.14.
• Nathan Gregg.
• Henry Johnson, killed at Busaco, 27.9.10.
• John Smith, died at Salamanca, 1812.
• Thomas North, killed at Badajoz, 6.4.12.
• John D. Hopwood.
• Alexander Graham.
• John Armstrong, wounded at Rodrigo, 19.1.12; wounded at Badajoz, 6.4.12.
• John Stewart, wounded at Fuentes, wounded at Badajoz.
• Robert Hackett, wounded at Fuentes, 5.5.11; died on return voyage.
• George F. Faris.
• Bartholomew Mahon.

• Timothy Richard James.
• William Nickle, wounded at Salamanca, 22.7.12.
• Isaac Walker.
• John Davern, wounded at Badajoz; wounded at Orthez, 27.2.14.
• David Weir.
• Ralph Mansfield, killed at Badajoz, 6.4.12.
• Pat. Heron Cockburn.
• Leigh Heppenstal, killed at Foz d'Aronce, 15.3.11.
• Edward Cotton, killed at Badajoz, 6.4.12.
• Frederick Meade, wounded at Salamanca, 22.7.12.
• Hercules Ellis.
• Samuel M‘Alpine, wounded at Fuentes, 5.5.11; killed at Badajoz, 6.4.12.
• George Johnson, wounded at Rodrigo, 19.1.12.
• William Hodder.
• William Whitelaw, wounded at Busaco, 27.9.10; killed at Badajoz, 6.4.12.
• Peter Pegus.
• Thomas J. Lloyd.
• Jason Hassard.
• Geoffrey K. Power.

Ensigns

• Christian Hilliard.
• John Graham.
• Maurice O‘Connor.
• Thomas Leonard, killed at Busaco, 27.9.10.
• William Rutherford.
• Simon Fairfield.
• Parr Kingsmill, wounded at Salamanca, 22.7.12.
• William Kingsmill, wounded at Rodrigo, 19.1.12.
• Maurice Mahon.

• William Devereux Jackson.
• Joseph Owgan, wounded at Fuentes, 5.5.11.
• John Fairfield.
• William Grattan, wounded at Badajoz, 6.4.12; wounded at Salamanca, 22.7.12.
• John Christian.
• John M‘Gregor, died on landing at Portsmouth, invalided 1812.
• George Hill.

The following additional officers joined the regiment, either as ensigns or by exchange as lieutenants and captains from other corps, between 1810 and 1814.

• T. Moriarty, killed at Orthez, 27.2.14.
• John D‘Arcy.
• L. Beresford, killed at Ciudad Rodrigo, 19.1.12.
• Walter C. Poole, wounded at Orthez, 27.2.14.
• T. Rutledge, died at Lisan, 12.9.13.
• Richard Holland, wounded at Orthez, 27.2.14.
• James Mitchell, wounded at Orthez, 27.2.14.
• Charles G. Stewart, wounded at Orthez, 27.2.14.

• D. M‘Intosh, wounded at Orthez, 27.2.14.
• —— Gardiner.
• Thomas Taylor.
• Charles Crawford Peshall.
• Samuel Fisher.
• Oliver Mills.
• Barnard Reynolds, killed at Orthez, 27.2.14.
• John Atkin.
• Albert W. Sanders, killed at Vittoria, 21.6.13.
• James M‘Clintock.
• George Bunbury.
• William Smith.
• James Wright.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

MAP OF SPAIN AND PORTUGAL.

ADVENTURES

WITH THE

CONNAUGHT RANGERS

1809–1814

CHAPTER I

The Author leaves the depot at Chelmsford, and proceeds to join his regiment in Portugal—The Samaritan—Arrival at Lisbon—Measures adopted by General Junot—A night’s rest—Portuguese barbers—Priest Fernando and Major Murphy—March to Aldea Gallega—First sight of the Connaught Rangers.

On the 10th day of October 1809 I left the depot at Chelmsford, and proceeded to Portsmouth for the purpose of joining the first battalion of my regiment (the 88th) in Portugal.

The newspapers announced that a fleet of transport vessels would sail in a few days from Portsmouth for Lisbon, and although I belonged to the second battalion, at that period stationed at Gibraltar, I waived all ceremony, and without asking or obtaining leave from the general in command at Chelmsford (General Colburn), I took the first coach for London, where I arrived that evening, and the next day reached Portsmouth.

I waited upon Colonel Barlow, who commanded at Hilsea, and from him received an order to be admitted on board a transport ship named the Samaritan. No questions were asked as to my qualification for this request, as it was much easier in those days to get out to Portugal than return from it. I then requested of the Colonel that he would give me an order for “embarkation money,” which I told him I understood was allowed to officers on going to Portugal. He laughed at the demand, and treated me with so little courtesy that I was glad to be rid of him.

I have said the name of the ship in which I was to make my first voyage was the Samaritan. So it was. But it most certainly could not be fairly called the Good Samaritan, for a more crazy old demirep of a ship never floated on the water. She was one of those vessels sent out, with many others at this period, to be ready to convey our army to England in the event of any disaster occurring to it. On board of her were ten or a dozen officers, who, like myself, had seen little of the world. We had no soldiers on board, and an inadequate ship’s crew; but those deficiencies were amply made up for by the abundance of rats which infested the vessel, and which not only devoured a great portion of our small supply of provisions, but nearly ourselves into the bargain. One officer, ill from sea-sickness, was well-nigh losing half of his nose, and another had the best part of his great toe eaten away. Providence, however, at length decreed that we should soon be rid of these torments, and on the 29th day of October the Rock of Lisbon presented itself to our view.

It is difficult to convey to the eye, much less to the imagination of those who have not seen it, a more imposing or beautiful sight than Lisbon presents when seen from the deck of a vessel entering the Tagus; its northern bank, upon which the city stands, sweeping with a gentle curve along the extent of the city, shows to great advantage the vast pile of buildings, including palaces, convents, and private dwellings, standing like a huge amphitheatre before the view of the spectator; the splendid gardens and orange groves, the former abounding with every species of botanical plant, while the latter, furnishing the eye with a moving mass of gold, presents a coup d'œil which may be felt or conceived, but which cannot be described.

Our vessel had scarcely reached the river when a pilot boat came alongside of us, and for the first time I had an opportunity of looking at the natives of Portugal. I confess I was inexpressibly disgusted; the squalid appearance of those half-amphibious animals, their complexion, their famished looks, and their voracious entreaties for salt pork, gave me but a so-so opinion of the patriots I had heard of and read of with so much delight and enthusiasm. Their bare throats, not even with muscle to recommend them, their dark eyes portraying more of the assassin than the patriot, and their teeth, white no doubt in comparison with their dark hides, was sufficient to stamp them in my eyes as the most ill-looking set of cut-throats I had ever beheld. Their costume, too, is anything but striking, except strikingly ugly. Short demi petticoat trousers of white linen, a red sash, and their arms and legs naked, give them the appearance of a race of bad bred North American Indians.

On landing at Lisbon, your foot once upon terra firma—

The cloud-cap’d towers,

The gorgeous palaces—

and the fine gardens all vanish, not into thin air, but into the most infernal pestiferous atmosphere that ever unfortunate traveller was compelled to inhale. Here is a hideous change from what the first view led you to expect. It is, indeed, “love at first sight.”

You are scarcely established in the first street, when you behold a group of wretches occupied in picking vermin from each other; while, sitting beside them, cross-legged, holding a distaff and spindle in her left hand, and fanning her fogareioro with her right, is a woman who sells chestnuts to any one whose stomach is strong enough to commence the process of mastication in so filthy a neighbourhood.

The appearance of everything in Lisbon is so novel to an Englishman, that he is at a loss what most to fix his attention upon. But the number of beggars and the packs of half-famished dogs which infest the streets are in themselves sufficient to afford food for the mind, if not for either the beggars or the dogs. The latter crowd the streets after nightfall and voraciously devour the filth which is indiscriminately thrown from the different windows, and it is a dangerous service to encounter a pack of those famished creatures.

In every country there are customs known,

Which they preserve exclusively their own;

The Portuguese, by some odd whim infected,

Have Cloacina’s temple quite rejected.

The French general, Junot, whatever his other faults might be, did a good thing in ridding Lisbon of this nuisance. On the fourth day after his arrival he ordered all dogs found in the streets after nightfall to be shot; and the proprietor of every door before which was found any dirt, after a certain hour in the morning, he caused to pay a fine according to the quantity found in front of his premises. But Junot had been too long driven from Lisbon to have his orders respected at the period I write of, and we were in consequence subjected to the annoyance of being poisoned by the accumulated filth, or to the danger of being devoured by the herds of dogs who seemed to consider these windfalls as their particular perquisite.

The beggars, offensive as they were, were less so than the dogs, because in Portugal, as in most countries professing the Roman Catholic religion, the giving of alms is considered an imperative duty; and according to their means, all persons supply the wants of the poor. From the gates of the convents, and from the kitchens of the higher classes, food is daily distributed to a vast number of mendicants, and those persons actually conceive they have a right to such donations; long habit has in fact sanctioned this right, and secure of the means to support their existence, they flock daily to their respective stations, awaiting the summons which calls them to the portal to receive the pittance intended for them. Thus it is that strangers suffer less inconvenience from this description of persons than they otherwise would, for the laziness of these wretches is so great, that although they will not hesitate to beg alms from a passing stranger, they will barely move from their recumbent posture to receive it, much less offer thanks for it.

Satisfied with my first evening’s excursion, I returned to the hotel where we had bespoken our dinner and beds. The former was excellent; good fish, for which Lisbon is proverbial, ragoûts, and game, all well served up, gave us a goût for our wine. We discussed the merits of divers bottles, and it was late ere we retired to our chamber,—I was going to say place of rest—but never was word more misplaced, had I made use of it. Since the hour of my recollection, up to the moment that I write these lines, I never passed such a night. From the time I lay down, in hopes of rest, until the dawning of morning, I never, for five minutes at a time, closed my eyes. Bugs and fleas attacked me with a relentless fury, and when I arose in the fair daylight, to consult my looking-glass, I had scarcely a feature recognisable. I was not, however, singular, for all my companions had shared the same fate. But it was absolutely necessary, before we attempted to perambulate the streets, that something should be done to render our appearance less horrible. We accordingly summoned the landlord with the view of ascertaining the name of some medical person who could administer to our wants; but he laughed at the idea of calling in surgical aid for so trifling a matter, which he said, and I believe him, was an everyday occurrence at his hotel. He recommended to us a man, as he was pleased to say, “well skilled in such cases,” and one who had made a comfortable competency by his close residence to the hotel we occupied. The person who could have doubted the latter part of our host’s harangue must have indeed been casuistical, because the number of patients which, to our own ears, not our sight, for sight we had none, fell to him in one night, was a sufficient guarantee that his yearly practice must be something out of the common.

The person thus described, and almost as soon introduced, was no other than the far-famed Jozé Almeida Alcantaro de Castreballos, half-brother to the celebrated Louiranna well known in Lisbon. A man, who as he himself jocosely said, had taken many a British officer by the nose. He was, in fact, neither more nor less than a common barber, who gained a livelihood by shaving, bleeding, and physicking his customers.

The Portuguese barbers are like those of other countries, great retailers of scandal, and amply stocked with a fund of amusing conversation. They know everything, or seem to know everything, which, to nine-tenths of those they meet, is the same thing! This fellow told us all the news of the day, and added to it a thousand inventions, which his own fertile imagination supplied. He described the retreat of Wellington from Talavera as one caused by the want of the Portuguese army to co-operate with him: and if his account was to be given credit to, the whole world put together did not contain such an army as that of Portugal. He said that General Peacock, who commanded in Lisbon, invented stories every day, and that no intelligence from the army ought to be considered sterling, except what emanated from his (the barber’s) shop. But then, said he, shrugging up his shoulders, and in broken English. “It is not one very uncommon ting, to see one Peacock spreading a tail!” He laughed at his pun, and so did we; but I have since heard that the merit of it did not belong to him.

“But, gentlemen,” resumed the barber, “I come here as a professional man, not as a wit, though for that matter I am as much one as the other—but to the point, gentlemen! you seem to have suffered, and I am the man, able, ready, and willing to serve you. Look here,” said he, holding up a white jar, having a superscription on the outside to the following effect: “bixas boas” (good leeches): “I am none of your quacks, that come unprepared! I do not want to write a prescription that will cost my customers a mint of money! Well did I know what you stood in need of when you sent for your humble servant. Within the last ten days, that is to say, since the arrival of the fleet of transports from Portsmouth, I have given employment to one thousand leeches in this very house. This hotel has made my fortune, and now, with the blessing of God and the Virgin Mary, I’ll add to the number, already made use of, one hundred more, on the faces of those to whom I have the honour of addressing myself.”

There was so much truth and sound sense in what the barber said, that we all submitted to the operation of leeching, which was of material service to us. Old Wright of the 28th, already, from a wound, blind of one eye, now began to peep a little with the other, and it was amusing enough to those who could see it, to witness the coquetting between him and the barber. Indeed it would be difficult to say which of them was most pleased—he who received his sight, or he who was the means of restoring it. Quantities of cloths, steeped in warm water, were applied to our faces, and the crimson hue with which every basin was tinctured showed but too plainly that the “bixas boas” of the barber Jozé, were of the right sort. We kept our rooms the entire day, ate a moderate and light dinner, and at an early hour retired to our chambers, not without some misgivings of another night-attack. But the barber assured us there was no danger; and whether it was that the vermin, which nearly devoured us on the preceding night, had gorged themselves, or that the applications which Jozé Almeida had administered to our wounded faces was of that nature to give them a nausea towards us, I know not, but, be this as it may, we enjoyed, unmolested, a comfortable night’s repose, and in the morning our features had resumed their original shape and appearance.

We were seated at breakfast when the barber again made his appearance. He congratulated us upon our recovery, received his fee, which was extremely moderate, and took his leave. I have not since seen him, or is it likely I ever shall. In 1809 he was approximating to his sixtieth year; now thirty-seven years added to sixty would make him rather an elderly person. However, should he be still alive, and able to fulfil the functions of his calling as well as he did when I met with him, I recommend him to all those who may visit Lisbon and require his aid; on the other hand, should he be no longer in the land of the living, I have paid his memory a just tribute—but not more than he deserved.

At twelve o’clock I took a calash and reported myself to Major Murphy of the 88th, who commanded at Belem. By him I was received with great kindness, and asked to dine with him at six o’clock. I returned to our hotel, where I found my companions awaiting my arrival. Although not perfectly restored to their good looks, they agreed to accompany me in a stroll through the town, which was a different quarter from that we had before explored. It was more obscure, and overstocked with beggars of every grade.

At six o’clock I arrived at Major Murphy’s quarters at Belem, where were several officers of the depôt. Just as we were about to enter the dining-room a note was handed to Murphy from the celebrated priest Fernando: he was an intimate friend of Murphy, and called the 88th his own regiment, because when that corps landed in Lisbon it was quartered in the convent of which Fernando was the head. Nothing could exceed his kindness and hospitality, and, being the principal of the Inquisition, he was a man of great authority. His note was in these words:—

“Priest Fernando will cum dis day in boat to dine with Mr. Major Murphy.”

He was as good as his word, for the note had been scarcely read aloud by Murphy when Fernando made his appearance. He was a remarkably handsome man, about forty years of age; full of gaiety and spirits, a great talker, a prodigious feeder, and a tremendous drinker. So soon as I was introduced to him he took out a book from his pocket which he opened and handed to me, requesting that I would write down my name in it. This book contained the name of every officer in the first battalion, and according as any died, or were either killed or wounded in action, it was regularly noted after his name. His conduct was of the most disinterested kind, and one of his first questions invariably was—“Did we want money?” It was late before we broke up, and next day an order was issued, directing us to be in readiness to march to join the army on the day but one following.

It did not require many hours' preparation to complete our arrangements, as there were several experienced officers to accompany the detachment, and they not only brought their own animals and provisions, but aided us by their advice in the purchase of ours. At the appointed hour all was in readiness, and the detachment, consisting of fifteen officers and two hundred and twenty men, composed of different regiments, marched from Belem, and embarked on the quay in boats which were prepared to carry us to Aldea Gallega. A short sail soon brought us across the Tagus, and towards evening we disembarked and took up our quarters at Aldea for the night. Our route, which was made by easy marches, was uninterrupted by any circumstance worthy of notice. We passed through the different towns of the Alemtejo, in each of which we were hospitably received by the inhabitants; not so on our arrival at Badajoz, the headquarters of Lord Wellington. Nothing could exceed the dogged rudeness of the Spaniards; and it was with difficulty we could obtain anything even for money. Civility was not to be purchased on any terms, and one of the detachment was killed in a fracas with some drunken muleteers. Next morning we left this inhospitable town, and each party took their respective routes, with the view of rejoining their regiments. Mine, the 88th, was stationed at Monforte, distant one march from Badajoz, and here, for the first time, I saw the “Connaught Rangers.”

CHAPTER II

Headquarters of the 88th Regiment—Its losses from sickness—Unhealthy state of the country—The British army leaves the Alemtejo—General Picton takes the command of the 3rd Division—Remarks on the general’s conduct—His apology to Colonel Wallace—The Connaught Boy and the goat.

The 88th at this period, although one of the strongest and most effective regiments in the army, did not count more than five hundred bayonets. The fatigues of the late campaign, and the unhealthiness and debility of many of the soldiers in consequence, caused a material diminution in our ranks; added to this, the country in the neighbourhood of the Guadiana was swampy and damp, and what between ague, dysentery, and fever, the hospitals were in a few weeks overstocked. Not less than ten thousand were on the sick list, or about one-third of the entire force, as borne on the muster-rolls; and there was a great paucity of medical officers; many of those had been left at Talavera with the wounded, that were of necessity obliged to be abandoned, and others, either catching the contagion that raged throughout the country, or infected by their close attendance in the hospitals, were lost to us. The consequence was that the men and officers died daily by tens and fifteens, and this mortality was not confined to the old soldiers alone, for the young militia men, who now joined the army from England, suffered equally with those who were half starved on the retreat from Talavera, and during the occupation of the bridge of Arzobispo. For several days the rations of those soldiers consisted of half a pound of wheat, in the grain, a few ounces of flour twice in the week, and a quarter of a pound of goat’s flesh; and regiments which a few weeks before were capable of exertions that were never equalled during the remainder of the Peninsular contest, were now unable to go through an ordinary march.

It was not to be wondered at that men who had so suffered should be now attacked with disease when all excitement was over, and a reaction of the system was the natural consequence; but the young men who joined from England at this period could not be so classed, and as it was manifest that the air of the country was unwholesome, Lord Wellington decided upon marching his army to the north-eastern frontier; yet before quitting the Alemtejo it was necessary that the safety of Seville should be guaranteed by a sufficient Spanish force.

Early in December the army left the Alemtejo, and by the first week in January the 3rd Division was distributed in the different villages in the neighbourhood of Trancoso. The villages of Alverca and Frayadas, distant about two miles from each other, were allotted for the 88th Regiment. Midway between the two was a plain of considerable extent, and upon this plain the regiment exercised every day for several hours.

At the end of six weeks Colonel Wallace had his battalion in the most perfect state of discipline that it is possible to conceive; the men left in hospital were speedily joining the ranks, and the stragglers which were from necessity left behind in the north of Portugal were now coming in fast to their different regiments. It may be remembered that the troops commanded by Lord Beresford in the spring of 1809 suffered great fatigues in their advance through the province of Tras os Montes; the 88th Regiment formed a portion of this force.

The best-regulated army during a campaign, even if carried on under the most favourable circumstances, always becomes more or less relaxed in its discipline; and when it is considered that the wreck of the 88th Regiment, after its capture at Buenos Ayres, was made up by drafts from the second battalion, that a few short months only were allowed it to recruit and reorganise before it was again employed in Portugal, it may be matter of regret, but certainly not of surprise, that it did not form an exception to the general rule.[^[2]] Many stragglers were left behind. Some preferred remaining with the Portuguese, and never joined the army again. Nevertheless, many of the good soldiers who had been worn down by fatigue and were obliged to make a short stay, soon rallied, followed the track of their different regiments, and joined them by sixes and sevens. Others of a different stamp preferred remaining where they were, and continued under the hospitable roofs that had given them shelter, and made themselves useful to the inhabitants by assisting them to till their fields and gardens. Others, fatigued with the sameness of the scene, went through the country under pretence of seeking their different regiments, and in many instances committed acts that were disgraceful; and, strange to say, not the slightest effort was made to look after those stragglers and collect them.

[2]. The Wellington despatches for the summer of 1809 contain two angry notes to Donkin, the brigadier commanding the 87th and 88th, concerning the vast number of men absent from the ranks.

Lieut. Gen. Sir T. Picton, G.C.B.
London, Edward Arnold, 1902.

Several of these men were shot by the peasants, while others were made prisoners and were marched by the militia of the country to the nearest British depôt. There they were either flogged, hanged, or shot, according to the nature of their different offences. Others were sent under escorts to whatever corps they belonged. All this relaxation of discipline commenced, as we have shown, in the early part of 1809, while the regiments of which those marauders formed a portion, between that period and the end of the year, had marched over hundreds of miles, fought a battle in the heart of Spain, occupied a line of posts on the Guadiana, and finally, after the lapse of ten months, took up new ground on the north-eastern frontier of Portugal.

It was at this time, and when the 3rd Division were stationed as has been described, that General Picton joined the army. It would be impossible to deny that a very strong dislike towards the General was prevalent. His conduct at the island of Trinidad,[^[3]] while Governor of that colony, and the torture inflicted, by his order, on Louise Calderon, a torture which, by the way, had been given up in our army as being worse than flogging, had impressed all ranks with an unfavourable opinion of the man. Besides this, the strong appeal made by Mr. Garrow, the Attorney-General, to the jury by whom he was tried and found guilty, was known to all, and a very general, and I do believe a very unjust clamour was raised against him. From what I have just written it will be seen in what sort of estimation General Picton was held, and as we of his division had never seen him, his first appearance before his troops was looked for with no little anxiety.

[3]. Sir Thomas Picton, while Governor of Trinidad, then recently conquered from Spain, had allowed torture to be used to extort confession from a woman accused of theft. This was, he supposed, legal because the island was still under Spanish law, which permitted the practice. His action led to the case of Rex v. Picton, and brought immense odium upon his head. The torture was “picketing.”

Our wishes were soon gratified, for, in a few days after his arrival at Trancoso, a division order was issued stating that on a certain day, which was named, the division should be under arms and ready to receive the General.

Punctual to the appointed time, General Picton reached the ground, accompanied by his staff; every eye was turned towards him, and, as first impressions are generally very strong and very lasting, his demeanour and appearance were closely observed. He looked to be a man between fifty and sixty, and I never saw a more perfect specimen of a splendid-looking soldier. In vain did those who had set him down in their own minds as a cruel tyrant, seek to find out such a delineation in his countenance. No such marks were distinguishable; on the contrary, there was a manly open frankness in his appearance that gave a flat contradiction to the slander, and in truth Picton was not a tyrant, nor did he ever act as such during the many years that he commanded the 3rd Division.

But if his countenance did not depict him as cruel, there was a caustic severity about it, and a certain curl of the lip that marked him as one who rather despised than courted applause. “The stern countenance, robust frame, caustic speech, and austere demeanour,” told in legible characters that he was one not likely to say a thing and not do as he said. In a word, his appearance denoted him as a man of strong mind and strong frame.

The division went through several evolutions, and performed them in a very superior manner indeed; the line marching and the echelon movements, for which the 88th, under Wallace, was so celebrated, seemed to surprise the General; he however said little. Once he turned to Wallace and said, in rather a disagreeable tone, “Very well, sir.” The parade was about to be dismissed, and the General about to return to his quarters, when two marauders of the 88th were brought up in charge of a detachment of Portuguese militia. They had stolen a goat on their march up to join their regiment. The complaint was at once made to Picton, who ordered the men to be tried by a drum-head court-martial on the spot. This was accordingly done; the men were found guilty, and flogged on the moment in presence of the General.

This act was considered by all as not good taste in General Picton on his first appearance amongst his troops; the offence committed by the soldiers could have been as well punished in front of their own regiment as in the presence of the entire division; and, besides this, there was no necessity for the General’s remaining to witness the punishment. This act on his part caused those who had formed a favourable opinion from his appearance to waver, and the word “tyrant” was more than muttered by many of the division.

So soon as the two soldiers were removed after having received the number of lashes it was thought necessary to inflict, the General addressed the brigade in language not of that bearing which an officer of his rank should use, for turning to the 88th he said, “You are not known in the army by the name of 'Connaught Rangers,' but by the name of Connaught footpads!” He also made some remarks on their country and their religion.

Language like this was enough to exasperate the lowest soldier, equally with the Colonel, who had done so much for the regiment during his command; and Colonel Wallace, directly the parade was over, waited on General Mackinnon, who commanded the brigade, and requested that he would go to General Picton, and intimate to him that he conceived the abusive language which he had made use of towards the 88th was not just to the corps, or to himself as commanding officer of it.

Mackinnon was a strict disciplinarian, but a man of an extremely mild temper, and he felt greatly annoyed at what had taken place. He readily complied with Colonel Wallace’s request, and received for answer from Picton, that he would remove those impressions when he again had an opportunity of assembling the division.

A long period elapsed before the division was again brought together, and when it was Picton neglected, or perhaps forgot, to fulfil the promise he had made. Immediately after the parade Wallace reminded General Mackinnon of what had before passed on the subject, and Mackinnon, for the second time, waited on Picton. The latter requested that Wallace should call upon him, which was immediately complied with, and then took place a memorable interview.

When Wallace reached Picton’s quarters he found the General alone; a long conversation took place, which Colonel Wallace never repeated to me, nor was it necessary that he should, because my rank did not entitle me to such disclosure, but I have reason to think that it was very animated, and what I am now about to write I have from under Colonel (now General) Wallace’s own hand. It is as follows:—

“After a conversation which it is here unnecessary to recapitulate, General Picton paused for a little and said, 'Well, will you dine with me on ——?' I replied, 'Most certainly, General, I shall be happy to do so.' When I went to dinner on the day appointed, I found almost all the superior officers of Picton’s division, and the troops quartered in the vicinity of Pinhel, assembled. General Picton then addressed himself to Colonel Mackinnon, commanding the brigade, and said, 'I understand that Colonel Wallace has taken offence at some observations made by me relative to the corps he commands, when addressing the division. I am happy to find that I have been misinformed as to their conduct for some time past; and I feel it but justice to him and them, to say that I am satisfied every attention has been paid to the conduct and appearance of the corps. I certainly did hear, on my way up to the army, of irregularities that had been committed, but I am happy to say that I have had every occasion to be satisfied with the general conduct of the corps since my joining the division.' I made no reply, but bowed to the General. Dinner was announced, and General Picton came up to me and asked me to sit beside him at dinner. There ought always to be a deference given to a general of division by an officer inferior in rank, and under these circumstances I considered General Picton’s conduct to have been arranged in a very gentlemanlike and handsome manner. From that period General Picton and myself were always on the best terms, and though from prejudice he often signified that he suspected the Connaught Boys were as ready for mischief as any of their neighbours, he always spoke of them to me as good soldiers while I was with his division.”

Thus ended the matter, and I never knew or heard that Picton ever again made use of a harsh expression towards the regiment; indeed his biographer says that he often gave them “unqualified praise.” Perhaps he did, but for nearly four years that Picton commanded the 3rd Division, not one officer of the 88th was ever promoted through his recommendation, though it is well known in the army that many deserved it.

Shortly after this period a laughable circumstance took place between Picton and a soldier of the 88th, which put the General in great good-humour, and he often repeated the story as a good joke. He was riding out one day, accompanied by his aide-de-camp, near the river Coa, when he saw, on the opposite bank of the river, a man of the Connaught Rangers with a huge goat on his back.

We had received but scanty rations for some days previously, and such a windfall as the old goat was not to be neglected. I am not prepared to state whether it was the cries of the animal, or the stench of his hide—for the wind was from that point—attracted Picton to the spot; howbeit, there he was.

It would be difficult to say, with truth, whether the General was most angry or hungry, but he seemed, in either case, resolved not only to capture the goat, but also the “boy.” That he would have done the one or the other, perhaps both, there can be little doubt, had it not been that a stream, whose banks had been the theatre of other scenes of contest, separated the parties. This stream was the Coa, and although its different fordable points were well known to Picton, his vis-a-vis neighbour was by no means ignorant of some of the passes; and as the General had not time to consult his chart, and find out the nearest “ford,” nor inclination to plunge into the river, he made a furious, but quite an ineffectual, attack of words against the “Connaught boy.”

“Pray, sir,” said, or rather roared Picton, addressing the soldier, “what have you got there?”

Sol. “A thieving puckawn, sir.”

Pic. “A what?”

Sol. “A goat, sir. In Ireland we call a buck-goat a puckawn. I found the poor baste sthraying, and he looks as if he was as hungry as myself.”

Pic. “What are you going to do with him, sir?”

Sol. “Do with him, is it? To bring him with me, to be sure! Do you think I’d lave him here to starve?”

Pic. “Ah! you villain, you are at your old tricks, are you? I know you, though you don’t think it!”

Sol. “And I know you, sir, and the 'boys of Connaught' know you too, and I’d be sorry to do anything that would be displaising to your honour; and, sure, iv you’d only let me, I’d send your sarvent a leg iv him to dhress for your dinner, for by my sowl your honour looks could and angry—hungry I mane.”

He then held up the old goat by the beard, and shook it at Captain Tyler, the General’s aide-de-camp, and taking it for granted that he had made a peace-offering to the General, or, probably, not caring one straw whether he had or not, went away with his burden, and was soon lost sight of amongst a grove of chestnut-trees.

“Well,” said Picton, turning to Tyler, who was nearly convulsed with laughter, “that fellow has some merit. What tact and what humour! He would make a good outpost soldier, for he knows, not only how to forage, but to take up a position that is unassailable.”

“Why yes, sir,” said Tyler, “when he held up the goat’s head, he seemed to beard us to our faces; and his promise of sending you a leg was a capital ruse!”

“It was, faith,” replied Picton, “and if the fellow is found out, he will, I suppose, endeavour to make me the 'scape-goat'!”

The General used often to tell this story as one of the best things of the sort he had ever met with.

It is a remarkable circumstance that a few days before the battle of Waterloo, Picton met Wallace in London, when he spoke highly of the regiment, and said if it returned from America in time to join the army under the Duke of Wellington (being then on their passage home), and if he joined the army, the 88th would be one of the first regiments he would ask for his division.

CHAPTER III

Masséna’s invasion of Portugal—Fall of Ciudad Rodrigo and Almeida—Craufurd’s fight on the Coa—Anecdote of Colonel Charles Napier—The British retire to the position of Busaco.

In the month of January, 1810, Lord Wellington established his headquarters at Viseu, in Upper Beira, and the different brigades of cavalry and infantry were quartered in the neighbouring villages. General Hill was left with five thousand British, and about as many Portuguese, at Abrantes; and with his army posted as has been described, the British General awaited the development of Masséna’s plan of invasion. The amount of the French force at this period in the Peninsula counted over three hundred and sixty thousand troops of all arms; but the army commanded by Masséna, and called “the army of Portugal,” did not amount to ninety thousand. The amount of the British and Portuguese forces has been already stated to be about fifty-five thousand men; and it will be recollected that of the Portuguese army scarcely one man in one hundred had ever discharged a musket against an enemy. As to the British, when Lord Wellington moved his army from the Guadiana its numbers counted about thirty thousand, but those under arms scarcely reckoned twenty thousand; the remainder were in hospital, and many of those in the ranks were but ill able to carry their knapsacks and firelocks, having not yet recovered from the effects of past illness.

The French preparations were so formidable, our own force so small, that in the British ranks it was generally believed that the entire army would retreat on Lisbon when the French advanced, and embark there. The same was asserted in England; the Portuguese dreaded it; the French army universally believed it, and the British ministers seem to have entertained the same opinion; for at this time an officer of engineers arrived at Lisbon, whose instructions, received personally from Lord Liverpool, though unknown to Lord Wellington, commenced thus: “As it is probable that the army will embark in September.”

Fortunately for us, the French lingered long ere they began their invasion. It was not till June 1810 that Ney began the siege of Ciudad Rodrigo, while Masséna still remained at Madrid. The garrison of the fortress amounted to about six thousand men, and was commanded by the Spanish general, Herrasti, an old and gallant man who had served his country with honour for more than half a century. The town was amply supplied with artillery, provisions, and stores of all kinds; and the vigorous resistance which was expected was made by Herrasti and his brave garrison.

General Robert Craufurd, with his superb division, occupied the line of the Coa, while General Cole, with the 4th Division, and Picton with the 3rd, were posted at Guarda and Pinhel; and these troops were directed to be in readiness to render any support that could with safety be given to the Spanish governor. That assistance could never be given, and Ciudad Rodrigo fell, after sustaining a siege of upwards of a month. Its gallant defence reflected great credit on both the governor and garrison, and the delay it caused the French army was of the greatest importance to Lord Wellington’s plan of resistance, because the heavy rains which were almost sure to fall in the autumn would greatly aid in the defence of the country.

After his capture of Rodrigo, Masséna lost no time in laying siege to Almeida, and it was hoped that this town, which was, though by no means a model of perfection, a more regularly constructed fortress than Ciudad Rodrigo, would hold out for at least as long. But here we were to be bitterly disappointed. On August 26, 1810, the bombardment began: in a short time a great portion of the town was in flames, and it was found impossible in the confusion that prevailed to put a stop to the calamity. But this mattered little; no great damage had been done to the walls, and the guns of the garrison replied with vigour. But at midnight a terrible explosion was heard, the castle was rent into a thousand pieces, and the entire town disappeared, as if swallowed by an earthquake. This tremendous crash was heard for a distance of many leagues. The main magazine had been blown up by a French shell, and the Governor, Colonel Cox, was obliged to surrender next day.

While these events were taking place, a variety of movements between our advance and that of the enemy occurred. Upon one occasion a portion of the 14th Dragoons came in contact with a body of the enemy’s infantry, and their commanding officer, Colonel Talbot, fell in the midst of a square against which he made a gallant, but fruitless charge. But this was of little import in comparison with what took place with the Light Division, under Craufurd, on the banks of the Coa. His force consisted of four thousand infantry, a thousand cavalry, and a brigade of guns.

The force opposed to him was about six times his own number, but yet he, with a hardihood bordering on rashness, held his post, and fought a very dangerous battle—contrary to orders, I believe—and lost upwards of three hundred men, with nearly thirty officers, and had it not been for the superior description of the troops he commanded, the division would have been destroyed to a man. The French, it is true lost three times the number Craufurd did; but what of that? Masséna could have better spared one thousand men than Wellington one hundred!

It has been said that Craufurd fully expected Picton would have joined him with the 3rd Division, stationed at Pinhel. The division of Picton were within hearing of the fire, but not a man was ordered to move to the support of Craufurd. The wounded men and officers of the Light Division came into Pinhel in the best manner they could, some on foot, others on cars, and the 3rd Division were much excited at not being allowed to join their old companions.

Colonel Wallace held the 88th in readiness, as I believe did every other officer commanding a battalion, and the division could have assembled and marched in ten minutes had any order been given to that effect. However, the Light Division, after performing more than could have been expected, even from it, and doing so alone, without the aid which it looked for, and which might have been afforded it, held their ground, and sustained no disaster, but on the contrary inflicted a severe loss on the enemy, and covered itself with glory.

Craufurd, after his gallant fight, lay, with his division, in the different villages in our front, and a quiet calm succeeded the first outburst. There was an inactivity in the movements of the enemy, notwithstanding that the soldiers had been supplied with bread for many days; and a curious incident took place at the time that is worthy of mention. It shows the good terms upon which the British and French officers stood in regard to each other.

Colonel Napier of the 50th Regiment, who had been badly wounded at Corunna, and who had been treated with much attention by Soult and Ney after he was made prisoner at that battle, stopped at Pinhel. He was on his parole, and when asked by some of our officers, whom he knew, “where he was going?” replied, “I am going to pass some time with my friend Marshal Ney!” He did pass some time with him, and was an eye-witness to all that went on in his camp; but where such confidence was shown to any British officer, much less one of such high character and honour as Colonel Napier, it is needless to say that it was not forfeited.

Napier, after having stayed with his friend Ney for some weeks,[^[4]] returned on his way to England, when en passant he found the ridge of Busaco was about to be contested, and the gallant Colonel, although not on duty, or in any way connected with the army, being in fact on his parole, wished to be a looker-on. It so happened that he was wounded, while standing near Lord Wellington. His name was returned, and the French official paper, the Moniteur, made some remarks upon the Colonel breaking his parole. It was, however, soon explained by the gallant officer, and, in return, the Paris papers did not let pass an occasion which afforded them amusement, and they quaintly remarked “that a man who was so fond of French fire, after what he had got of it before, ought to live in France!”

[4]. This story is true; but the visit was only for one day (see Charles Napier’s Life, i. 133).

After a good deal of delay and vacillation, it appeared that Masséna had at last seriously resolved on his enterprise. He had, under his immediate command, nearly one hundred and twenty thousand bayonets and sabres, but from this force some deductions must be made, by which it would appear that at the utmost he did not bring more than sixty thousand fighting men across the Coa. Finally he passed that river, and our army retired towards the banks of the Mondego, and Lord Wellington was obliged to give battle. But this obligation did not emanate from him—quite the contrary.

It was necessary that he should do something, and the thing was forced upon him by the refractory spirit of the Portuguese councils. If then he was to fight, for the first time, with an army of Portuguese to back him, he judged that the ridge of Busaco was a good spot to try them, and he accordingly resolved to take his stand there. This ridge of mountain extends for about eight miles, and near its termination, and on a high point, stands a convent, inhabited by monks and friars. The face of the mountain is rugged, filled with dells and dykes, and the intervening space between its base and the top is one mass of rock and heath.

On the 26th of September, all the different corps were placed in the stations they should occupy, and the entire ridge of Busaco was fully manned; during the evening we could perceive the enemy occupying their different stations in our front, and the light troops of both armies were warmly engaged along the entire of the line.

At night we lay down to rest; each man, with his firelock in his grasp, remained at his post, anxiously waiting the arrival of the morrow, which was destined to be the last that many amongst us were to behold. We had no fires, and the death-like stillness that reigned throughout our army was only interrupted by the occasional challenge of an advanced sentry, or a random shot fired at some imaginary foe.

The night at length passed over, but long before the dawn of day the warlike preparations of the enemy were to be heard. The trumpets sounded for the horsemen to prepare for the fight, and the roll of the drums and shrill notes of the fife gave notice to the French infantry that the hour had arrived when its claim to be the best in Europe was to be disputed.

On our side all was still as the grave. Lord Wellington lay amongst his soldiers, under no other covering than his cloak, and as he passed through the ranks of the different battalions already formed, his presence and manner gave that confidence to his companions which had a magical effect. All was now ready on our part; the men stood to their arms; and as each soldier took his place in the line, his quiet demeanour, and orderly, but determined appearance, was a strong contrast to the bustle and noise which prevailed amongst our opposite neighbours; but those preparations were of short continuance, and some straggling shots along the brow of the mountain gave warning that we were about to commence the battle of Busaco.[^[5]]

[5]. For the better comprehension of the ensuing narrative of the doings of the 3rd Division at Busaco, it will be well to give its strength and organisation on that day. They were as follows:—

1st Brigade, General Mackinnon.

1st Battalion 45th Foot: 74th Foot: 1st Battalion 88th Foot (Connaught Rangers).

2nd Brigade, General Lightburne.

2nd Battalion 5th Foot: 2nd Battalion 83rd Foot: 3 companies of 5th Battalion 60th Foot.

Portuguese Brigade, Colonel Champlemond.

9th and 21st Regiments of the Line (each two Battalions).

CHAPTER IV

Battle of Busaco—Daring advance of the French—The achievements of the 88th—Adventure of Captain Seton—Alcobaça—Remarks on the battle.

This battle, fought upon the 27th September 1810, was one in which the losses of the French, and of the British and Portuguese army, commanded by Lord Wellington, were not of that magnitude to give it a first-rate place on the battle list;[^[6]] this same battle of Busaco was, nevertheless, one of the most serious ever fought in the Peninsula, and for this reason—it was the first in which the Portuguese levies were brought under fire, and upon their conduct in this, their maiden effort against their veteran opponents, depended the fate of Portugal, and the Peninsula also. Such being the case, it must ever be classed as a very important event, and one that should be recorded by the historian with great care and fidelity, yet, strange to say, there is not, that I have read, any faithful report of it in print. In vain do we turn even to Colonel Napier’s splendid history of the war in the Peninsula in expectation of finding a correct account; no such account is there to be found. In all, therefore, that I am going to relate as to the part which the 3rd Division took in it, I shall keep as close as I possibly can to what I know to be the facts.

[6]. The loss of the French being 4486 killed, wounded, and prisoners, including five generals, viz. General Graindorge killed, Generals Foy, Maucune, and Merle wounded, and General Simon made prisoner, while that of the allied army was no more than 1143, amongst which number not one general officer had fallen; the total loss of the two armies, counting about one hundred thousand combatants, was under six thousand.

On the morning of the 27th the haze was so thick that little could be seen at any great distance, but the fire of the light troops along the face of the hill put it beyond doubt that a battle would take place. Lord Wellington was close to the brigade of Lightburne, and from the bustle amongst his staff, it was manifest that the point held by Picton’s division was about to be attacked. Two guns belonging to Captain Lane’s troop of artillery were ordered upon the left of the 88th Regiment, and immediately opened their fire, while the Portuguese battery, under the German Major Arentschildt, passed at a trot towards the Saint Antonio Pass, in front of the 74th British.

A rolling fire of musketry, and some discharges of cannon, in the direction of Saint Antonio, announced what was taking place in that quarter, and the face of the hill immediately in front of the brigade of Lightburne, and to the left of the 88th Regiment, was beginning to show that the efforts of the enemy were about to be directed against this portion of the ground held by the 3rd Division.

The fog cleared away, and a bright sun enabled us to see what was passing before us. A vast crowd of tirailleurs were pressing onward with great ardour, and their fire, as well as their numbers, was so superior to that of our advance, that some men of the brigade of Lightburne, as also a few of the 88th Regiment, were killed while standing in line; a colour-sergeant named Macnamara was shot through the head close beside myself and Ensign Owgan. Colonel King, commanding the 5th Regiment, which was one of those belonging to Lightburne’s brigade, oppressed by a desultory fire he was unable to reply to without disturbing the formation of his battalion, brought his regiment a little out of its range, while Colonel Alexander Wallace, of the 88th, took a file of men from each company of his regiment, and placing them under the command of Captain George Bury and Lieutenant William Mackie, ordered them to advance to the aid of our people, who were overmatched and roughly handled at the moment. Our artillery still continued to discharge showers of grape and canister at half range, but the French light troops, fighting at open distance, heeded it not, and continued to multiply in great force. Nevertheless, in place of coming up direct in front of the 88th, they edged off to their left, out of sight of that corps, and far away from Lightburne’s brigade, and from the nature of the ground they could be neither seen nor their exact object defined; as they went to their left, our advance inclined to the right, making a corresponding movement; but though nothing certain could be known, as we soon lost sight of both parties, the roll of musketry never ceased, and many of Bury’s and Mackie’s men returned wounded. Those two officers greatly distinguished themselves, and Bury, though badly wounded, refused to quit the field. A soldier of Bury’s company, of the name of Pollard, was shot through the shoulder; but seeing his captain, though wounded, continue at the head of his men, he threw off his knapsack, and fought beside his officer; but this brave fellow’s career of glory was short, a bullet penetrated the plate of his cap, passed through his brain, and he fell dead at Bury’s feet. These were the sort of materials the 88th were formed of, and these were the sort of men that were unnoticed by their General!

Lord Wellington was no longer to be seen, and Wallace and his regiment, standing alone without orders, had to act for themselves. The Colonel sent his captain of Grenadiers (Dunne) to the right, where the rocks were highest, to ascertain how matters stood, for he did not wish, at his own peril, to quit the ground he had been ordered to occupy without some strong reason for so doing. All this time the brigade of Lightburne, as also the 88th, were standing at ordered arms.

In a few moments Dunne returned almost breathless; he said the rocks were filling fast with Frenchmen, that a heavy column was coming up the hill beyond the rocks, and that the four companies of the 45th were about to be attacked. Wallace asked if he thought half the 88th would be able to do the business. “You will want every man,” was the reply.

Wallace, with a steady but cheerful countenance, turned to his men, and looking them full in the face, said, “Now, Connaught Rangers, mind what you are going to do; pay attention to what I have so often told you, and when I bring you face to face with those French rascals, drive them down the hill—don’t give the false touch, but push home to the muzzle! I have nothing more to say, and if I had it would be of no use, for in a minit or two there’ll be such an infernal noise about your ears that you won’t be able to hear yourselves.”

This address went home to the hearts of us all, but there was no cheering; a steady but determined calm had taken the place of any lighter feeling, and it seemed as if the men had made up their minds to go to their work unruffled and not too much excited.

Wallace then threw the battalion from line into column, right in front, and moved on our side of the rocky point at a quick pace; on reaching the rocks, he soon found it manifest that Dunne’s report was not exaggerated; a number of Frenchmen were in possession of this cluster, and so soon as we approached within range we were made to appreciate the effects of their fire, for our column was raked from front to rear. The moment was critical, but Wallace, without being in the least taken aback, filed out the Grenadiers and the first battalion-company, commanded by Captains Dunne and Dansey, and ordered them to storm the rocks, while he took the fifth battalion-company, commanded by Captain Oates, also out of the column, and ordered that officer to attack the rocks at the opposite side to that assailed by Dunne and Dansey. This done, Wallace placed himself at the head of the remainder of the 88th, and pressed on to meet the French column.

At this moment the four companies of the 45th, commanded by Major Gwynne, a little to the left of the 88th, and in front of that regiment, commenced their fire, but it in no way arrested the advance of the French column, as it, with much order and regularity, mounted the hill, which at this point is rather flat. But here, again, another awkward circumstance occurred. A battalion of the 8th Portuguese Infantry, under Colonel Douglas, posted on a rising ground on our right, and a little in our rear, in place of advancing with us, opened a distant and ill-directed fire, and one which would exactly cross the path of the 88th, as that corps was moving onward to meet the French column, which consisted of three splendid regiments, viz. the 2nd Light Infantry, the 36th, and the 70th of the line. Wallace, seeing the loss and confusion that would infallibly ensue, sent Lieutenant John Fitzpatrick, an officer of tried gallantry, with orders to point out to this regiment the error into which it had fallen; but Fitzpatrick had only time to take off his hat, and call out “Vamos commarades,” when he received two bullets—one from the Portuguese, which passed through his back, and the other in his left leg from the French, which broke the bone, and caused a severe fracture; yet this regiment continued to fire away, regardless of the consequences, and a battalion of militia, which was immediately in rear of the 8th Portuguese, took to their heels the moment the first volley was discharged by their own countrymen!

Wallace threw himself from his horse, and placing himself at the head of the 45th and 88th, with Gwynne of the 45th on the one side of him, and Captain Seton of the 88th on the other, ran forward at a charging pace into the midst of the terrible flame in his front. All was now confusion and uproar, smoke, fire and bullets, officers and soldiers, French drummers and French drums knocked down in every direction; British, French, and Portuguese mixed together; while in the midst of all was to be seen Wallace, fighting—like his ancestor of old—at the head of his devoted followers, and calling out to his soldiers to “press forward!” Never was defeat more complete, and it was a proud moment for Wallace and Gwynne when they saw their gallant comrades breaking down and trampling under their feet this splendid division composed of some of the best troops the world could boast of. The leading regiment, the 36th, one of Napoleon’s favourite battalions, was nearly destroyed; upwards of two hundred soldiers and their old colonel, covered with orders, lay dead in a small space, and the face of the hill was strewed with dead and wounded, which showed evident marks of the rapid execution done at this point; for Wallace never slackened his fire while a Frenchman was within his reach. He followed them down the edge of the hill, and then he formed his men in line, waiting for any orders he might receive, or for any fresh body that might attack him. Our gallant companions, the 45th, had an equal share in the glory of this short but murderous fight—they suffered severely; and the 88th lost nine officers and one hundred and thirty-five men. The 8th Portuguese also suffered, but in a less degree than the other two regiments, because their advance was not so rapid, but that regiment never gave way nor was it ever broken; indeed there was nothing to break it, because the French were all in front of the 45th and 88th, and if they had broken the Portuguese they must have first broken the two British regiments, which it is well known they did not! The regiment of militia in their rear ran away most manfully; and if they were able to continue for any length of time the pace at which they commenced their flight, they might, I should say, have nearly reached Coimbra before all matters had been finally settled between us and the French. Two of their officers stood firm and reported themselves in person to Wallace on the field of battle; so there could be no mistake about them, no more than there was about the rest of their regiment.

Meanwhile, Captains Dunne, Dansey, and Oates had a severe struggle with the French troops that occupied the rocks. Dunne’s sergeant (Brazil) killed a Frenchman by a push of his halbert, who had nearly overpowered his captain. Dansey was slightly wounded in four places, but it was said at the time that he killed three Frenchmen—for he used a firelock. Oates suffered less, as the men opposed to him were chiefly composed of those that fled from Dunne and Dansey. Dunne’s company of Grenadiers, which at the onset counted about sixty, lost either two or three-and-thirty, and Dansey’s and Oates’s companies also suffered, but not to the same amount. The French troops that defended those rocks were composed of the 4th Regiment and the Irish Brigade; several of the latter were left wounded in the rocks, but we could not discover one Irishman amongst them.[^[7]]

[7]. There is an error here. The Irish Brigade were not engaged; they were in reserve, in the 8th corps.

Lord Wellington, surrounded by his staff and some general officers, was a close observer of this attack. He was standing on a rising ground in rear of the 88th Regiment, and so close to that corps that Colonel Napier of the 50th—who was on leave of absence—was wounded in the face by a musket shot quite close to Lord Wellington. His Lordship passed the warmest encomiums on the troops engaged, and noticed the conduct of Captain Dansey in his despatch. It has been said, and I believe truly, that Marshal Beresford, who was colonel of the 88th, expressed some uneasiness when he saw his regiment about to plunge into this unequal contest; but when they were mixed with Reynier’s men and pushing them down the hill, Lord Wellington, tapping him on the shoulder, said, “Well, Beresford, look at them now!”

While these events which I have described were taking place, Picton in person took the command against the other division of Reynier’s corps and had a sharp dispute with it at the pass of Saint Antonio; but General Mackinnon, who led on the troops, never allowed it to make any head. A shower of balls from Arentschildt’s battery deranged its deployment, and a few volleys from the 74th British and the Portuguese brigade of Champlemond totally routed this column before it reached the top of the ridge. This attack was feeble in comparison with the one directed against Wallace, and, besides, Picton’s force was vastly superior to that commanded by Wallace, while the troops opposed to him were little, if anything, more numerous. Picton had at this point five companies of the 45th under Major Smyth, all the light companies of the 3rd Division, one company of the 60th Rifles, the 74th British and the Portuguese brigade of Champlemond, besides Arentschildt’s battery of guns. It is not, therefore, to be wondered at that Reynier made little or no impression on Picton’s right.

The 5th Division, commanded by General Leith, was in movement towards the contested point, and reached it in time either to take the fugitives in flank or to drive back any fresh body destined to support their defeated comrades. It made great efforts to join Picton when he was attacked, but the advance was so rapid, the defeat so signal, and the distance—two miles across a rugged mountain—so great, that Leith and his gallant division could only effect in part what they intended. The arrival of this force was, however, fully appreciated; for although the brigade of Lightburne, belonging to Picton’s division, had not fired a shot or been at all molested, and although the 74th Regiment was nearly at liberty, still, had another attack with fresh troops been made, Leith might have stood in Picton’s shoes on the extreme right, while the latter could in a short time concentrate all his battalions, and either fight beside Leith or turn with vigour against any effort that might be made against his centre or left. But it would seem that no reserve was in hand—at all events none was thrown into the fight; and Masséna gave up without a second trial that in which he lost many men and much glory!

While Picton, Mackinnon, Wallace and Champlemond, and Leith’s division, were occupied as I have described, the Light Division, under the gallant Robert Craufurd, maintained a severe struggle against a large proportion of Ney’s corps. Those French troops were driven down the hill with great loss, and the general of brigade, Simon, who headed and led the attack, was taken prisoner by the 52nd Regiment, and between two and three hundred unwounded men shared the fate of their general. The leading brigade of Leith’s division put to flight some of the enemy who kept a hold of a rocky point on Picton’s right, and had Picton been aware of their being there he might have cut off their retreat, while Leith attacked them in front and flank; but their numbers were scanty, and they might not have been aware of the fate of their companions, otherwise they would in all probability have got out of Leith’s clutches before his arrival, for their remaining in the rocks could be of no possible avail, and their force was too wreak to hazard any serious attack on Picton’s right. Indeed, they were routed by a battalion or two of Leith’s division; and the entire British loss at this point did not count above forty or fifty. And thus ended a battle of which so many accounts have been given: all at variance with each other—and none more so than what I have just written.

It has been said that Picton directed the attack of the 45th under Major Gwynne, the 88th under Wallace, and the 8th Portuguese under Douglas. Not one syllable of this is true. The conception of this attack, its brilliant execution, which ended in the total overthrow of Reynier’s column, all belong to Colonel Alexander Wallace of the 88th Regiment. At the time it was made Generals Picton and Mackinnon had their hands full at the pass of Saint Antonio, and were, in effect, as distant from Wallace as if they had been on the Rock of Lisbon; neither was General Lightburne to be seen. The nearest officer of rank to Wallace was Lord Wellington, who saw all that was passing and never interfered pro or con, which is a tolerably strong proof that his lordship thought no alteration for the better could be made; and Wallace had scarcely reformed his line, a little in front and below the contested ground, when Lord Wellington, accompanied by Marshal Beresford and a number of other officers, galloped up, and passing round the left of our line, rode up to Wallace, and seizing him warmly by the hand, said—

“Wallace, I never witnessed a more gallant charge than that made just now by your regiment!”

Wallace took off his hat—but his heart was too full to speak. It was a proud moment for him; his fondest hopes had been realised, and the trouble he had taken to bring the 88th to the splendid state of perfection in which that corps then was, had been repaid in the space of a few minutes by his gallant soldiers, many of whom shed tears of joy. Marshal Beresford addressed several of the soldiers by name who had served under him when he commanded the regiment; and Picton, who at this time came up, expressed his satisfaction. Lord Wellington then took leave of us; and Beresford, shaking the officers by the hand, rode away with his lordship, accompanied by the officers about him. We were once more left to ourselves; the arms were piled, the wounded of all nations collected and carried to the rear, and in a short time the dead were left without a stitch of clothes to cover their bodies. All firing had ceased, except a few shots low down the hill on our right; and shortly after the picquets were placed in front, a double allowance of spirits was served out to Wallace’s men.

We had now leisure to walk about and talk to each other on the events of the morning, and look at the French soldiers in our front. They appeared as leisurely employed cooking their rations as if nothing serious had occurred to them, which caused much amusement to our men, some of whom remarked that they left a few behind them that had got a “bellyful” already. The rocks which had been forced by the three companies of the 88th presented a curious and melancholy sight; one side of their base strewed with our brave fellows, almost all of them shot through the head, while in many of the niches were to be seen dead Frenchmen, in the position they had fought; while on the other side, and on the projecting crags, lay numbers who, in an effort to escape the fury of our men, were dashed to pieces in their fall!

Day at length began to close, and night found the two armies occupying the ground they held on the preceding evening; our army, as then, in utter darkness, that of the enemy more brilliant than the preceding night, which brought to our recollection the remark of a celebrated general when he saw bonfires through France after a signal defeat which the troops of that nation had sustained. “Gad!” said the general, “those Frenchmen are like flint-stones—the more you beat them the more fire they make!”

Captain Seton, Ensign Owgan, and myself, with one hundred of the Connaught Rangers, formed the picquet in advance of that regiment, and immediately facing the outposts of the enemy in our front. The sentries of each, as is customary in civilised armies, although within half-shot range of each other, never fired except upon occasions of necessity. Towards midnight Seton, a good and steady officer, went in front, for the third time, to see that the sentinels which he himself had posted were on the alert. He found all right; but upon his return to the main body he missed his way, and happening in the dark to get too close to a French sharpshooter, he was immediately challenged, but not thinking it prudent to make any noise, in the shape of reply or otherwise, he held his peace. Not so with the Frenchman, who uttered a loud cry to alarm his companions, and discharged the contents of his musket at Seton; the ball passed through his hat, but did no other injury, and he might have rejoiced at his escape had the matter ended here; but the cry of the sentinel and the discharge of his musket alarmed the others, and one general volley from the line of outposts of both armies warned Seton that his best and safest evolution would be to sprawl flat on his face amongst the heath with which the hill was copiously garnished. He did so, and as soon as the tumult had in a great degree abated, he got up on his hands and knees and essayed to gain the ground which no doubt he regretted he had ever quit. He was nearing the picquet fast, when the rustling in the heath, increased by the awkward position in which he moved, put us on the qui vive. Owgan, who was a dead shot with a rifle, and who on this day carried one, called out, in a low but clear tone, “I see you, and if you don’t answer you’ll be a dead man in a second”; and he cocked his rifle, showing he meant to make good his promise.

Whether it was that Seton knew the temperament of the last speaker, or was flurried by the recollection of what he was near receiving from his obstinate taciturnity with the French soldier, is uncertain. But in this instance he completely changed his plan of tactics, and replied in a low and scarcely audible tone, “Owgan! don’t fire—it’s me.” So soon as he recovered his natural and more comfortable position—for he was still “all-fours”—we congratulated him on his lucky escape, and I placed my canteen of brandy to his mouth; it did not require much pressing to prevail upon him to take a hearty swig, which indeed he stood much in need of.

The night passed over without further adventure or annoyance, and in the morning the picquets on both sides were relieved. The dead were buried without much ceremony, and the soldiers occupied themselves cleaning their arms, arranging their accoutrements, and cooking their rations. The enemy showed no great disposition to renew his attack, and a few of us obtained leave to go down to the village of Busaco, in order to visit some of our officers, who were so badly wounded as to forbid their being removed further to the rear. Amongst the number was the gallant Major Silver of the 88th. He had been shot through the body, and though he did not think himself in danger, as he suffered no pain, it was manifest to the medical men he could not live many hours. He gave orders to his servant to leave him for a short time, and attend to his horses; the man did so, but on his return in about a quarter of an hour he found poor Silver lying on his right side as if he was asleep—but he was dead! Silver was one of the best soldiers in the army, and was thanked by Colonel Donkin, who commanded the brigade at the battle of Talavera, for his distinguished bravery in that action. He was laid in a deep grave in the uniform he had fought and died in.

The day after the action some English troops passed through the town of Alcobaça on their route to join the army; and this circumstance, coupled with our victory, led the inhabitants to suppose they, as well as their property, were perfectly safe; and the idea of removing the one or the other never once occurred to them. Their surprise and confusion was in consequence increased tenfold when they beheld our troops enter the town. Alcobaça was at that time a beautiful rich village, notwithstanding that it supported a magnificent convent and several hundred priests and friars. Those gentlemen, although rigid in their mode of living at times, know as well as any other class of people how to live, and, having ample means of making out life at their disposal, it is not to be wondered at that the convent contained that which was far from unacceptable to us, namely quantities of provisions.

On our arrival in the town the inhabitants, terrified at the possibility of being captured by the French, fled, leaving, in many instances, their houses in such haste as not to allow themselves time to take away anything, not even their silver forks and spoons—a luxury which almost the poorest family in Portugal enjoys. These, and other articles, offered a strong temptation to our men to do that which they should not, i.e. possess themselves of whatever they found in those uninhabited mansions. Their doing so, to be sure, was a slight breach of discipline; but it was argued by the “friends of the measure,” that Lord Wellington having directed the country parts as well as the towns to be laid waste, in order to distress the enemy as much as possible, the Portuguese were highly culpable in neither taking away their property nor destroying it. It would be almost superfluous to add that an argument of so sound a nature, and delivered in the nick of time, had its due force; it in fact bore down all opposition, and those whose consciences at first felt anything like a qualm, in a little time became more at ease, so that by the time the houses had been about half-sacked, there was not one who, so far from thinking it improper to do what he had done, would not have considered himself much to blame had he pursued a different line of conduct.

The priests, more cautious, or perhaps better informed, removed their valuables; but in all their hurry they did not forget that hospitality for which they were proverbial. They left some of their brethren behind, who had a dinner prepared for our officers, and when their longer stay was useless to us, and might be attended with danger to themselves, they opened their different stores, and with a generous liberality invited us to take whatever we wished for. Poor men! Their doing so showed more their goodness of heart than their knowledge of the world. Had they been a little longer acquainted with the lads that were now about to stand in their places, they would not have thought such congé necessary. As soon as those good men left the dwelling in which they had passed so many tranquil years, we began to avail ourselves of the permission granted us, and which decency forbade our taking advantage of sooner. Every nook was searched with anatomical precision; not even a corner cupboard was allowed to escape the scrutiny of the present inmates of the convent, who certainly were as unlike the former in their demeanour as in their costume.

In taking a survey of the different commodities with which this place was supplied, I had the good fortune or, as it afterwards turned out, the bad fortune, to stumble upon several firkins of Irish butter. Unquestionably I never felt happier, because it was a luxury I had not tasted for months; but my servant, by a good-natured officiousness, so loaded my poor, half-starved, jaded mule with, not only butter, but everything else he could lay his paw upon, that, unable to sustain the shameful burden which had been imposed upon him, he fell exhausted in endeavouring to scramble through a quagmire, and I lost not only the cargo with which he was laden, but the animal himself; however, I had the consolation to know that few of the articles cost me anything, and he himself was a sort of windfall, having been found by my servant on the retreat.

The army continued its march upon Torres Vedras with little interruption from the enemy, and early in October we occupied our entrenched camp. This formidable position had its right at Alhandra on the Tagus; its left rested on the part of the sea where the river Zizambre empties itself, and along its centre was a chain of redoubts armed with cannon of different calibre; between these forts was a double and, in some instances, triple row of breastworks for the infantry, and the position might be considered faultless.

On the night of the 29th the French army made that flank movement which obliged Lord Wellington to retire, and which is so well known as to render any detail from me unnecessary; and on that night we took our leave of the mountain of Busaco, and commenced our march to the Lines of Torres Vedras.

CHAPTER V

Occupation of the Lines of Torres Vedras—An army in motley—An Irish interpreter—Death of the Marquis de la Romana—Retreat of Masséna’s army from Portugal—Indulgence of Lord Wellington—The amenities of a subaltern’s existence.

The astonishment of the French general was great when he beheld the reception prepared for him; and his friend the Duke d'Abrantes must have been lowered in his estimation not a little, because it is well known that, contrary to the advice of several able officers, Masséna was overruled by Junot, who assured him those heights could be easily carried.

After numerous reconnoissances, the French Marshal came to the resolution of renouncing any hope of success from an assault; and his army formed a line blockade, with its right at Otta, its centre at Alenquer, and its left at Villa Franca. But it must have been a matter of deep regret to him to have learned, when too late, that by this useless advance of his, he exposed upwards of three thousand of his wounded from the battle of Busaco, left at Coimbra, to be massacred by the Portuguese militia and peasantry.

For the space of a month the French army remained inactive in their wretched cantonments, their supply of provisions growing every day more scanty; their horses, reduced to the necessity of subsisting on the vine twigs, died by hundreds; and the soldiers, pining from disease, became discontented and discouraged. In consequence, the desertions increased with their increasing wants, and it appeared very evident that matters could not long continue in the state they had assumed at the beginning of November.

Although our situation was, in every respect, better than that of the enemy, we were far from comfortable. Our huts, from want of any good materials to construct them, were but a weak defence against the heavy rains which fell at this time. We had no straw to serve for thatch, and the heath which we were obliged to use as a substitute, though it looked well enough when in full leaf and blossom, and was a delightful shelter in fine weather, became a wretched protection against the torrents that soon after inundated us. The inside of our habitation presented an appearance as varied as it was uncomfortable; at one end might be seen a couple of officers, with their cloaks thrown about them, snoring on a truss of straw, while over their heads hung their blankets, which served as a kind of inner wall, and for a time stopped the flood that deluged the parts of the hut not so defended; but this, by degrees, becoming completely saturated with rain, not only lost its original appearance, but what was worse, its original usefulness; for the water, dripping down from the edges, gradually made its way towards the centre of the blanket, and thus, by degrees, it assumed a shape not unlike the parachute of a balloon. Finally the whole, being overpowered with its own weight, and either giving way at the point or bottom, or breaking its hold from the twigs which feebly held it at top, overwhelmed those it was intended to protect, and in the space of a minute more effectually drenched them than the heaviest fall of rain would have accomplished in several hours. In another corner lay some one else, who, for want of a better, substituted a sheet or an old tablecloth as a temporary defence; but this was even more disastrous than the blanket, for from the nature of its texture, and the imperfect manner in which it was from necessity pitched, it made but a poor stand; it soon performed the functions of a filtering machine, and with equal effect, though less force, was to the full as unserviceable as the blanket. Others, more stout and convivial, sat up smoking cigars and drinking brandy punch, waiting for the signal to proceed to our alarm-post, a duty which the army performed every morning two hours before day. This was by no means a pleasant task; scrambling up a hill of mud and standing shivering for a couple of hours in the dark and wet was exceedingly uncomfortable, but I don’t remember to have heard one single murmur; we all saw the necessity of such a line of conduct, and we obeyed it with cheerfulness.

On the 14th of November Masséna broke up his camp, and on that night his army was in full march upon Santarem; ours made a corresponding movement, and the headquarters were on the 18th established at Cartaxo.

It was the general opinion in the army that a battle in the neighbourhood of Santarem would be the result of those manœuvres, and this opinion was strengthened by Lord Wellington making a reconnoissance on the 19th; but although those expectations were disappointed, the situation of the troops was much improved, and their comforts increased. Our division occupied the town of Torres Vedras, while the other corps were in the villages of Alenquer, Azambujo, and Alcoentre. The French army foraged the country between Santarem and the river Zezere. Santarem was much strengthened, and the two armies were thus circumstanced at the end of November 1810.

Our fatigues being for a time at an end, we occupied ourselves in such pursuits as each of us fancied. We had no unnecessary drilling, nor were we tormented with that greatest of all bores to an officer at any time, but particularly on service, uniformity of dress. The consequence was that every duty was performed with cheerfulness; the army was in the highest state of discipline; and those gentlemen who had, or fancied they had, a taste for leading the fashion, had now a fine opportunity of bringing their talents into play.

With such latitude it is not to be wondered at that our appearance was not quite as uniform as some general officers would approve of; but Lord Wellington was a most indulgent commander; he never harassed us with reviews, or petty annoyances, which so far from promoting discipline, or doing good in any way, have a contrary effect. A corporal’s guard frequently did the duty at headquarters; and every officer who chose to purchase a horse might ride on a march. Provided we brought our men into the field well appointed, and with sixty rounds of good ammunition each, he never looked to see whether their trousers were black, blue, or grey; and as to ourselves, we might be rigged out in all the colours of the rainbow if we fancied it. The consequence was, that scarcely any two officers were dressed alike! Some with grey braided coats, others with brown; some again liked blue; while many from choice, or perhaps necessity, stuck to the “old red rag.” Overalls, of all things, were in vogue, and the comical appearance of a number of infantry officers loaded with leather bottoms to their pantaloons, and huge chains suspended from the side buttons, like a parcel of troopers, was amusing enough. Quantities of hair, a regular brutus, a pair of mustachios, and screw brass spurs, were essential to a first-rate Count, for so were our dandies designated. The “cut-down” hat, exactly a span in height, was another rage; this burlesque on a chapeau was usually out-topped by some extraordinary-looking feather; while, again, others wore their hats without any feather at all—and indeed this was the most rational thing they did. In the paroxysm of a wish to be singularly singular, a friend of mine shaved all the hair off the crown of his head, and he was decidedly the most outré-looking man amongst us, and consequently the happiest. I myself had a hankering to be a Count, and had I half as much money to spare as time, I should not have been outdone by any man in the army, so I hit upon the expedient of cutting my hat down a couple of inches lower than any one else: this I thought would be better than nothing. Lieutenant Heppenstal, of the 88th Regiment, was nearly falling a sacrifice to the richness of his dress. He belonged to the light troops of our army at the battle of Busaco, and was warmly engaged with the advance of the enemy. He was a man of the most determined bravery and gigantic strength, and more than once became personally engaged with the French riflemen. At one time, carried away by his daring impetuosity, he pursued his success so far as to be nearly mixed with the enemy; a number of Portuguese Caçadores, coming up at this moment, mistook him for a French general officer, and attempted to make him a prisoner; a scuffle ensued, in which he lost the skirts of his frockcoat; and it was not until an explanation took place that he was enabled to join his regiment in this laughable trim—his beautiful gold-tagged frock being converted into a regular spencer.

Poor Heppenstal! It was his first appearance under fire, and it was not difficult for those who witnessed his too gallant début to foresee that his career of glory would be short. He carried a rifle, and his unerring aim brought down many a man on the morning I am speaking of; but he did not long survive the praises so justly bestowed on him, and it will soon be my painful duty to record his death.

Dress, however, with its attractions, by no means engrossed all our thoughts; some were fond of shooting, and those whose tastes lay that way had plenty of sport, as the country abounded in game; others took to horse-racing, and here was a fine opportunity for the lovers of the turf and of dress to display their knowledge in both. Jockeys, adorned with all colours, were to be seen on the course, and the harlequin-like appearance of these equestrians was far from unpleasing. Some of the races were admirably contested, and afforded us as much gratification as those of Epsom and Doncaster do to the visitants of those receptacles of rank and fashion.

We had great inconvenience in making ourselves understood by our Portuguese allies, and a laughable circumstance of this sort took place between a friend of mine and a shoemaker, in the village of Rio Mayor. He left his boots, his only pair, to be mended, and understood they were to be put in serviceable condition for a crusado novo, less than three shillings of our money. Next day, on entering the shop, the man made two or three efforts to make the officer comprehend how well the work had been done; but it was all to no purpose, for my friend, not understanding one word of what was said, conceived the fellow wanted to impose a higher price upon him, and got into a violent rage. An Irish soldier, belonging to the 88th Regiment, of the name of Larracy, a shoemaker, who had been working for the Portuguese, a common indulgence allowed to the tradesmen of the army, came up to his officer and thus accosted him.

“Ah! your honour, I see you can’t talk to him, but lave him to me; I’ve been working in his shop these three weeks, and, saving your presence, there isn’t a bigger rascal in all Ireland; but I can spake as well as himself now, and I’m up to his ways.”

Larracy thus became interpreter and mediator, and it would be difficult to say in which character he best acquitted himself. Possessing no knowledge whatever of the language, notwithstanding his repeated assurances that he could talk it nately, he brought that happy talent for invention, for which the Irish most undeniably stand unrivalled, into play. Seizing one of the boots, he approached his employer, and suiting the word to the action, addressed him in the following words:—

“Si, senhor! Quanto the munnee, for the solee, the heelee, and the nailee?”

The astonishment portrayed in the countenance of the Portuguese baffles all description; he surveyed Larracy from head to foot, and with much gravity of manner replied, “En nào entendo-o que vós me dizeis.”[^[8]]—“And sure I’m telling him so,” rejoined Larracy. “What does the fellow say?” demanded my friend. “What does he say?—What does he say, is it? He says he put a fine pair of welts to your boots, sir (and it’s true for him!); and that your honour will have to give him a dollar [about two shillings more than was demanded by the Portuguese!], but just only lave him to me, and give me the dollar, and if I don’t bate him down in the price, never believe a word that I’ll tell your honour again; and I’ll carry home your boots for you, and bring you the account in rotation (by which he meant in writing), and the change of the dollar.”—“Oh! never mind, you are an honest fellow, Larracy, and keep the change for your trouble; but you may tell your employer it is the last job he shall ever do for me.”—“Och! sure I told your honour he was a blackguard,” grinned Larracy, escorting his officer to the door, and putting the dollar in his pocket.

[8]. “I do not understand a word you are saying to me.”

While in the other parts of the Peninsula much activity prevailed, with us all was quiet; and although the season was advancing towards spring, there was no appearance of our commencing the offensive, and conjectures innumerable were the consequence. Promotion, that great planet whose influence more or less affected us all, was perpetually on the tapis. There were some among us of a desponding cast; they would say, “Have we not lost Almeida, Rodrigo, and now, though last not least, Badajoz? And should we be obliged to evacuate the Peninsula, good-bye to promotion.” Others there were who held a different opinion, and, resting their hopes on some fortunate “turn-up,” expected ere long to have the enviable title of captain attached to their name. To this class I belonged, and as it was the most numerous in the army, it was in consequence the most clamorous on this head.

The life of a subaltern, in what Miss Mac-Tab would call a marching regiment, where many of us, and I myself for one, had little except our pay, is a perpetual scene of irritating calculation from the 24th of one month to the 24th of the next. No matter under what circumstances, or in what quarter of the globe the subaltern is placed, his first thought points towards that powerful magnet the twenty-fourth—his next to promotion.

The 24th has scarcely passed when the same routine is pursued, every hour increasing in interest according to the immediate wants of the calculator; and time rolls on, either rapidly or slowly, in the exact ratio with the strength or weakness of his purse. The moment he receives his pay he discharges his bills, and by the time he has got about half-way into the first week of the next month, he has little occasion for a knowledge of Cocker to enable him to calculate his money.

The period generally reckoned on by a subaltern to get his company, in a good fighting regiment—that is to say, one that had the good luck to be in the thick and thin of what was going on, for all regiments fight alike for that matter—was from five to six years. The “extra shilling” was rarely heard of, and never thought of but with disgust.[^[9]]

[9]. The extra shilling was given to lieutenants who had served in that rank seven years or more, and had not obtained a company.

CHAPTER VI

Excesses and sufferings of the French during their retreat—Combats of Foz d'Aronce and Sabugal—Battle of Fuentes d'Oñoro—Sir E. Pakenham, Colonel Wallace, and the 88th Regiment.

The retreat of the French army from Portugal commenced on the night of the 5th of March 1811, and was marked by acts more suited to a horde of barbarians than a European army. On the fact being ascertained at our headquarters, we were put in their track, which, when once found, it would have been a difficult matter to lose, the whole country through which they passed being a vast extent of burning ruins. Not a town, not a village, and rarely a cottage escaped the general conflagration. The beautiful town of Leyria was left a heap of ruins; Pombal shared the same fate; and the magnificent convent of Alcobaça was burned to the ground. Two of the finest organs in Europe were destroyed by this wanton act; and a century will be insufficient to repair the evils which a few months inflicted on this unfortunate country.

Scenes of the most revolting nature were the natural attendants on such a barbarous mode of warfare, and scarcely a league was traversed by our army, in its advance, without our eyes being shocked by some frightful spectacle. The French army was doubtless much exasperated against the Portuguese nation, in consequence of the manner in which they destroyed what would have contributed to the comforts of men who had been half-starved for six months. And now, after so many privations, having a long retreat before them, with a scanty allowance of provisions in their haversacks, it is more to be lamented than wondered at, that the march of the French troops was accompanied by many circumstances which were disgraceful to them.

On the 9th of March our advance-guard came up with the rear of the enemy, commanded by Marshal Ney, in the neighbourhood of Pombal. The Light Division was warmly engaged, and some charges of cavalry took place on the high ground near the castle; but the infantry of our division (the 3rd) arrived too late to support the Light, and no decisive result was the consequence. Masséna continued his retreat that night and next day; but on the 11th we found him posted on a rising ground near the village of Redinha; our army formed in line on the plain, and an action of some consequence was expected; but the French marshal was so pressed in front, while his left was vigorously attacked, that it was not without sustaining a severe loss he effected his passage across the river Redinha.

On the 15th we surprised their covering division while in the act of cooking near the village of Foz d'Aronce. They retreated in the greatest hurry, leaving several camp kettles full of meat behind them. As we approached the town, the road leading to it was covered with a number of horses, mules, and asses, all maimed; but the most disgusting sight was about fifty of the asses floundering in the mud, some with their throats half cut, while others were barbarously houghed or otherwise injured. What the object of this proceeding meant I never could guess; the poor brutes could have been of no use to us, or indeed any one else, as I believe they were unable to have travelled another league. The meagre appearance of these creatures, with their backbones and hips protruding through their hides, and their mangled and bleeding throats, produced a general feeling of disgust and commiseration.

The village of Foz d'Aronce was warmly contested, and more than once taken and retaken. Night put a stop to this affair, in which we sustained a loss of about four hundred men. The enemy lost nearly a thousand hors de combat;[^[10]] and, as usual, taking advantage of the night, got off, and continued their retreat upon Guarda, having destroyed the bridge on the river Ceira as they retired.

[10]. These figures are very wild. The English lost 4 officers and 60 men, the French 456 killed and wounded only, according to the official accounts.

The army did not lose any officer of rank in the affair of Foz d'Aronce, but the service sustained a loss in Lieutenant Heppenstal—a young man who, had he lived, would have been an ornament to a profession for which Nature seemed to have destined him. He was known to be one of the bravest men in the army, but on this occasion his usual spirits deserted him. He moved along silent, inattentive, and abstracted—a brisk firing in our front soon roused all his wonted energy, and he advanced with his men apparently cheerful as ever; turning to a brother officer he said, “You will laugh at what I am going to say; you know I am not afraid to die, but I have a certain feeling that my race is nearly run.”—“You jest,” said his friend. “No, I don’t,” was his reply; they shook hands, the light troops advanced, and in a few minutes the brave Heppenstal was a corpse. His presentiment was too just, and though I had heard of instances of the kind before, this was the first that came under my immediate observation. I ran up to the spot where he lay; he was bleeding profusely; his breast was penetrated by two bullets, and a third passed through his forehead. His death was singular, and it appeared as if he was resolved to fulfil the destiny that he had marked out for himself. Our light troops were gradually retreating on their reinforcements, and were within a few paces of the columns of infantry; his men repeatedly called out to him to retire with the rest, but he, either not hearing, or not attending to what they said, remained, with his back against a pine-tree, dealing out death at every shot. Pressed as we were for time, we dug him a deep grave at the foot of the tree where he so gallantly lost his life, and we laid him in it without form or ceremony.

Nothing particular occurred after the action of Foz d'Aronce until our arrival at Guarda. As usual, we met with groups of murdered peasantry and of French soldiers. At the entrance of a cave, amidst these rocky mountains, lay an old man, a woman, and two young men, all dead. This cave, no doubt, had served them as an asylum the preceding winter, and appearances warranted the supposition that these poor creatures, in a vain effort to save their little store of provisions, fell victims to the ferocity of their murderers. The clothes of the two young peasants were torn to atoms, and bore ample testimony that they did not lose their lives without a struggle to preserve them; the hands of one were dreadfully mangled, as if in a last effort to save his life he had grasped the sword which ultimately despatched him. Beside him lay his companion, his brother perhaps, covered with wounds; and a little to the right was the old man. He lay on his back with his breast bare; two large gashes were over his heart, and the back part of his head was beaten to pieces. Near him lay an old rusty bayonet fixed on a pole, which formerly served as a goad for oxen, and one of his hands grasped a bunch of hair, torn, no doubt, from the head of the assassin; the old woman was in all probability strangled, as no wound appeared on her body.

At some distance from this spot were two French soldiers belonging to the 4th Léger; their appearance was frightful. They had been wounded by our advance, and their companions either being too much occupied in providing for their own safety to think of them, or their situation being too hopeless to entertain an idea of their surviving, they were abandoned to the fury of the peasants, who invariably dodged on the flanks or in the rear of our troops. These poor wretches were surrounded by half a dozen Portuguese, who, after having plundered them, were taking that horrible vengeance too common during this contest. On the approach of our men they dispersed, but, as we passed on, we could perceive them returning like vultures that have been scared away from their prey for the moment, but who return to it again with redoubled voraciousness. Both the Frenchmen were alive, and entreated us to put an end to their sufferings. I thought it would have been humane to do so, but Napoleon and Jaffa flashed across me, and I turned away from the spot.[^[11]]

[11]. The reference is to the discredited story that Napoleon poisoned all his non-transportable wounded at Jaffa, during his retreat to Egypt, in order to prevent them from being massacred by the Turks.

On the 30th of March General Picton arrived before Guarda. His approach to that town was not only unperceived, but seemed unexpected, having advanced to within two gun-shots of the town without meeting a vedette. Such conduct on the part of the French general was not only culpable in the extreme, but showed the greatest presumption and confidence, because, had we a brigade of guns with us, and a few hundred cavalry, the five thousand men that occupied Guarda would have been forced to lay down their arms. Fortunately for them, we had neither the one nor the other; and instead of being in a condition to attack the town, we had the mortification to witness the French getting out of it, bag and baggage, as quick as they could. The scene of confusion that the streets presented was great; infantry, artillery, and baggage, men, women, and children, all mixed pell-mell together, hurrying to the high road leading to Sabugal. Our cavalry came up shortly after the enemy had evacuated the place, but too late to do much good. Some prisoners and baggage and a few head of cattle were captured, and we took up our quarters in the town for the night.

On the 3rd of April we again, and for the last time in Portugal, encountered the enemy at Sabugal. The Light Division had a gallant affair with the corps of General Reynier, and though greatly outnumbered, they not only succeeded in forcing the position, but captured a howitzer and several prisoners. The 3rd Division soon after reached the ground, and its leading battalions, especially the 5th Regiment, had deployed, and having thrown in a heavy fire, were advancing with the bayonet, when a violent hail-storm came on and completely hid the two armies from each other. Reynier hurried his divisions off the field; and this unlooked-for event snatched a brilliant exploit from us, as the total overthrow of this corps would have been in all probability the result.

The French suffered severely, but they never fought better; so rapidly did they fire that, instead of returning their ramrods, they stuck them in the ground for expedition, and continued to fight until overpowered by our men, who are certainly better at close fighting than long shot.

The enemy fought their howitzer well, and almost all the gunners lay dead about it. A young artillery officer was the first I took notice of—his uniform was still on him, an unusual thing; he wore a blue frock-coat; across his shoulder hung his cartouche-box; and the middle of his forehead was pierced by a musket ball. His features, which were beautiful, showed, nevertheless, a painful distortion, and it was evident that the shock which deprived him of life, though momentary, was one of excruciating agony. Beside him lay one of the gunners, whose appearance was altogether different from that of his officer. A round shot had taken off his thigh a few inches below the groin, and his death, though not as instantaneous, seemed to be void of pain. The bare stump exhibited a shocking sight—the muscles, arteries, and flesh, all hanging in frightful confusion, presented the eye with a horrid sample of the effects of those means made use of by man for his own destruction; the ramrod of the gun was near him; his back rested against one of the wheels; and there was that placid look in his countenance which would lead you to think he had sat himself down to rest.

The wounded having been all removed, and the enemy continuing their retreat, we bivouacked on the ground they had occupied at the commencement of the action, and the next day we went into cantonments. The French recrossed the Agueda, and Portugal was, with the exception of Almeida, freed from their presence, after they had occupied it for nearly eight months, and had inflicted on the inhabitants every misery it is possible to conceive.

Four weeks had scarcely elapsed when we were again called into action. On the 2nd of May Marshal Masséna passed the river Agueda at Rodrigo, and moved upon Almeida in order to supply it with provisions. He had left a garrison of three thousand men in that fortress, commanded by General Brennier, in whom he placed much confidence. The French Marshal stationed his army on the river Azava, in the neighbourhood of Carpio, Espeja, and Gallegos; and next day (the 3rd) made a movement on Almeida. Lord Wellington made a corresponding movement, and our army occupied a fine line of battle—its right at Nava d'Aver, the centre at Fuentes d'Oñoro, and the left resting on the ruins of the Fort de la Conception; in our front ran the little stream of Oñoro. General Pack’s brigade of Portuguese invested Almeida.

Without waiting to ascertain the strength or weakness of the position, Marshal Masséna, with that impetuosity which had formerly characterised him, ordered the village of Fuentes d'Oñoro to be carried; and to make his success certain the entire of the sixth corps was employed in the attack. The town was at this time occupied by some of our 1st Division, consisting of the Highland regiments, supported by others of the line, and the light companies of the 1st and 3rd Divisions, commanded by Major Dick of the 42nd Highlanders, and Colonel Williams of the 60th. The village was taken and retaken several times, and night found both armies occupying a part each.

Masséna, perceiving that the obstacles opposed to his carrying this point, which he considered the key of our position, were too great for him to surmount, employed himself during the 4th of May in reconnoitring our line, and in making preparations for the battle which was to take place the following day. On our side we were not inactive: the avenues leading to Pozobello and Fuentes were barricaded in the best manner the moment would allow; temporary defences were constructed at the heads of the different streets, and trenches dug here and there as a protection against the impetuous attacks expected from the cavalry of General Montbrun. We lay down to rest perfectly assured that every necessary precaution had been taken by our General; and as to the result of the battle, we looked upon that as certain, a series of engagements with the enemy having taught us to estimate our own prowess; and being a good deal overcome with the heat of the weather, we lay down to rest and slept soundly.

Day had scarcely dawned when the roar of artillery and musketry announced the attack of Fuentes d'Oñoro and Pozobello. Five thousand men filled the latter village, and after a desperate conflict carried it with the bayonet. General Montbrun, at the head of the French cavalry, vigorously attacked the right of our army; but he was received with much steadiness by our 7th Division, which, though it fought in line, repulsed the efforts made to break it, and drove back the cavalry in confusion. The light troops, immediately in front of the 1st and 3rd Divisions, were in like manner charged by bodies of the enemy’s horse, but by manœuvres well executed, in proper time, these attacks were rendered as fruitless as the main one against the right of our army. The officer who commanded this advance,[^[12]] either too much elated with his success, or holding the efforts of the enemy in too light a point of view, unfortunately extended his men once more to the distance at which light troops usually fight; the consequence was fatal. The enemy, though defeated in his principal attack, was still powerful as a minor antagonist; and seeing the impossibility of success against the main body, redoubled his efforts against those which were detached; accordingly he charged with impetuosity the troops most exposed, amongst whom were those I have been describing. The bugle sounded to close, but whether to the centre, right, or left, I know not; certain it is, however, that the men attempted to close to the right, when to the centre would have been more desirable, and before they could complete their movement the French cavalry were mixed with them.

[12]. Colonel Hill of the Guards: he was taken prisoner.

Our division was posted on the high ground just above this plain; a small rugged ravine separated us from our comrades; but although the distance between us was short, we were, in effect, as far from them as if we were placed upon the Rock of Lisbon. We felt much for their situation, but could not afford them the least assistance, and we saw them rode down and cut to pieces without being able to rescue them, or even discharge one musket in their defence.

Our heavy horse and the 16th Light Dragoons executed some brilliant charges, in each of which they overthrew the French cavalry. An officer of our staff, who led on one of those attacks, unhorsed and made prisoner Colonel La Motte of the 15th French Chasseurs; but Don Julian Sanchez, the Guerilla chief, impelled more by valour than prudence, attacked with his Guerillas a first-rate French regiment; the consequence was the total overthrow of the Spanish hero; and as I believe this was the first attempt this species of troops ever made at a regular charge against a French regiment, so I hope, for their own sakes, it was their last.

All the avenues leading to the town of Fuentes d'Oñoro were in a moment filled with French troops; it was occupied by our 71st and 79th Highlanders, the 83rd, the light companies of the 1st and 3rd Divisions, and some German and Portuguese battalions, supported by the 24th, 45th, 74th, and 88th British Regiments, and the 9th and 21st Portuguese.

The sixth corps, which formed the centre of the French army, advanced with the characteristic impetuosity of their nation, and forcing down the barriers, which we had hastily constructed as a temporary defence, came rushing on, and, torrent-like, threatened to overwhelm all that opposed them. Every street, and every angle of a street, were the different theatres for the combatants; inch by inch was gained and lost in turn. Whenever the enemy were forced back, fresh troops, and fresh energy on the part of their officers, impelled them on again, and towards mid-day the town presented a shocking sight; our Highlanders lay dead in heaps, while the other regiments, though less remarkable in dress, were scarcely so in the numbers of their slain. The French Grenadiers, with their immense caps and gaudy plumes, in piles of twenty and thirty together—some dead, others wounded, with barely strength sufficient to move; their exhausted state, and the weight of their cumbrous appointments, making it impossible for them to crawl out of the range of the dreadful fire of grape and round shot which the enemy poured into the town. Great numbers perished in this way, and many were pressed to death in the streets.

It was now half-past twelve o’clock, and although the French troops which formed this attack had been several times reinforced, ours never had; nevertheless the town was still in dispute. Masséna, aware of its importance, and mortified at the pertinacity with which it was defended, ordered a fresh column of the ninth corps to reinforce those already engaged. Such a series of attacks, constantly supported by fresh troops, required exertions more than human to withstand; every effort was made to sustain the post, but efforts, no matter how great, must have their limits. Our soldiers had been engaged in this unequal contest for upwards of eight hours; the heat was moreover excessive, and their ammunition was nearly expended. The Highlanders were driven to the churchyard at the top of the village, and were fighting with the French Grenadiers across the tomb-stones and graves; while the ninth French Light Infantry had penetrated as far as the chapel, distant but a few yards from our line, and were preparing to debouche upon our centre. Wallace with his regiment, the 88th, was in reserve on the high ground which overlooked the churchyard, and he was attentively looking on at the combat which raged below, when Sir Edward Pakenham galloped up to him, and said, “Do you see that, Wallace?”—“I do,” replied the Colonel, “and I would rather drive the French out of the town than cover a retreat across the Coa.”—“Perhaps,” said Sir Edward, “his lordship don’t think it tenable.” Wallace answering said, “I shall take it with my regiment, and keep it too.”—“Will you?” was the reply; “I’ll go and tell Lord Wellington so; see, here he comes.” In a moment or two Pakenham returned at a gallop, and, waving his hat, called out, “He says you may go—come along, Wallace.”

At this moment General Mackinnon came up, and placing himself beside Wallace and Pakenham, led the attack of the 88th Regiment, which soon changed the state of affairs. This battalion advanced with fixed bayonets in column of sections, left in front, in double quick time, their firelocks at the trail. As it passed down the road leading to the chapel, it was warmly cheered by the troops that lay at each side of the wall, but the soldiers made no reply to this greeting. They were placed in a situation of great distinction, and they felt it; they were going to fight, not only under the eye of their own army and general, but also in the view of every soldier in the French army; but although their feelings were wrought up to the highest pitch of enthusiasm, not one hurrah responded to the shouts that welcomed their advance. There was no noise or talking in the ranks; the men stepped together at a smart trot, as if on a parade, headed by their brave colonel.

It so happened that the command of the company which led this attack devolved upon me. When we came within sight of the French 9th Regiment, which were drawn up at the corner of the chapel, waiting for us, I turned round to look at the men of my company; they gave me a cheer that a lapse of many years has not made me forget, and I thought that that moment was the proudest of my life. The soldiers did not look as men usually do going into close fight—pale; the trot down the road had heightened their complexions, and they were the picture of everything that a chosen body of troops ought to be.

The enemy were not idle spectators of this movement; they witnessed its commencement, and the regularity with which the advance was conducted made them fearful of the result. A battery of eight-pounders advanced at a gallop to an olive-grove on the opposite bank of the river, hoping by the effects of its fire to annihilate the 88th Regiment, or, at all events, embarrass its movements as much as possible; but this battalion continued to press on, joined by its exhausted comrades, and the battery did little execution.

On reaching the head of the village, the 88th Regiment was vigorously opposed by the French 9th Regiment, supported by some hundred of the Imperial Guard, but it soon closed in with them, and, aided by the brave fellows that had so gallantly fought in the town all the morning, drove the enemy through the different streets at the point of the bayonet, and at length forced them into the river that separated the two armies. Several of our men fell on the French side of the water. About one hundred and fifty of the grenadiers of the Guard, in their flight, ran down a street that had been barricaded by us the day before, and which was one of the few that escaped the fury of the morning’s assault; but their disappointment was great, upon arriving at the bottom, to find themselves shut in. Mistakes of this kind will sometimes occur, and when they do, the result is easily imagined; troops advancing to assault a town, uncertain of success, or flushed with victory, have no great time to deliberate as to what they will do; the thing is generally done in half the time the deliberation would occupy. In the present instance, every man was put to death; but our soldiers, as soon as they had leisure, paid the enemy that respect which is due to brave men. This part of the attack was led by Lieutenant George Johnston, of the 88th Regiment.

CHAPTER VII

State of the town of Fuentes d'Oñoro after the battle—The wounded—Visit to an amputating hospital—General Brennier’s escape from Almeida—Booty in the camp.

As soon as the town of Fuentes d'Oñoro was completely cleared of the enemy, we sheltered ourselves in the best manner we could behind the walls, and at the angles of the different streets; but this was a task not easy to be accomplished, the French batteries continuing to fire with much effect. Nevertheless, Sir Edward Pakenham remained on horseback, riding through the streets with that daring bravery for which he was remarkable; if he stood still for a moment, the ground about him was ploughed up with round shot.

About this time Colonel Cameron, of the 79th Highlanders, fell, as did also Captain Irwin of the 88th Regiment. The death of the latter officer was singular. He had been many years in the army, but this was his first appearance in action. He was short-sighted, and the firing having in some degree slackened, he was anxious to take a view of the scene that was passing; he put his head above the wall behind which his men were stationed, but had scarcely placed his glass to his eye, when a bullet struck him in the forehead—he sprang from the earth and fell dead.

General Mackinnon and a group of mounted officers were behind the chapel wall, which was the highest point in the village, and consequently much exposed to the enemy’s view. This ill-built wall was but a feeble defence against round shot, and it was knocked down in several places, and some wide gaps were made in it. The general stood at one of these breaches giving his directions; he attracted the enemy’s notice, and they redoubled their fire on this point. Salvos of artillery astounded our ears, at each of which some part of the old wall was knocked about us; at one of these discharges, five or six feet of it was beaten down, and several men were crushed. Colonel Wallace, of the 88th, was covered with the rubbish, his hat was knocked off, and we thought he was killed, but fortunately he escaped unhurt.

By two o’clock the town was comparatively tranquil. The cannonading on the right of the line had ceased, but the enemy continued to fire on the town; this proceeding was attended with little loss to us, and was fatal to many of their wounded, who lay in a helpless state in the different streets, and could not be moved from their situation without great peril to our men—and they were torn to pieces by the shot of their own army. Several of these poor wretches were saved by the humane exertions of our soldiers, but still it was not possible to attend to all, and, consequently, the havoc made was great. Towards evening the firing ceased altogether, and it was a gratifying sight to behold the soldiers of both armies, who but a few hours before were massacring each other, mutually assisting to remove the wounded to their respective sides of the river. The town too, as was usual in such cases, was not passed unnoticed; it contained little, it is true, yet even that little was better than nothing; and it was laughable to see the scrupulous observation of etiquette practised by our men, when any windfall, such as a chest of bread or bacon, happened to fall to the lot of a group of individuals in their foraging excursions. The following was the method taken to divide the spoil, and as no national distinction was thought of, the French as well as the British shared in whatever was acquired. An old experienced stager or two took upon themselves the responsibility of making a division of the plunder according to the number that were present at the capture. This done, one of the party was placed with his back to the booty, when one of those who had partitioned it called out with an audible voice, “Who is to have this?” at the same time pointing to the parcel about to be transferred, while he that was appealed to without hesitation particularised some one of the number, who immediately seized on his portion, put it into his haversack, and proceeded in search of fresh adventures.

We had now leisure to walk through the town and observe the effects of the morning’s affray. The two armies lost about five thousand men, and as the chief of this loss was sustained by the troops engaged in the town, the streets were much crowded with the dead and wounded. French and British lay in heaps together, and it would be difficult to say which were most numerous. Some of the houses were also crowded with dead Frenchmen, who either crawled there after being wounded, in order to escape the incessant fire which cleared the streets, or who, in a vain effort to save their lives, were overpowered by our men in their last place of refuge; and several were thrust half-way up the large Spanish chimneys.

General Mackinnon, who directed the attack of the 88th Regiment, and accompanied it in its advance, ordered it to retire to the position it had previously occupied, and as he was unwilling to attract the notice of the enemy too much, he desired that this operation should be performed by companies. My company, or at least the one I commanded, was the first to quit the town. As I approached the spot where Sir Edward Pakenham was on horseback, he said, “Where are you going, sir?” not at the moment recognising the regiment. I told him that General Mackinnon had desired me to retire, but of course if he wished me to stay I would. “Oh no,” said he, “the 88th have done enough for this day; but the regiment that replaces you would do well to bring a keg of ammunition, each man, in addition to his sixty rounds, for, while I have life, the town shall not be taken.” He was in a violent perspiration and covered with dust, his left hand bound round with his pocket-handkerchief as if he had been wounded; he was ever in the hottest of the fire, and if the whole fate of the battle depended upon his own personal exertions he could not have fought with more devotion.

Lord Wellington caused the village of Fuentes d'Oñoro to be occupied by five thousand fresh troops. The Light Division was selected for this service, and it passed us about five o’clock on the evening of the 5th. General Craufurd took the command of this post, and every precaution was resorted to to strengthen the town; temporary walls were thrown up at the bottom of the streets, carts and doors were put into requisition to barricade every pass, but, as it turned out, those observances were unnecessary, for Marshal Masséna, giving up all idea of success, declined any further contest. Thus was the object of his movement frustrated—a battle lost, and Almeida left to its fate.

Our wounded were removed to Villa Formosa, and Lord Wellington decided upon diminishing his front. By this movement we lost our communication with Sabugal, but we effectually covered Almeida, and still possessed the pass of Castello Bom. At half-past nine o’clock at night, the regiments which had so bravely defended Fuentes d'Oñoro passed us, as we were about to lie down to rest; they were much fatigued, and we were struck with their diminished appearance. The 79th Highlanders, in particular, attracted our notice. We asked them what their loss had been; they said, thirteen officers, including their colonel, Cameron, and more than three hundred rank and file; and the soldiers were nearly correct in their estimate.[^[13]]

[13]. The 79th, by the official return, lost 32 killed, 152 wounded, and 94 missing—a total of 278.

The next day, the 6th, we had no fighting; each army kept its position, and Villa Formosa continued to be the receptacle for the wounded. This village is beautifully situated on a craggy hill, at the foot of which runs the little stream of Oñoro. Its healthful and tranquil situation, added to its proximity to the scene of action, rendered it a most desirable place for our wounded; the perfume of several groves of fruit-trees was a delightful contrast to the smell that was accumulating on the plain below; and the change of scene, added to a strong desire to see a brother officer, who had been wounded in the action of the 5th, led me thither.

On reaching the village, I had little difficulty in finding out the hospitals, as every house might be considered one, but it was some time before I discovered that which I wished for. At last I found it. It consisted of four rooms; in it were pent up twelve officers, all badly wounded. The largest room was twelve feet by eight, and this apartment had for its occupants four officers. Next the door, on a bundle of straw, lay two of the 79th Highlanders, one of them shot through the spine. He told me he had been wounded in the streets of Fuentes on the 5th, and that although he had felt a good deal of pain before, he was now perfectly easy and free from suffering. I was but ill skilled in surgery, but, nevertheless, I disliked the account he gave of himself. I passed on to my friend; he was sitting on a table, his back resting against a wall. A musket-ball had penetrated his right breast, and passing through his lungs came out at his back, and he owed his life to the great skill and attention of Doctors Stewart and Bell, of the 3rd Division. The quantity of blood taken from him was astonishing; three, and sometimes four, times a day they would bleed him, and his recovery was one of those extraordinary instances seldom witnessed. In an inner room was a young officer shot through the head. His was a hopeless case. He was quite delirious and obliged to be held down by two men; his strength was astonishing, and more than once, while I remained, he succeeded in escaping from the grasp of his attendants. The Scotch officer’s servant soon after came in, and, stooping down, inquired of his master how he felt, but received no reply; he had half turned on his face; the man took hold of his master’s hand, it was still warm, but the pulse had ceased—he was dead. The suddenness of this young man’s death sensibly affected his companions; and I took leave of my friend and companion, Owgan, fully impressed with the idea that I should never see him again.

I was on my return to the army when my attention was arrested by an extraordinary degree of bustle, and a kind of half-stifled moaning, in the yard of a quinta, or nobleman’s house. I looked through the grating, and saw about two hundred wounded soldiers waiting to have their limbs amputated, while others were arriving every moment. It would be difficult to convey an idea of the frightful appearance of these men: they had been wounded on the 5th, and this was the 7th; their limbs were swollen to an enormous size. Some were sitting upright against a wall, under the shade of a number of chestnut-trees, and many of these were wounded in the head as well as limbs. The ghastly countenances of these poor fellows presented a dismal sight. The streams of gore, which had trickled down their cheeks, were quite hardened with the sun, and gave their faces a glazed and copper-coloured hue; their eyes were sunk and fixed, and what between the effects of the sun, of exhaustion, and despair, they resembled more a group of bronze figures than anything human—there they sat, silent and statue-like, waiting for their turn to be carried to the amputating tables. At the other side of the yard lay several whose state was too helpless for them to sit up; a feeble cry from them occasionally, to those who were passing, for a drink of water, was all that we heard.

A little farther on, in an inner court, were the surgeons. They were stripped to their shirts and bloody. Curiosity led me forward; a number of doors, placed on barrels, served as temporary tables, and on these lay the different subjects upon whom the surgeons were operating; to the right and left were arms and legs, flung here and there, without distinction, and the ground was dyed with blood.

Dr. Bell was going to take off the thigh of a soldier of the 50th, and he requested I would hold down the man for him. He was one of the best-hearted men I ever met with, but, such is the force of habit, he seemed insensible to the scene that was passing around him, and with much composure was eating almonds out of his waistcoat-pockets, which he offered to share with me, but, if I got the universe for it, I could not have swallowed a morsel of anything. The operation upon the man of the 50th was the most shocking sight I ever witnessed; it lasted nearly half an hour, but his life was saved.

Turning out of this place towards the street, I passed hastily on. Near the gate an assistant-surgeon was taking off the leg of an old German sergeant of the 60th. The doctor was evidently a young practitioner, and Bell, our staff-surgeon, took much trouble in instructing him. It is a tolerably general received opinion, that when the saw passes through the marrow the patient suffers most pain; but such is not the case. The first cut and taking up the arteries is the worst. While the old German was undergoing the operation, he seemed insensible of pain when the saw was at work; now and then he would exclaim in broken English, as if wearied, “Oh! mine Got, is she off still?” but he, as well as all those I noticed, felt much when the knife was first introduced, and all thought that red-hot iron was applied to them when the arteries were taken up. The young doctor seemed much pleased when he had the sergeant fairly out of his hands, and it would be difficult to decide whether he or his patient was most happy; but, from everything I could observe, I was of opinion that the doctor made his début on the old German’s stump. I offered up a few words—prayers they could not be called—that, if ever it fell to my lot to lose any of my members, the young fellow who essayed on the sergeant should not be the person to operate on me.

Outside of this place was an immense pit to receive the dead from the general hospital, which was close by. Twelve or fifteen bodies were flung in at a time, and covered with a layer of earth, and so on, in succession, until the pit was filled. Flocks of vultures already began to hover over this spot, and Villa Formosa was now beginning to be as disagreeable as it was the contrary a few days before. This was my first and last visit to an amputating hospital, and I advise young gentlemen, such as I was then, to avoid going near a place of the kind, unless obliged to do so—mine was an accidental visit.