CHAPTER I.

Transcriber’s Note

Italic text displayed as: _italic_

[Illustration: soldier sitting]

RECOLLECTIONS

OF THE

EVENTFUL LIFE OF A SOLDIER.

BY THE LATE

JOSEPH DONALDSON,

SERGEANT IN THE NINETY-FOURTH SCOTS BRIGADE.

‘I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver—

Of moving accidents by flood and field,

Of hair-breadth ’scapes i’ the imminent deadly breach,

And with it all my travel’s history.’

SHAKSPEARE.

‘The romance of real life certainly goes beyond all other romances.’

MISS EDGEWORTH.

NEW EDITION.

LONDON AND GLASGOW:

RICHARD GRIFFIN & COMPANY.

1859.

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

The ensuing narrative was originally published in three successive

volumes, entitled respectively,—‘RECOLLECTIONS OF THE EVENTFUL LIFE

OF A SOLDIER’—‘THE WAR IN THE PENINSULA’—AND ‘SCENES AND SKETCHES IN

IRELAND.’ Although these volumes were eminently successful, the form

in which they were brought out rendered them accessible to only a

comparatively small portion of the community. They are now collected

into one volume, and published at a price which brings the work

within the reach of all classes of people.

The narrative, from its outset to its close in 1814, embraces a

period of about twenty-one years, fifteen of which relate to the

author’s boyhood, and the remaining six to his career in the army.

The circumstance of the work having been published anonymously will

account for the scrupulous care with which he has avoided making

any such allusions as might be calculated to draw aside the veil

of his incognito. In this Edition, however, the author’s name, the

number of his regiment, and the rank he held in it, are given;

the names of places, so far as they could be ascertained, and of

individuals, so far as was deemed prudent, which were left blank

in the early Edition, have been supplied in this—but in other

respects the original text has been preserved. The only part of the

soldier’s story which begets a feeling of disappointment is its

abrupt termination. The vicissitudes of his subsequent career might

have formed an interesting, though melancholy, sequel to the present

volume. The few particulars we have gathered refer chiefly to that

period of his life.

While in Ireland in 1814, about a year previous to the conclusion of

the narrative, the author married the individual of whom, under the

name of Mary M’Carthy, he speaks in such high terms of admiration

in the ‘Scenes and Sketches.’ By this union he became the father of

ten children, seven of whom died in early life. In 1815, he returned

with his family to Glasgow, where he underwent various changes of

fortune, more particularly adverted to in the narrative, which

induced him ‘to resume the uniform of a soldier.’ He accordingly

embarked with his family for London, and enlisted in the service of

the East India Company, in which he was soon promoted to the rank of

recruiting sergeant. This occupation, while, contrary to his wishes,

it imposed on him the duty of remaining in this country, afforded

facilities for indulging those literary and scientific predilections

which had distinguished him in the Peninsula; and he now endeavoured

to turn them to advantage by the study of anatomy and medicine. Thus

occupied, he remained in London, until, in 1817, he was removed

to Glasgow, where he began and completed writing from memory the

interesting ‘Recollections’ which form the first portion of this

volume, the proceeds of which enabled him still farther to prosecute

his studies at the University, where, ‘exchanging the tartan for

the broadcloth,’ he mingled unobserved among the other students. In

consequence of his great dislike to the revolting practices which

at that time characterized the recruiting service, he applied to

Captain William Marshall, Superintendent of the East India Company in

Edinburgh, who, through the influence of Colonel Hastings, got him

transferred to the situation of head-clerk in the Glasgow Military

District Office, where he remained for some years. During this

period, he completed, in rapid succession, the consecutive portions

of his ‘Eventful Life.’

In 1827, having procured his discharge, he was enabled, on the

trifling proceeds of his literary labours, and by dint of severe

economy and close application, to take the degree of surgeon. Shortly

afterwards, he removed to the town of Oban in Argyllshire, where he

continued to practise his new profession with as much success as

a field so circumscribed would permit, till the year 1829, when,

wearied with the proverbial drudgery of such a life, and anxious

to give greater scope to his talents, he once more embarked for

London, leaving his wife and children in Scotland. With ‘manners and

dispositions not framed in the world’s school,’ it is scarcely matter

of surprise that in such a place as the metropolis he failed to

procure the employment he sought. He remained there several months,

occasionally solacing his dreary hours with that species of literary

composition which was his chief delight. Besides contributions

to periodicals, he completed a work, entitled ‘Life in Various

Circumstances,’ which, had not the MS. been unfortunately lost, with

other property, on its way from France two years afterwards, might

have precluded the necessity of this brief and imperfect notice.

Unsuccessful in London, he proceeded to Paris, where, while attending

the anatomical academies, he died in October, 1830, of pulmonary

disease, at the early age of thirty-seven.

Mrs Donaldson, from whom the foregoing particulars have been

obtained, still lives, but since her husband’s death, and, indeed,

for some years previous, has suffered severe privation and poverty.

The sole dependence to which she and her remaining daughter can look

forward with hope, is to this Edition of the recorded Recollections

of her husband’s misfortunes, now published for her behoof.

GLASGOW, _Sept., 1855_.

AUTHOR’S PREFACE.

The present Work was first published in separate volumes, within a

twelvemonth of each other, under the title of ‘Recollections of an

Eventful Life,’ and ‘The Peninsular War.’ The favourable reception

they met with from the Public, even in their unavoidably imperfect

state, far exceeded my most sanguine expectations. Many, indeed,

alleged ‘that they were the production of some book-maker,’ and

others ‘that some person of literary ability must have assisted the

soldier.’ Neither, however, is the fact. Such as the narrative is,

it was composed and written by me without the slightest assistance.

Indeed, I think it strange that scepticism on that point should have

been excited. Why should not a soldier (if he has cultivated his

natural abilities) express himself in a tolerable manner as well

as an individual of a different class? It would be more strange if

a particular grade of men were to engross all the talent existing;

and it is only the presuming arrogance of rank, or the overweening

conceit of literary pedantry, which would seek to shut the door

against the exercise of talent, merely because the individual does

not enjoy any of the arbitrary distinctions which they themselves

have created.

As to my being really an actor in the scenes I have described, I

believe little doubt now exists in the public mind. I could at once

dissipate it, by giving my name and the number of my regiment; and I

would have done so, were it not that it might point out too minutely

some ill-favoured characters which I have given in the work. Fear

for myself would not prevent me; but I have no personal enmity to

gratify, and I shall feel sufficiently satisfied, if the picture

drawn deter others from following their example.

My unsettled situation caused the former Edition of the work to be

so hurriedly written, that many errors escaped notice, which, in the

present, I have endeavoured to amend. The two volumes are now thrown

into one, forming a continued narrative down to the close of the

war, and several incidents added, which were omitted in the first

Edition. If in its former state it excited an interest in the public

mind, I trust it is now rendered more worthy of its approbation. I

am aware that there are still imperfections in it that will require

indulgence—an indulgence, however, which, I am persuaded, will be

readily conceded to the humble station of

THE AUTHOR.

THE EVENTFUL LIFE OF A SOLDIER.

CHAPTER I.

I was born in Glasgow: my father held a situation in a mercantile

house, that enabled him to keep his family respectable. I was the

only surviving child, and no expense would have been spared on my

education, had I been wise enough to appreciate the value of it; but,

unfortunately for me, that was not the case. I had early learned to

read; but novels, romances, and fairy tales, were my favourite books,

and soon superseded all other kinds of reading. By this means, my

ideas of life were warped from reality, and the world I had pictured

in my imagination was very unlike the one in which I lived. The

sober realities of life became tiresome and tasteless. Still panting

after something unattainable, I became displeased with my situation

in life, and neglected my education—not because I disliked it; on

the contrary, I was fond of learning, and used to form very feasible

plans of study, wherein I omitted nothing that was necessary to form

the accomplished gentleman. I could pleasingly, in imagination, skim

over the whole course of literature, and contemplate my future fame

and wealth as the result; but when I considered how many years of

arduous application would be required, I was too impatient to put it

into practice. I had required too great a facility in raising castles

in the air, and embellishing them with my fancy, to submit to the

drudgery of building on a more stable foundation. Thus, straining at

shadows, I lost substantial good.

Amongst other books which fell into my hands, when very young, was

Robinson Crusoe. It was a great favourite; and at that time, I

believe I would willingly have suffered shipwreck, to be cast on

an island like his. An island to one’s self, I thought, what a

happiness! and I have dreamed for hours together, on what I would do

in such a situation. I have often played truant to wander into the

fields, and read my favourite books; and, when I was not reading, my

mind was perfectly bewildered with the romantic notions I had formed.

Often have I travelled eagerly to the summit of some neighbouring

hill, where the clouds seemed to mark the limits of the world I lived

in, my mind filled with an indescribable expectation that I would

there meet with something to realise my wild ideas, some enchanted

scene or other; and when I reached its summit, and found those

expectations disappointed, still the next similar place had the same

attraction. The sky, with the ever-varying figures of the clouds, was

an inexhaustible field for my imagination to work in; and the sea,

particularly those views of it where the land could not be seen from

the shore, raised indescribable feelings in my breast. The vessels

leaving the coast, thought I, must contain happy souls; for they

are going far away,—all my fancied happy worlds were there. Oh, I

thought, if I could once pass that blue line that separates the ocean

and the sky!—then should I be content; for it seems the only barrier

between me and happiness.

I was often beat for being absent from school, and urged to tell the

cause. The reason I felt, but could not describe; and, the same fault

recurring again and again, I was at last set down as incorrigible.

What most surprised my friends was, that I never had any companions

in my rambles; but a companion would have spoiled all my visions.

Never did I enjoy so pure unmixed delight, as in those excursions:

I feel not now, as I then did, the novelty of life and nature; but

memory cherishes with fondness her first-born feelings, and I regret

that those happy days are gone for ever.

So ill exchanged for riper times,

To feel the follies and the crimes,

Of others or my own.

In some old romances which I had read, the life of a shepherd was

described in colours so glowing, that I became quite enamoured of

it, and would not give my parents rest until they procured such a

situation for me. It was in vain that they assured me I would find

every thing different in that life from what I imagined. I could

not believe it. They made some agreement with a farmer, from whom

they got their milk and butter, to take me out with him to his farm,

that I might learn the truth by experience. I set off with him

on his buttermilk cart, my mind filled with the most extravagant

anticipations of my new employment, and arrived at the farmer’s house

at night. Next morning I was called up at four o’clock to my new

avocation, and an old man was sent out with me to show me my charge.

I was left by him on a bleak hill, with four-score sheep, and told

that my breakfast and dinner would be brought out to me. I sat down

to contemplate the scene; there were no sylvan groves, no purling

streams, no shepherds piping in the dale,—nothing but peat-bog was to

be seen for miles around; the few scathed hills which reared their

heads above the blackened soil were covered with heather, which still

retained its winter suit; the shepherds had none of the appendages

attributed to them in poetry or romance, they had neither pipe nor

crook, and shepherdesses there were none. I tried to transform the

female servant, who was in my master’s house, into a shepherdess;

but it would not do. It was a horrible caricature; she was a strong

masculine looking Highland girl, any thing but lovely or romantic.

Surely, thought I, there must be some mistake here. I never spent a

day so lonely and tiresome. My flock seemed to think they had got

a fool to deal with, for they ran in every direction but the right

one. It is true I had a dog, but he did not understand my language.

We had not been long enough acquainted; and, by the time night

came, I was pretty well convinced that the life of a shepherd was

not what I had imagined it. Day after day passed, without realising

any of my expectations. My feet got sore running through the rough

heather, and I returned to my parents about a month after, completely

cured of my predilection for a shepherd’s life. One would think

that this disappointment would have rendered me more cautious in

forming opinions from the same source—but no! Indeed, it was ever my

misfortune to pay dearly for my experience, and to profit little by

that of others.

CHAPTER II.

I found few boys of my own age, who entered into my notions. One,

indeed, I did find equally extravagant, and we were scarcely ever

separate. Tired of living under the control of our parents, we

determined to make a bold push at independence. We mustered as much

money as bought the sixteenth of a lottery ticket. In the interval

between buying and drawing—how we did dream! It never entered our

minds that we would get less than the share of a prize of £30,000;

and, of course, the disposal of the cash was the constant theme of

our conversation. At last the wished for day arrived, on which we

were to receive intelligence of the fate of our ticket. We did not

go to inquire concerning it until night. With hearts fluttering with

apprehension, we went to the shop where we had bought it. I would

not go in, but sent in my companion. I durst scarcely look after

him. To such an intense pitch of interest was my mind wrought up,

that the criminal on his trial for some capital crime could not

wait with more dreadful anxiety for the verdict of the jury, than

I did for my companion to come out. He did come, but I was afraid

to look him in the face, lest I should read disappointment in it.

I waited for him to speak, but his tongue refused its office. I at

last ventured to look in his face, and there I read the truth. Had

he spoken and told me it was a blank, I might have doubted him, and

thought he only joked me; but I could never doubt the expression of

despair which I saw there depicted. Not a word was exchanged, we

walked on in stupified vexation. After wandering about for some time

unconscious of where we were going, he at last burst into tears. I

could have willingly joined him, but I suspected that something else

preyed on his mind. On asking him what distressed him so much, he

said that part of the money with which he had purchased his share of

the lottery ticket was the balance of an account, due to his father,

which he had received without his knowledge. He depended on the

receipt of his prize to pay it with interest, but now those hopes

were blasted; he could never face home—his countenance would betray

him, and his father was very severe.

He said he was determined to go to Greenock, and engage with some

merchant vessel bound to Surinam. He had an uncle a planter there,

and, of course, when he should arrive, there would be no danger of

him; his uncle would procure his discharge from the ship, and the

result, that he would become a gentleman. I listened eagerly to this.

We had often expatiated on the pleasure of seeing foreign countries,

and I resolved to accompany him, not doubting but his uncle would

provide for me also, for his sake. Any thing like adventure was

always welcome to me, and my mind was soon decided.

We had no money, however, to carry us to Greenock; but I recollected

a person who owed my father money, and I proposed to go and ask it

in my father’s name. This was the first time I had ventured to do

any thing so glaringly dishonest, and I hesitated long. I passed the

door a dozen times before I mustered effrontery enough to go in; but

it was drawing near the hour of shutting up, and I was obliged to

resolve. I went in and asked the money. The candle burned dimly, and

I stood as much in the shade as possible, but I am sure he noticed my

embarrassment. However, he gave the money, and we hurried out of the

town immediately.

We travelled all night, and next morning arrived in Greenock. After

getting some breakfast, and brushing ourselves up a little, although

we were very tired, we resolved in looking out for a vessel. On

inquiry, we learned that there was no vessel in the harbour bound for

Surinam. This was a disappointment; but, we thought, if we were once

in the West Indies, we would find little difficulty in getting to the

desired spot.

The first vessel we came to, was a ship bound for Kingston, Jamaica.

We went on board; and, inquiring for the captain, asked if he wanted

any men. He looked at us with a smile of contempt, eyeing us from

head to foot, ‘_Men_,’ said he, laying a particular emphasis on the

word, (for neither of us exceeded thirteen years of age,) ‘it would

be a pretty vessel that would be mann’d with such _men as you_—Whaur

hae ye come frae na? Ye’ll be some runawa weaver callans frae

Glasgow, I’se warrant ye; but ye had better gang hame again, for I’m

thinkin’ ye’ll like the sea waur than the loom.’ We were galled by

his reply; but consoled ourselves with the idea that some one else

would be glad to get us.

After trying several other vessels with nearly the same success, at

last, tired and crest-fallen, we were going home to our lodging,

when an old man, who had seen us going from one vessel to another,

accosted us, and asked if we wanted a ship. Replying in the

affirmative, ‘you need not want that long,’ said he, ‘for if you go

with me, I will soon find one for you. Where do you wish to go?’

‘To Surinam.’

‘Then, you could not have come in a better time, for there is a

vessel lying in the roads ready to sail for that place.’

‘Do you think they will take us?’ said we.

‘Oh, to be sure they will, and glad to get you, I’ll take you on

board now if you like.’

We assented, and he went to procure a boat to take us on board.

When he was gone, a sailor, who was standing by and saw us talking to

the old man, came up, and asked us what he had been saying. Having

told him, he said the sooner we were off out of that the better; for

the fellow, who had been talking to us, was one of a set of rascals

in the pay of the press-gang; and that, instead of putting us on

board of a vessel such as he described, he would put us on board the

Tender; and that there was actually no such vessel in the roads as

the one he had mentioned. We lost no time in taking his advice, and

hurried home to our lodgings.

When there, my spirits began to sink; and the thought of how I

had left my parents, and the distress they must be in about me,

completely overcame me, and I burst into tears; and my companion

feeling as bad as myself, we resolved to return home, and ask

forgiveness of our parents; but, being fatigued with travelling, we

put off our return until next morning.

When we got up next day, our minds had recovered some of their former

elasticity, and we felt less disposed to return than we did the

preceding evening. The idea of the ridicule which we should have to

encounter from our acquaintance, and on my part, the stigma which

would be thrown on my character for drawing the money in my father’s

name, seemed to be insurmountable barriers in the way, so we walked

into the town with our minds still undecided.

In crossing the main street, we met one of our old school-fellows,

who had run away from his parents about six months before. He had

just returned from the West Indies; and having leave for a few days

to go to Glasgow to see his friends, he had got himself rigged out in

the jolly-tar style—his Jacket and trowsers of fine blue cloth, white

stockings, short-quartered shoes, a black silk handkerchief tied

loosely round his neck, over which the collar of his checked shirt

was folded neatly down—a glazed hat on his head, and an enormous quid

of tobacco in his cheek. In fact, he was so completely metamorphosed,

that we scarcely knew him: for when at school, he was remarked for

being a soft, dull sort of boy.

On seeing us, he seized a hand of each, and exclaimed, ‘Oh, my

eyes! Joe and Bill! how are ye, my hearties? what has brought you to

Greenock; be you looking out for a berth?’ We were expressing our

pleasure at having met him, when he said, ‘Don’t be standing here in

the street. Let’s go and get a glass of grog.’ We remarked, that it

would look very odd for boys like us to go into a tavern and call for

liquor; but Tom thought that a very foolish objection, and leading

the way into a tavern, we followed him. As he walked in before us,

I perceived that he had altered his manner of walking quite to the

rocking gait of the veteran tar. I certainly thought that Tom had

been an apt scholar; he seemed to be as finished a sailor as if he

had been twenty years at sea. From being a boy of few words, he had

acquired a surprising volubility of tongue, along with an affected

English accent. He could curse and swear, chew tobacco and drink

grog; and although we perceived much affectation in what Tom said and

did, still we were disposed to think him a very clever fellow. When

seated over our grog, we disclosed our minds to him, and inquired if

he could assist us in getting a vessel. Tom looked rather grave on

this subject, and sinking his voice from the high English accent he

had acquired so rapidly, said he was not sure whether he could get a

vessel for us or not; ‘but,’ said he, ‘in the mean time drink your

grog, and we will see about that after.’

Warmed by the liquor, Tom began and gave us an account of his voyage,

which, as he afterwards owned, he painted in very extravagant

colours. We were so charmed with his description, that we gave up

all idea of going home, and adjourned from the tavern to Tom’s

lodgings, where he displayed to our wondering eyes the treasures he

had acquired by his West India voyage—conch shells, cocoa nut, and

stalks of Indian corn, which were designed to grace his mother’s

chimney-piece, and excite the wonder of her visitors.

Between the liquor we had drunk, and what we had heard and seen, we

were in high spirits, and went out to perambulate the town; but,

going up the main street, towards the head inn, I met my father

full in the face. He had just arrived from Glasgow in search of us.

I thought I would have sunk into the earth. Confounded and ashamed,

I stood like a felon caught in some depredation. Tom ran off, and

left William and I to manage affairs as we could. My father was the

first who broke silence.— ‘Well, Joseph,’ said he, ‘will you tell

me the meaning of this jaunt you have taken? But I am going to Mr

C——’s, and you had better come with me, and we shall talk over the

matter there.’ We followed him without saying a word, and when we

were seated in Mr C——’s, he again asked my motive for leaving home.

I looked in William’s face, and saw he was determined. I then said

we were resolved on going to sea, and that we had come to Greenock

for that purpose. Mr C. and my father said every thing they could to

dissuade us from our foolish resolution, but to little purpose. The

idea of the ridicule we would have to bear from our acquaintance if

we returned, and Tom’s exaggerated description of the pleasures of a

sea life, had confirmed us in our determination.

‘Well,’ said my father (after he had reasoned the matter with me, and

painted what a sailor’s life was in reality, with little effect,) ‘I

might exert the right I have over you, as a parent, in forcing you

to return, but I will not. If you have so far forgot your duty to

me, and to yourself, after all that I have done for you, as to throw

yourself away as a common ship-boy, where you can have no opportunity

of learning any thing but wickedness, you may do it, but remember my

words—_you will repent it_, when you will perhaps have no father to

question the propriety of your conduct. Indeed, after the dishonest

action you have been guilty of at home, I don’t know but your

presence would be more disagreeable to me than your absence, unless

you altered much for the better; and if I have any very anxious wish

that you would return, it is more on your poor mother’s account than

my own. Oh, how could you leave us in the manner you did, without a

cause?—The first night you were absent from home, your mother was

frantic. She wandered from place to place in search of you—and was

sure you were not in life—that some accident had befallen you. When

she knows the truth, how cruel must she think you?—O! Joseph, after

all our care and attention, I am afraid you will bring down our gray

hairs with sorrow to the grave.’

Here the tears came into my father’s eyes, and his voice became

choked. I could bear it no longer, and burst into tears. My first

impulse was to throw myself at his feet, and beg forgiveness; but the

obstacles which were in the way of my return before, again recurring

to my mind, prevented me, and I only wept in sullen silence.

‘Say no more to him now,’ said Mr C. ‘Give him until to-morrow to

think on what you have said; and if he be then of the same opinion,

we shall procure a good ship for him, and see him properly fitted

out.’ My father took his advice, and did not resume the subject that

day. He wrote, however, to William’s father, telling where his son

was.

Next morning, he arrived, and insisted on taking him home by force,

and even beat and abused him in the house we were in; but my father

and Mr C. interfered and represented to him how foolish his conduct

was, as he might be sure the boy would take the first opportunity of

running away again. He was at last brought to reason, and agreed to

be guided by my father. We were again asked what we had determined on

doing, and I replied that we were fixed in our determination of going

to sea.

It was then proposed to get us bound immediately as my father could

not be spared from his business, and was obliged to return next day.

Mr C. took us to a friend of his, a Mr G. a respectable merchant and

ship-owner, who was in want of apprentices at that time for some of

his vessels. We were there bound for three years, and attached to a

letter-of-marque brig, which carried 18 guns, loading at that time

for New Providence.

The afternoon was spent in purchasing the necessary articles to fit

me out. When that was finished, my father, feeling uneasy on my

mothers account, resolved to return to Glasgow that night. Before

going away he said, ‘I could almost wish your mother saw you before

you went away—and yet, perhaps it would be better that she would

not. You will soon find yourself among very strange company; and if

I am not wrong informed, company from whom you will be able to learn

little that is good; but I trust you will remember the religious

instruction you have received from your parents, when you are far

from them; and although you have grieved and disobeyed your earthly

parents, I hope you will not forget your Creator. Remember his eye is

on you wherever you go; and although you may be bereft of every other

stay, still he will be ever with you, to succour, and to help, if you

call upon him. Farewell, my boy, God help you!’

My heart sunk within me. As the coach started, I saw him wipe the

tears from his eyes. I must surely be a hardened wretch, thought

I, to persist so resolutely in what I know to be wrong, and

what is breaking the heart of my parents; but I was roused from

my reflections by some one slapping me on the shoulder. It was

Tom—‘Well, my boys, so you have got bound to our owner—have you?’

‘Do you belong to Mr G. also?’ said I.

‘To be sure, and I don’t think but I shall get into your ship too,

although she sails so soon; for I don’t like the one I am in.’

We felt well pleased that Tom was to be our shipmate; and in the

contemplation of all the good fortune that I thought awaited me, I am

ashamed to say, that I nearly forgot my distressed parents.

As for William, the moment his father set off, (for my father and his

went up to Glasgow together,) the poor fellow seemed quite relieved!

His mother had died when he was very young, and his father being a

man of a morose severe disposition, he scarcely knew what parental

tenderness was.—How different from me! He had some excuse for what

he had done; but I had none.

Tom went up to Glasgow next day, to see his friends; and a day or two

after, William and I were sent on board, to commence our seamanship.

The first day or two passed away well enough. There was little or

nothing to do. The third day, the mate called us aft to the quarter

deck. ‘Do you see that flag?’ said he, pointing to the mast head. It

had got entangled in the signal halliards. ‘Now let me see which of

you will get up first and clear it.’

Will and I got on the shrouds, and mounted with great alacrity, until

we got to that part of the shrouds which takes a sweep outwards

to meet the edge of the top. Will was up over it in a twinkling;

for he had been used to mount the rigging of the vessels at the

Broomielaw; but I thought it a dangerous-looking place, and seeing a

hole through the top, by the side of the mast, I proceeded to squeeze

myself through it; which being an offence against the laws of good

seamanship, (as the sailors’ name for it denotes, being called the

_lubber’s hole_,) the mate seized a rope’s end on deck, and running

up the shrouds after me, called out, ‘You young dog! is that the way

you are taking?’

I made haste to rectify my error by taking the same route that Will

had pursued; but, in my hurry, from the fear of the rope’s end, when

I reached the edge of the top, I let go the hold with my feet, and

being suspended by my hands, would soon have dropped on the deck,

or into the sea, had the mate not caught hold, and assisted me up.

Will had by this time got as far as the cross-trees; but he was

foiled in his attempts to climb up the royal mast. The mate, however,

thought we had done enough for once, and we were ordered down; but

our exercise at this kind of work being continued every day while in

harbour, we soon became expert at it.

CHAPTER III.

At last, the long-expected day of sailing arrived, and among the

first of the men who came on board was Tom. He had received liberty

to join our ship, and, men and boys, we mustered about sixty hands.

The greater number, when they come on board, were ‘half-seas-over,’

and the ship was in great confusion.

Towards evening, it began to blow fresh, and I became miserably sick.

No one took any notice of me, unless when I went to the weather-side

of the vessel to vomit, when some one or other of my tender-hearted

shipmates would give me a kick or a push, and, with an oath, bid me

go to leeward.

In this state I was knocked about from one place to another, until at

last I lay down in the waste of the vessel, on the lee-side, with my

head opposite to one of the scuppers.[1] I had not been long there

when some one came running to the side. I looked up to see who it

was, and saw poor Tom in nearly as bad a plight as myself. I was too

sick to speak to him, or I would have asked why he had omitted this

in his description of the pleasures of a sea life.

I had not seen William from the time I became sick; but at that time

I could feel interested for no one, or about any thing. I only wished

I were on shore; and nothing should ever tempt me to put my foot on

board of a vessel again.

Night came on, and the weather being cold, I began to wish that I

could get below. I crawled to the first hatchway I could find, which

happened to be the steerage. As this place was appropriated to the

petty officers of the ship, and they being all employed on deck, I

was allowed to get down unmolested. There were some of the cables

coiled in the steerage; and as I had experienced the inconvenience of

being in the way, I crept in as far as I could, beyond the cables,

where some old sails were lying, and there, although not relieved

from sickness, I was at least free from annoyance.

I had not been long there, when the steerage mess came down to

supper; and I quaked with terror when I heard the gunner say, ‘I

wonder where all those boys are. I can’t get one of them to do either

one thing or another.’

‘They’ll be stowed away in some hole or other, I’ll warrant ye,’ said

the boatswain, ‘but if I had hold of them, I would let them feel the

weight of a rope’s end.’

I strove to keep in my breath lest they should hear me, but at the

moment my stomach heaved, and in spite of all my efforts to suppress

it, I made such a noise that I was overheard.

‘Who the devil’s that?’ cried the boatswain; ‘some one of the rascals

stowed away in the cable tier—hold the lantern, and I’ll haul him out

whoever he is.’

Already I thought I felt the rope’s end on my shoulders, when I was

unexpectedly relieved from my apprehensions, by the mate calling them

on deck to arrange the watches for the night. While they were gone, I

squeezed myself behind some boxes, where I was pretty sure they could

not get at me. When they came down again, they had forgotten the

circumstance; and those whose watch was below got into their hammocks.

A little before daylight, I felt inclined to go on deck, as I was

nearly suffocated in my hiding-place, and slipping out cautiously,

got up the ladder without disturbing any of them. I had felt pretty

well settled, when my head was down; but whenever I got up, the

sickness returned, and my stomach being completely empty, my efforts

were more distressing. An old sailor who was standing near me advised

me to take a drink of salt water. I thought it was a rough cure; I

tried it, however, but it was no sooner down than up again.

‘Take another drink,’ said he; I did so—the same result followed. He

advised me to take a third.

‘Oh, no,’ said I, ‘I can take no more.’

I then leaned over the lee bow of the vessel; and whether it was the

fresh air or the salt water I know not, but I soon got better; and in

the course of an hour or two I began to move about pretty briskly.

While I was stirring about, the carpenter came forward to me and

inquired if I was sick. No, I said.

‘Will you have any objection to attend our mess?’

‘I don’t know, what have I to do?’

‘Only draw our provision, and boil our kettle morning and evening.’

‘Very well—I am willing.’

He took me down to the steerage, and showed me where things lay.

When breakfast-time came I got their kettle boiled, and brought

down their mess of bargoo, and sat down to take my breakfast with

them; but before I had taken half-a-dozen spoonfuls, it began to

discompose my stomach; and getting up to pass them for the deck, the

motion of rising brought the contents of my stomach up to my mouth.

I endeavoured to keep it down, but was obliged to give it vent, and

it flew like water from a fire engine over the mess. The boatswain,

who was a surly old fellow, and who had been the principal sufferer,

rose up in a fury, and seizing the wooden dish that held the bargoo,

threw it at my head. I escaped the blow of the dish, but the contents

came right on my face and blinded me. I tried to grope my way up the

ladder, but they did not give me time to get up, for they threw me

out of the hatchway. When I got to my feet the whole of the seamen

on deck gathered round, and began to jeer me on my appearance; but

I managed to flounder on through them to the head, where I got some

water and washed myself. Ah! thought I, this is hard usage; yet I

could scarcely refrain from laughing at the idea of spoiling their

mess.

I walked about the deck for some time, ruminating on my folly in

exchanging my comfortable home for a place like this. Towards

dinner-time, the carpenter came and asked me to prepare the

mess-dishes for dinner, but I told him he might find some one else,

for I would not do it.

‘The more fool you are,’ said he, ‘you will soon find yourself worse

off.’

I was then obliged to shift my things into the forecastle amongst the

crew. Here I found William lying in one of the berths, so sick that

he could not lift his head. When he saw me he beckoned me to him. ‘O

Joseph,’ said he, ‘this is misery. I wish we were at home again; but

I will never live to return.’

‘No fear of that,’ I said, ‘I was as sick as you are, and I am now

nearly well.’

At this moment the vessel gave a heave, and down I came on the deck.

William began to make cascades, and I was soon as bad as ever, and

got tumbled into the berth beside him. Shortly after, the seamen’s

dinner was brought down, and having served themselves, one of them

called out ‘You green-horns, in there, will you have some beef and

biscuit?’

‘No, no,’ said I, ‘but if you will be kind enough to open my chest,

you will find a cake of gingerbread in it—I will thank you to hand it

to me.’

While he was searching for the gingerbread, he cast his eyes on a

large case bottle, filled with whisky, which Mr C. had given me

when I parted with him. He immediately gave up his search for the

gingerbread, and hauling out the bottle and holding it up, he cried,

‘D——n my eyes, messmates, if I ha’n’t found a prize.’

‘Here with it,’ cried a dozen voices at once, and in spite of my

remonstrances, they deliberately handed it round until there was not

above a glass left.

‘Oh shame,’ said one of them, ‘give the boy a drop of his own grog;’

but I could not look at it—the smell was sickening.

‘No, no,’ said I, ‘send that after the rest.’

‘Right,’ said one of them, ‘boys have no use for grog.’

‘Will you give me the gingerbread now?’ said I.

‘Oh, by the by, I had forgot that, here it is for you, my hearty.’

The most of them went on deck, and left William and I to reflect

on the justice of their appropriation of my property. However, the

liquor was a thing I cared little about, and it gave me the less

uneasiness. We were now allowed to lie quietly enough until night,

when those whose watch was below came down to go to bed—one of them

came to the berth, where William and I were lying, and seizing him by

the neck, cried out, ‘Hollo, who the devil’s this in my berth?’

‘It is two of the Johnnie-raws that are sick,’ replied one of them.

‘Johnnie-raw or Johnnie-roasted, they must get out of that, for I

want to turn in.’

Out we were bundled, and during the whole course of that night we

were knocked about from one place to another, by each succeeding

watch.

Next morning early, the word was passed for the boys to go aft to

the quarter-deck. It was hard rooting them out; but at last we were

mustered—six in all. When we were assembled, the mate addressing us,

said, ‘I think I have given you long enough time to recover from

your sickness. You, Tom, have no right to be sick. You were at sea

before.’ I looked at Tom: there was not a more miserable-looking

object amongst us. I could scarcely allow myself to believe that he

was the same being whom we saw swaggering on the streets of Greenock

a few days before. We were then appointed to different watches.

William and I were luckily appointed to the same one, which being on

duty at the time, we were ordered to scrub the hen coops, and feed

the fowls, while the men washed the deck. The boys were always made

the drudges in every thing dirty and disagreeable. But the duty of

the ship was little in comparison to the way in which we were teased

and ill used by the sailors. I have often been roused up after a

fatiguing watch, and just when I had fallen into a profound sleep, to

go and fetch a drink of water for some of the crew. A fellow, of the

name of Donald M’Millan, was one of our chief tormentors. He used to

invent new mortifications for us; and he was of so brutal and savage

a disposition, that he would beat and abuse the boys for the most

trifling fault, and often without cause. I am sure, if the conduct of

the men had been reported to the captain, he would not have allowed

the boys to be used in the manner they were. But we were afraid to

say any thing concerning our usage, knowing that they could find

numberless methods of tormenting without openly beating us.

I began, however, to get used to the sea; and taking courage, I

strove to get through as well as I could. It was, nevertheless, with

a great effort that I could prevent my spirits from sinking under the

many hardships and contumely I had to endure. Nothing but the hope of

leaving the vessel when she returned home kept me alive. Poor William

lost all heart; he became melancholy and moping, and used to cry for

hours together, when we were on watch at night. In this state he was

ill calculated for the duty he had to perform, and was brow-beaten

by almost every one in the ship. This sunk his naturally buoyant

spirits; and at length he became so accustomed to ill usage, that he

seemed afraid I would also turn against him. I, however, had known

him in happier days; but his feelings were morbidly acute, and little

calculated to struggle through the ill usage which a ship apprentice

had to endure.

As we proceeded on our voyage, the weather became delightful; and

getting into the trade winds, we got on so pleasantly, often for days

together, without changing a sail, that had we not been tormented

by the seamen, we would have been comparatively comfortable. But

the only happy periods I enjoyed were, when my turn came to look

out aloft—seated on the cross-trees, away from the din of the deck,

with the clear blue sky above, and the sea extending far as the eye

could reach beneath. It was there I almost realised some of the

fairy scenes I had pictured in my imagination. I felt myself in an

enchanted world of my own, and would sit watching the clouds as

they passed along, comparing their shape to some romantic image in

my mind, and peopling them with corresponding inhabitants. So lost

was I in those reveries that I did not feel the time passing; and

when the man came up to relieve me, I have often volunteered to stop

his two hours also. When I came down on deck, I felt as it were cast

from heaven to earth, and used to long for my turn to look out again.

These were the only pleasures I enjoyed unmolested and unenvied;

for few of my comrades required any pressing to allow me to remain

in their place. The nights were now delightful; the moon shone in

‘cloudless majesty,’ and the air was so cool and pleasant, that it

was preferred by the seamen to the day: instead of going below, they

often gathered in knots on the deck, and played at various games,

or told stories. Many of them were good at this. One of them, a

Swede, had as large a collection as any person I ever knew; they

were those of his country—mostly terrific—ghosts and men possessed

of supernatural powers, were the heroes of his stories.[2] The

flying Dutchman, and many other naval apparitions, were talked of

and descanted on with much gravity. Sailors, in general, are very

superstitious, and these stories were listened to with the greatest

attention.

One night the weather was hazy, when I was appointed to look out

a-head along with an old sailor, who was remarkable for being an

attentive listener when any stories were telling. The moon was up;

but a dense curtain of clouds hid her almost completely from our

view. The wind came in gusts, and swept the clouds along in irregular

masses. Sometimes a doubtful light would be thrown around us; again

a dark cloud would intervene, and we could scarcely see the end of

the jib-boom. The wind whistled through the rigging of the vessel

occasionally with a low murmuring sound; then it would rise gradually

to such a fury, that we could scarcely hear each other talk. We were

anxiously looking out, when he asked me if I did not see something

like a sail a-head. I replied that I did not. He pointed to the

place where he imagined he saw it. I looked again. A partial gleam

of light, occasioned by a cloud of lighter texture passing over the

moon, being thrown on the place, I really thought I saw something

like a sail. He did not wait for any more investigation, but gave

the alarm. The mate came forward to see it; but the light was so

uncertain, that he could not decide on what it was. The watch

gathered about the bows of the vessel, every one having something to

say on the subject. One pretended he saw a sail plainly—she was a

square-rigged vessel, with all her sails set; another said she was

schooner rigged. Ominous whispers now began to go round, intimating

that her appearance was anything but natural. The mate, hearing some

hints that were dropped, said, ‘There was a cursed deal too much of

that ghost story-telling of late; and he would lay his head to a

marlin-spike, that this would turn out to be no sail after all.’ At

this moment (luckily for his prediction) the moon broke through in

all her splendour; and as far as the eye could reach, not a speck on

the surface of the dark blue waters could be traced. The laugh was

now turned against those who had pretended to see the sail; but they

only shook their heads doubtfully, and wished that nothing bad might

follow. I venture to say that every one on board joined in that wish.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Scuppers, the holes by which the water runs off the deck.

[2] One of the stories he narrated was of a seaman with whom his

father had sailed. He was a wonderful fellow: he could arrest a ship

in full sail. When he wanted liquor, he had nothing to do but bore a

hole in the mast, and out flowed rum, brandy, or any liquor he wished

for. He once had committed some crime, for which he was sentenced to

be flogged; the crew were assembled, and the culprit stripped and

tied up; the boatswain raised his brawny arm to give the lash, but by

some invisible power his arm was arrested in the air, and he stood

with it stretched out, unable to bring it down. The master-at-arms

raised his cane to strike the boatswain for his seeming neglect of

duty, and his arm was arrested in like manner. The captain, enraged

to see both boatswain and master-at-arms in the strange position,

drew his sword, and raised it, to let it fall on some of their heads,

when he shared the same fate. Thus all three stood with their arms

upraised in air; nor would our hero release them from their awkward

position, until he was pardoned and taken down. Some time after,

he committed another crime; but they were afraid his power was too

potent on board for them to proceed against him there: therefore he

was conveyed ashore, and tried. In addition to the alleged crime,

they brought forward a charge of dealing with the devil. The proof

was reckoned conclusive, and he was sentenced to suffer death. He

gave himself no uneasiness about it. The day arrived on which he was

to be executed; and the guard entered his prison for the purpose of

conveying him to the place of execution. When they entered, he was

busily drawing a ship upon the wall with chalk; he requested them

to wait a moment until he would finish it. They did so. When he had

done, he bade those about him adieu; and lifting his foot, as if it

were to step into his mimic ship, he disappeared from their eyes in a

moment, and was never heard of after.

CHAPTER IV.

A few days after that, we fell in with a vessel which we hailed, and

found she was bound for Greenock from Jamaica. She brought to; and

all those who wished to send letters to their friends were ordered to

make haste and write them. I got out my writing materials; but I was

at a loss what to say. Had I been inclined to tell the truth, I would

have been at no loss; but I could not bear the idea of owning how

grossly I had been deceived in my ideas of a sailor’s life. However,

I believe I gave them room to think that I did not like it very well.

I had lost so much time in resolving what to write, that the letters

were called for before I had time to give any particulars. When I was

sealing my letter, I ardently wished I could insinuate myself inside

of it.

Nothing particular occurred during the rest of our voyage, until a

few days before we made the land. One morning early a sail appeared

to windward, the captain looking at her through his telescope, was

of opinion that she was a French privateer. All hands were called to

quarters; and as she bore down upon us, the captain’s opinion was

confirmed, for she fired a gun, and hoisted French colours. We were

well manned, and carried as many guns as she appeared to do. Every

thing was prepared for action; only the guns were not run out, and

the ports were down. The captain had ordered all the men, with the

exception of the petty officers, to lie down on the deck, concealed

behind the bulwarks, until he should give the word of command. She

was bearing fast down upon us, when I was ordered to the magazine to

hand up ammunition. I was frightened enough when on deck; but when

below, I became much more so. It was not long before a broadside was

fired. I was sure it was from the enemy, and, stunned with the noise,

fell flat on my face. ‘God be merciful to me!’ said I: for I was sure

we were going to the bottom. In a minute after, I was surprised with

the men cheering on deck. I mounted the ladder; and venturing my head

up the hatchway, saw the strange ship a good way to leeward, making

all the sail she could. On inquiring, I found that she had borne

down close on us, thinking we were an unarmed merchant ship, and

ordered us to strike. The reply we gave was what had alarmed me so

much; for our men, starting to their feet on the word of command from

the captain, ran out the guns, and gave her a broadside. She was so

completely taken in by the reception she met with, that she sheered

off without firing a shot. The captain’s orders were, not to deviate

from his course, else we might have captured her.

We now drew near the land, and the lead was frequently hove to

ascertain what sort of a bottom we had.[3] Pieces of sugar-cane,

melons, and fruit of various kinds, were floating about; birds, in

great numbers, hovered about the ship; and every thing intimated that

the land was nigh. It was my turn to look out aloft, and I felt sure

of the bottle of rum which is usually given to the man who espies

land first. I was not long up, when I thought I saw land off the

lee bow. I watched it attentively. It became better defined every

minute. I was positive it was land, and I sung out, ‘Land, ho!’ with

a joyous voice. The intelligence ran through the crew; and I saw them

skipping about on deck, seemingly delighted with the news. The mate

came up beside me to see where the land lay. I pointed it out to him;

but it soon altered its appearance, and began slowly to move up from

the verge of the horizon, and in less than ten minutes not a vestige

of the appearance remained. To me it looked like enchantment; but I

learned from the mate that such sights were not uncommon, and were

termed by the seamen, ‘Cape Flyaway.’

In the course of the day we made the real land, but were too late

to get into the harbour that night. However, next morning early we

got in, and came to anchor nearly opposite Fort Charlotte, town of

Nassau, after a passage of six weeks. As we entered the harbour,

we found a sloop-of-war lying there: and some of our men, afraid

of being pressed, took a boat, and made towards the shore; but the

officers of the man-of-war observing them, they sent a boat in

pursuit. Our fellows pulled hard, and would have made the shore

before them, had they not fired a musket shot or two, and obliged

them to lie to. They were then all taken on board the sloop-of-war;

but in the course of the day they were sent back, with the exception

of Donald M’Millan, who had given some insolence to the officers; and

they sent word that they had kept him to teach him better manners.

The boys did not mourn much at his detention, nor, I believe, did any

of the crew; for his disposition was such, that every one hated him.

We were not long at anchor before we were surrounded by canoes from

the shore, with black fellows in them, selling fruit of various

kinds, not common in Britain. Here we got rid of some of our money,

in exchange for bananas, guavas, and pine apples; and I almost forgot

all my sufferings in the novelty of the scene around me. The white

sandy beach, the light ornamented wooden buildings, walks bordered by

palm and cocoa-nut trees, with the singular dresses of the planters

and their negroes, were objects which made me think myself in a new

world. In the course of the day we got off fresh beef and plenty of

vegetables, which was a treat, having had nothing but salt provision

from the time of leaving Greenock; and to complete our happiness, we

got an extra allowance of rum sent from the owners of the cargo.

Next day we began to deliver the cargo. There was no quay, but

wharfs here and there to the different stores. When the tide was in,

we got our boats unloaded by means of a crane; but at low water we

were obliged to push the hogsheads from the boats into the sea, and

wading up to the middle to roll them out before us to the shore.

This was most fatiguing and disagreeable work; therefore we were not

sorry when it was finished. On Sundays, (the negroes’ market-day in

the West Indies,) the half of the crew alternately got leave to go

ashore. William and I happened to be of the first party, and we were

delighted with every thing around us; but we could not discover that

the inhabitants were disposed to give their money away for nothing

any more than at home. Nor could we find anything to justify the

notion, that a rapid fortune could be acquired there, without similar

exertion to that we had been accustomed to see in other places. After

taking a view of the town, and purchasing some shells and other

curiosities, we came on board well pleased with the holiday we had

had on shore. Soon after this, we began to take in our cargo, which

consisted principally of rum, cotton, and coffee.

As yet it had been delightful weather, only excessively warm in the

middle of the day; but the mornings and evenings were very pleasant.

The third morning, after we began to take in our cargo, came on

sultry and close. The air was oppressive—the clouds hung low and

heavy, and ere long the rain burst out in torrents. This had not

continued ten minutes, until we were up to our knees in water on

the deck. It poured down so fast that it could not escape by the

scuppers. The earth seemed threatened with another deluge. The whole

face of the heavens was dark as night. The crew were all employed

in striking the top-gallant masts, lowering the yards, and making

everything snug. ‘This is shocking rain!’ said I to an old sailor who

stood near me.

‘Yes,’ said he; ‘but we will have worse than rain by and by.’ He had

scarcely said so, when the heavens seemed to open, and a flash of

lightning burst forth, so strong and vivid that it took the sight

from my eyes. A clap of thunder followed so loud and long that it

must have appalled the stoutest heart. Flash after flash succeeded

each other, and the peals of thunder were incessant. I thought the

last day was come. Heaven and earth seemed jumbled together in one

mass of fire, and the continued noise of the thunder struck my

imagination as the result of the fabric falling to ruin.

Towards the afternoon the wind blew with great fury. The vessels in

the harbour began to drag their anchors, and before night many of

them were on shore; but we were well moored, and did not stir. The

storm continued the greater part of the night; and such a night I

hope I will never see again. No one would go below. We did not know

the moment the lightning might strike the vessel, and perhaps send

her to the bottom. It is in vain for me to attempt to convey any

adequate description of that dreadful night in words. No one can

form an idea of its awfulness, unless he had seen it. The men stood

huddled in groups, on the deck, in silence. Indeed it was useless

to speak, for they could not be heard; nor scarcely could they see

each other, unless when the lightning shot its awful glare athwart

their faces, and made their horror visible for an instant: and the

livid cadaverous colour it shed over their countenances, gave them an

expression truly appalling.

About one o’clock in the morning, the storm began to moderate; the

flashes of lightning became weaker, and less frequent; the awful

roaring of the thunder changed into a hoarse growl, and at length

died away. By two the storm had so much subsided, that the seamen,

with the exception of the harbour watch, went below to their hammocks.

I was surprised next morning, when I got up at sunrise, to see no

vestige of the night’s storm remaining. All was calm and serene, save

a pleasant breeze from the shore, which brought the most delicious

odours along with it. The sun rose with unusual brightness, and all

nature seemed renovated. We could not, indeed, have imagined that

there had been a storm the preceding night, if the effects of its

fury had not been visible in the roofless buildings and stranded

vessels around us.

Our vessel had suffered little or no damage. We got on with our

loading, and in a short time we were ready for sea. The day before

we sailed, the owners sent a present of a bottle of rum to each man,

to hold a sort of ‘chevo,’ as the sailors called it. The decks were

cleared, and we sat down in groups with our bottles, and commenced

drinking. Ail went on very well for a time. The song and joke went

round, and harmony and good humour prevailed. But when the drink

began to operate, some of them who had differences during the voyage

began to ‘tell their minds.’ The result was, that they came to high

words, and from that to blows. The rest of the crew took different

sides, according as they were interested; and the deck soon became

a scene of confusion and bloodshed. I had drunk little, and mounted

into the foretop to be out of ‘harm’s way;’ and from thence saw

the combat, without danger of getting any of the blows which were

dealing out so plentifully. The mate came forward to try to quell the

disturbance; but they knocked him over a kedge anchor that lay on the

deck, and broke one of his ribs.

At length the disturbance died away, and I came down on deck. Some

deep drinkers had gathered the bottles which had escaped destruction

during the fight, and were emptying their contents. Others were

lying insensibly drunk and vomiting. Broken bottles, with their

contents promiscuously mixed on the deck with the blood of the

combatants, lay scattered about in every direction. I never saw

such miserable-looking wretches as they were next morning. Most of

them were ‘horrified.’ Almost all of them bore marks of the late

fray—black eyes, swelled lips, sprained thumbs, &c. &c. As the vessel

was to sail that day, the captain, in order to bring them about a

little, served them out their grog, and they quickly got to rights

again.

We got up our anchors, and set sail with a fair wind. I could not

describe the emotions I felt, when I saw the vessel’s head turned

homewards. I was all joyous anticipation of meeting with my parents.

‘I shall never leave them again,’ thought I. ‘I shall obey them in

everything, and we shall be so happy. I have seen my folly, and I

shall make a good use of my experience.’

Nothing particular occurred on the passage home, until we got near

the British coast, when the weather became extremely cold. The

look-out aloft was no longer a pleasant berth. I have often been so

benumbed when the man came up to relieve me, that I could scarcely

move my limbs to come down upon deck. The weather had been rough for

some time, but one afternoon it began to blow uncommonly hard. The

wind was fair, however, and the captain seemed unwilling to take in

sail, but the gale increasing, he ordered the top-gallant sails to

be handed. William and I, with another boy, went up to hand the main

top-gallant sail. The vessel was pitching dreadfully. William went

to the weather, and I went to the lee earing to haul in the leach of

the sail. The part which bound the yard to the mast gave way, and it

pitched out with such violence, that William was shook from his hold,

and precipitated into the sea. I got a dreadful shock. This was an

awful moment. Every pitch that the vessel gave, the yard was thrown

out from the mast with such force, that it was a miracle I escaped.

The other boy had got in on the mast, but it appeared impossible

for me to follow him. Nothing could save me, unless the despairing

hold that I retained, and I could not have kept it long, for every

shock rendered me weaker; but some of the seaman were sent up with a

loose line, and succeeded in bracing the yard to the mast, and I was

relieved from my perilous situation.

Poor William! I saw him fall. ‘O God!’ he cried, as he fell. I heard

no more. The next moment he was swallowed by the waves. They told me

he never rose. It was impossible to do anything to save him in such

weather with any effect. His fate made a great impression on my mind,

for he was my only companion. He was a clever boy, warm-hearted, and

kind in his disposition, although he had become quite broken-hearted.

Nor did he seem relieved from his melancholy by the prospect of

returning home; for he was sure that his father would do nothing to

get him free from the ship; and even if he did, he could feel little

pleasure in the anticipation of his usage there. ‘O Joseph!’ he would

often say, ‘If I had a father and mother like yours, how happy would

I be! but I may truly say that I am an orphan! To be sure, while my

mother was living, she was everything that was good and affectionate

to me; but when she died, I lost the only friend I had in the world,

for my father never was kind to me, and after he married again, I

never had a happy minute in the house; and if I were to go home

again, even supposing that he would get me free from the ship, things

would be worse than before. But I am sure I will not live to return.

There is a heavy something hangs on my mind, that tells me I will not

see the end of this voyage; but I do not feel grieved at it, I rather

feel a pleasure in the idea. Then I will be free from ill usage and

persecution; and what makes me long for my death, is the hope that I

will meet my mother in heaven, never to part from her again.’ I could

not forbear weeping when he spoke in this manner; and I tried to

cheer him as much as I could, by putting him in mind of our former

schemes of happiness and fortune; but he only shook his head, and

said, ‘This is not the world we dreamed it was; but even so, I have

no friends, no prospects, and death appears to me to be the only

thing that can alter my situation for the better.’ Poor fellow! he

little thought it was so near.

The gale still continued to increase, and all our sails were taken

in, with the exception of a close-reefed fore-top-sail. The wind

veered about, and blew a hurricane. Some of the sails were torn in

ribbons before they could be handed. The sea ran mountains high.

The sky was darkened, and the flapping of the sails and rattling of

the blocks made such a noise that we could scarcely hear our own

voices. The sea broke over us in such a way that boats, spars, and

camboose, were carried off the deck, and the helm became almost

totally unmanageable, although four men were constantly at it. When

a sea struck the vessel, she creaked as if her very sides were

coming together. The men were obliged to lash themselves to every

place where they could find safety, to prevent their being washed

overboard; and in this manner we stood in awful suspense, waiting the

issue of the storm. One minute she would rise, perched as it were,

on the verge of a precipice; the next, she would descend through the

yawning gulf as if she would strike the very bottom of the sea, while

vivid flashes of lightning contributed to throw a horrific glare over

the scene.

Three days were we tossed about in this manner, every day expecting

it to be our last, for we thought it impossible that the ship could

weather the gale. During that time we could not get below, the

hatches being battened down, and we had to subsist on dry biscuit, or

eat raw pork with it, for we could get nothing cooked.

On the fourth day the storm abated, and the weather cleared up, but

the vessel rolled so that we expected her masts to go overboard.

After the gale we fell in with some vessels which had suffered

severely, one in particular had lost all her masts. We were at

this time near the mouth of the Channel; and next day, we made Cape

Clear. I could not express what I felt at again seeing the shores

of Britain. My imagination was hard at work drawing pictures of the

future. We ran up along the Irish coast with a fair wind, and at

last came in sight of the well-known Craig of Ailsa; and passing it,

and the Cumbrays and the Clough light-house, we anchored in Greenock

roads. I was in transports of joy at the idea of getting home again;

but a doubt would often cross my mind, whether my father might

feel inclined to get me free from the vessel, after so obstinately

persisting in going to sea; I, at least, felt sensible that I did

not deserve such indulgence. The day after we arrived, however, my

mind was set at ease, for my mother came from Glasgow to see me, and

the first words she said, were, ‘Well, Joseph, are you tired of the

sea?’ The tears came into my eyes, but I could not speak. ‘I find you

don’t like it,’ said she: ‘you have found out, I believe, that your

father’s description of a sea life was a true one—well, we must try

and get you home again.’ A day or two afterwards, my father came to

Greenock, and having settled matters with the owners, I went home

with him on the coach, fully resolved that I should be more wise in

future. I had a joyful meeting with my friends, and, for a time, all

went on pleasantly; but my restless disposition still remained the

same, and I soon grew tired of home. My parents expected a miraculous

change in me; and when they found that my voyage had made me little

wiser, any indiscretion was generally checked with an allusion to my

former conduct. This irritated my feelings. Those boys who used to

associate with me now avoided my company; most of them, I believe,

by the injunction of their parents. There were two boys with whom

I had been on the most friendly terms—their parents and mine were

very intimate—they were constant playfellows of mine before I went

to sea, and I had occasionally seen them after my return, without

their seeming any way reserved towards me. Some months after I came

home, however, I happened to be diverting myself with them in their

court-yard, we were playing at _hide-and-seek_, having hid myself

in the straw-house, I heard their father call them and ask who was

with them; when they told him, he said, ‘Never let me see you in

that boy’s company again, for he ran away from his parents, and he

may induce you to do the same.’ This went like a dagger to my heart.

It humbled me severely in my own eyes. I waited until he went into

the house, and then slunk away like a felon. From that day I thought

every one who looked at me were passing similar observations in their

minds. My temper became soured, and I grew melancholy and restless.

I brooded continually over the indignity which I conceived I had

suffered. ‘Then,’ said I to myself, ‘I have become an object of

contempt to every one. I can never endure this—I will not remain in

Glasgow.’

FOOTNOTES:

[3] There is a cavity in the bottom of the lead, which is filled

with tallow, to which sand or gravel, composing the bed of the sea,

adheres.

CHAPTER V.

One evening, in January, 1809, returning from dinner to school,

brooding over my real or imaginary evils—my mind in such a state

of despondency that I could almost have taken away my life,—I

determined to leave Glasgow, for, I thought, if once out of it

I should be happy. In this state of mind, walking down the High

Street, I met a soldier. The thought struck me instantly that I

would enlist, although I rather felt a prejudice against the army.

Yet, by enlisting, I would get out of Glasgow, and to me that was

everything. I followed the soldier, and asked him where his officer

lodged. He showed me the place, and I enlisted, with the proviso that

he would send me out of the town immediately. I was sent to Paisley,

and remained with the party there until the recruits were ordered to

march for head-quarters. When I came into Glasgow to join them, in

passing through the Bridgegate, I met my mother. I had never written

to my parents, nor had they heard of me from the time I enlisted.

I could scarcely define my feelings: shame—grief—a sort of sullen

despair—a sense that I had cut myself off from the world—that I had

done my worst, and a determination to push it to the utmost—were

mingled together in my mind. My mother first broke silence. ‘Poor,

infatuated boy!’ said she, the tears flowing down her cheeks, ‘what

new calamity have you brought on yourself by your wild, inconstant

disposition?’ I told her I had enlisted, and was going that day to

join my regiment,—‘Alas!’ said she, ‘you have now finished it. Now

you are lost to us and to yourself; but will you not come home, and

see your father before you go?’ I hesitated. ‘Perhaps,’ said she, ‘it

will be the last time you may ever see him. Come, you had better go

with me.’ I consented, and we went home together. It was near four

o’clock. My father generally came at that hour to dinner. My mother

met him as he came in, and explained matters to him. He strove to

assume an air of calmness; but his countenance showed the emotions

that were working in his mind. We sat down at the table to dinner;

but no one seemed inclined to eat. My father cut some meat on his

plate, but instantly pushed it from him. He rose from his seat, and

walked about the floor with a rapid pace. He opened his waiscoat.—He

seemed suffocating. I could no longer endure to see the convulsive

agony with which his whole frame was agitated. I sunk on my knees at

his feet, and cried out, ‘Forgive me, O father—forgive me!’

He looked at me for a moment: then, bursting into tears, he said,

‘God forgive you! God forgive you! my poor unfortunate boy. Alas!’

said he, ‘I had none but you. I had formed schemes for your

advancement in life. I saw you had some talent, and was determined to

spare no expense in making you fit to fill a respectable situation.

I had figured to myself you going in and out with me, happy and

contented—a credit to yourself and to your parents; but, alas! those

hopes are now fled for ever: for the first news I hear of you, may

be that your corpse is bleaching on the Continent—a prey to wolves

and eagles.’ Then, as if correcting himself for drawing such a

picture—‘But your life is in the hands of God. Yet even now, are you

not lost to me? May I not say that I am childless?—I give you my

forgiveness freely, and also my blessing; and if you should survive,

oh! may you never have a son that will cause you such agony as I feel

at this moment. Farewell! my poor boy; I am afraid I may say Farewell

for ever!’ With these words he rushed into an adjoining room, and

threw himself on his knees, I suppose to pray for that son who had

repaid all his kindness with ingratitude and disobedience. My mother

was wild with grief. It was the hour at which we were to march. I

tore myself out of the house in a state of distraction, and joined

the party, who were now on the road to Airdrie. My mind was in such a

state of agitation, that I scarcely knew where I was going. I walked

on before the party, as if some evil thing had been pursuing me,

anxious, as it were, to run away from my own feelings.

I am scarcely conscious of what passed between that and Dunbar; it

seems like a confused dream. But the parting scene with my father

often recurred to my memory; and although it is now fifteen years

since it took place, it remains in it as fresh as yesterday. The

step I took at that time has been to me the source of constant and

unavailing regret; for it not only destroyed my fair prospects in

life, and fixed me in a situation that I disliked, but I believe it

was the means of breaking the heart of a parent, whose only fault

was that of being too indulgent. I felt sensible of his tenderness,

and I am sure I loved him. But mine was a wayward fate. Hurried on

by impulse, I generally acted contrary to the dictates of my own

judgment—‘My argument right, but my life in the wrong.’

He has long gone to his eternal rest; but while he lived, he was

a man—take him all in all—whose equal will be rarely found; for

it could truly be said of him, that ‘even his failings leaned to

virtue’s side.’

When our party arrived in Dunbar, where the regiment lay, after being

finally approved, and the balance of my bounty paid, which was about

four guineas, (after deducting necessaries,) I was conducted by the

sergeant to the room where my berth was appointed. When he left me, I

sat down on a form, melancholy enough. An old soldier sat down beside

me; and, remarking that I looked dull, asked me where I came from,

when I replied, ‘Glasgow.’

I was immediately claimed as a townsman by some of the _knowing

ones_, one of whom had the Irish brogue in perfection, and another

the distinguishing dialect and accent of a cockney.

‘You don’t speak like natives of Glasgow.’ said I.

‘Och! stop until you be as long from home as me,’ said Paddy, giving

a wink to his comrades, ‘and you will forget both your mother-tongue

and the mother that bore you.’

‘Ha’ ye got yere boonty yet, laddie?’ said an Aberdeen man.

‘Yes,’ said I.

‘Than you’ll no want for frien’s as lang as it lasts.’

So I found; for every little attention was paid me that they could

devise. One brushed my shoes, another my coat; and nothing could

equal the many professions of good-will and offers of service I

received. There was a competition amongst them who should be my

comrade, each supporting his offer by what service he would render

me, such as cleaning my accoutrements, teaching me my exercise, &c.

It appeared to me that I was set up at auction to be knocked down to

the highest bidder. But I paid little attention to them. My mind was

taken up, thinking of my folly, and ruminating on its consequences.

After holding a private consultation amongst themselves, one of them

took me aside, and told me it was the usual custom for each recruit,

when he joined the company, to give the men of the room he belonged

to a ‘treat.’

‘How much?’ said I, putting my hand in my pocket; for, in the

passive state of mind I was then in, they would have found little

difficulty in persuading me to give them all I had.

‘A guinea,’ was the reply.

‘Why didn’t you ask two?’ said an old fellow aside to the spokesman,

when he saw me give the one so freely. He seemed vexed that he had

not.

It was then proposed to go into the town, to purchase the liquor; and

I, of course must go along with them. Four or five accompanied me to

town, and we met two or three more as if by accident. As we returned

home, they lingered behind me a little, and appeared to be consulting

about something. When they came up to me, one of them said, as I had

been so free in treating them, they could not do less than treat

me; and led the way into a public-house for that purpose. One half

pint of whisky was called in after another, all protesting that they

would be their share; but when the reckoning came to be paid, which

amounted to seven or eight shillings, each asked his neighbour to

lend him until he went up to the barracks. It turned out, however,

that none of them had any money; and it ended in a proposal that I

should pay the whole, and they would repay me on pay-day. This opened

my eyes a little. I thought I could see a great deal of meanness and

trick in their conduct; but I seemed to take no notice of it.

When night came, the room was cleared, and the forms ranged around.

An old Highlander in the room had a pair of bagpipes, which, with

two fifes, constituted our music, and when we were all assembled,

the drinking commenced, handing it round from one to another. After

a round or two, old Donald’s pipes were called for, and the men

commenced dancing with the women of the company. The stamping,

hallooing, and snapping of fingers which ensued, intermingled with

the droning sound of the bagpipes, was completely deafening. In the

confusion some of the thirsty souls took the opportunity to help

themselves out of their turn, which being observed, caused a dispute;

and the liquor being expended, a join of a shilling a man was

proposed to ‘carry on the glory.’ I was again applied to, and aided

by this fresh supply, they kept up ‘the spree’ until one o’clock in

the morning. When some of them who had got drunk began to fight,

the lights were knocked out, and pokers, tongs, and tin dishes were

flying about in every direction. At last the affair ended by the

officer of the guard sending some of them to the guard-house, and

ordering the others to bed.

Next morning I was besieged, before six o’clock, by a band of the

fellows who had got drunk the night before, begging me to treat them

to a glass to ‘heal their head.’ I felt little inclined to drink at

that hour, and expressed myself to that effect. They then asked me to

lend them money to procure it, and they would repay me on pay-day.

I gave them what they wanted, and I soon had the most of the men in

the room at me on the same errand. In the course of the day I got my

regimentals served out, and was sent to drill. After drill it was

intimated to the recruits who had lately joined, that they ought to

treat the drill sergeant, by way of propitiating his favour. While we

were talking, the sergeant who had conducted us to the regiment came

up to bid us farewell.

‘You are not going away to-night,’ said a recruit.

‘I believe I will,’ said the sergeant, ‘unless you have anything to

treat me to.’

‘You ought to give the sergeant a supper,’ said a man who had joined

about a month before; ‘we gave our conducting sergeant a supper.’

It was therefore agreed that we could be no worse than the others,

and he was accordingly invited along with our drill sergeant. When

night came, and we were going into town, it was moved that the

sergeants of our companies ought to be invited also; of course it was

insinuated that we would be no losers by so doing. When we were all

met, between sergeants of companies and their friends, whom they had

taken the liberty to invite, we were a goodly company.

The supper came in, and was done great justice to by the guests. Next

came the drink, and when all hearts were warmed by the rum punch,

numerous were the protestations of friendship and promises of favour

from the sergeants to the recruits, which were very soon forgotten.

I was sitting next our conducting sergeant: he seemed very restless,

and spoke often to a very loquacious sergeant who sat near him, who

replied several times that it was too soon yet. At last, however,

when he found we were all pretty mellow, he rose and commenced his

harangue with, ‘I say, lads, I daresay you are all very well pleased

with Sergeant A——.’ This was assented to by all the recruits. ‘Well,’

said he, ‘I just wished to inform you that it is the usual custom for

the recruits to give the sergeant who conducts them a present when

they receive their bounty.’

The acquiescence of all present, showed how well the sergeant had

chosen the time to make his proposition.

‘What is the usual sum?’ said one.

This question was put to our conducting sergeant: and after some

hesitation, he very modestly replied, ‘five shillings each.’

The money was soon collected, and he pocketed it with great glee.

At a late hour we separated, and got home to our barrack rooms

without disturbance, having previously had leave from tattoo. Next

day I was roused for drill at daylight; and after coming in, wishing

to procure some breakfast, I was surprised to find my cash dwindled

to a very few shillings. During the day, I was applied to by some

of my comrades for the loan of more money; but I refused, alleging

that I had little left. I could soon see that this information made

a great impression on them; for the things which they had formerly

been so officious in doing for me were now left to be done by myself;

and amongst all those who had been so anxious to become my comrades,

I could not find one now that would accept of me, and a new party of

recruits joining I was soon altogether forgot.

Next day, having purchased some little things that I needed, I found

my money expended; but I gave myself little uneasiness about it,

as I had lent so much, and the following day was pay-day. When the

men received their pay, I spoke to those who had borrowed the money

from me, and said that I would be obliged to them for it; but how

was I surprised when some of them swore I had never lent them a

farthing, and threatened to beat me for presuming to say so! Others

said they could not pay me at that time; and more of them laughed at

my simplicity in expecting repayment of any money borrowed out of

a bounty! This is strange kind of justice, thought I; and leaving

the room, I wandered down by the sea side, thinking on the honest

men I had got amongst. I heard the step of some one behind me, and

turning round to see who it was, I perceived one of the recruits

who had joined some time before me. His name was Dennis ——: he was

an Irishman. I had remarked that he took no part with the others,

in their professions of kindness to me, and that on the night of

the spree he had gone to bed without joining in it. When he came

up to me, he said, ‘I have waited until now to speak to you, for I

would not say a word while the bounty lasted, lest you might suspect

that I was like the others; but now I have come to say that if you

choose you can be my comrade, for mine left me before you came to

the room, to go along with a recruit; and now, that his bounty is

finished, he wishes to come back again; but I hate such meanness, and

would never associate with a fellow of his description; however, I

think you and I will agree.’ I was glad to accept his disinterested

offer; and during all the time that Dennis and I were comrades, I

never had reason to repent it; for he was of a warm-hearted generous

disposition, and never flinched from me in distress. He had no

education: he could neither read nor write; but he had a judgment,

which no sophistry could blind, and his acute Hibernian remarks often

puzzled men who thought themselves better informed; besides this, he

had a fund of honour that never would allow him to stoop to a mean

action. One fault, indeed, he had in common with the generality of

his countrymen, and that was, when he got liquor he was a thorough

madman.

Dennis and I were now left to ourselves, to act as we pleased, and

the ‘knowing boys’ looked out for newer hands to fleece, some of them

descending to very mean stratagems to get drink. I remember being in

town with Dennis one evening, and having gone into a public-house to

get a glass before we went home, one of those disgraceful animals

came into the room where we were sitting, and after telling some

rigmarole story, without being asked to drink, he lifted the glass

from before us, and having said, ‘Here’s your health,’ swallowed its

contents. I was confounded at his impudence, and sat staring at him;

but Dennis was up in an instant, and knocked him down, and, as he

said himself, ‘kicked him for falling.’ The fellow never made any

resistance, but gathered himself up, and crawled out of the room.

When he was gone,—‘By my faith!’ said Dennis, ‘I think I gave the

rascal the worth of his money—that is the only cure for a “spunge.”’

‘I wonder they have no shame,’ said I.

‘Shame!’ rejoined Dennis, ‘shame and they might be married, for any

relationship between them!’

In a short time I began to recover my spirits, and when I had any

spare time, I had recourse to my old favourites, which I obtained

from a circulating library in the town. It is true I could not now

dream so delectably of the life of a shepherd or a sailor; but I had

the field of honour before me. To fight in defence of one’s country,

thought I—to follow the example of a Bruce or a Wallace—must be a

glorious thing. Military fame seemed the only object worth living

for. I already anticipated my acts of valour, charging the enemy,

driving all before me, and coming back loaded with honour and a stand

of French colours; receiving the praise of my commanding officer, and

a commission. On I went in my career of arms, and it was impossible

to stop short of being a general.

In these day-dreams of promotion and honour, I did not look

particularly to the situation I was then in; or even very attentively

at the intermediate ground I had to go over; but these were trifles

in my estimation at that time. I must confess, however, that a damp

was often thrown over these fine speculations by some harsh words

from the drill sergeant, or some overbearing conduct of my superiors.

Or when I saw a poor fellow taken out, and receiving a flogging for

being ten minutes late from tattoo, I could not help thinking the

road to preferment rather rough. Be that as it may, I believe I had

by this time caught a portion of military enthusiasm; and ‘death or

glory’ seemed very fine words, and often, when walking alone, have

I ranted over the words which Goldsmith puts into the mouth of the

Vicar of Wakefield, when his son leaves him to go into the army,—‘Go,

my boy, and if you fall, though distant, exposed, and unwept by those

who love you, the most precious tears are those with which heaven

bedews the unburied head of the soldier.’

The miserable retreat of our army to Corunna, and the account given

of it by some of those who had returned, often lowered my too

sanguine anticipations; but nothing could permanently keep down my

ever active imagination. In this state of mind, I felt a relief from

the melancholy I had previously sunk into; but still I was far from

being contented; something was continually occurring which made me

draw comparisons between my present way of living, and that which

I had enjoyed at home. There were few of those with whom I could

associate, that had an idea beyond the situation they were in:[4]

those who had were afraid to show they possessed any more knowledge

than their comrades, for fear of being laughed at by fellows who, in

other circumstances, they would have despised. If a man ventured to

speak in a style more refined than the herd around him, he was told

that ‘Every one did not read the dictionar’ like him;’ or, ’ Dinna

be gi’en us ony o’ your grammar words na.’ If a man, when accused by

his superiors of something of which he was not guilty, ventured to

speak in his own defence, he was called a _lawyer_, and desired to

give no reply. If he said that he thought it was hard that he should

be condemned without a hearing, the answer was, ‘Be silent, sir!

_you have no right to think_; there are people paid for thinking for

you—do what you are ordered, sir, right or wrong,’

If he did not join with his neighbours in their ribald obscenity and

nonsense, he was a Methodist,—if he did not curse and swear, he was a

Quaker—and if he did not drink the most of his pay, he was called a

miser, a mean scrub, and the generality of his comrades would join in

execrating him.

In such society, it was a hard matter for a man of any superior

information or intellect to keep his ground; for he had few to

converse with on those subjects which were most congenial to his

mind, and to try to inform his comrades was a vain, and by them

considered a presumptuous attempt. Thus, many men of ability and

information were, I may say, forced from the intellectual height

which they had attained, down to the level of those with whom they

were obliged to associate; and everything conspired to sink them to

that point where they became best fitted for _tractable beasts of

burden_.

Blackguardism was fashionable, and even the youngest were led into

scenes of low debauchery and drunkenness, by men advanced in years.

Many of the officers, who, at least, _ought_ to have been men of

superior talents and education, seemed to be little better, if we

were allowed to judge from the abominable oaths and scurrility

which they used to those under their command, and the vexatious and

overbearing tyranny of their conduct, which was too often imitated by

those beneath them.

It redounds much to the honour of those who superintend the

discipline of the army at present, that the situation of the soldier

has been much ameliorated since that period.

Let it not be thought, however, that there were not many exceptions

to this general character which I have drawn, (some of whom I will

have occasion to mention in this narrative,) who have shed a lustre

around the military character that has often served to conceal its

defects.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] This is not to be wondered at when we consider how the army was

at that time recruited; it is very different now.

CHAPTER VI.

About the beginning of May, we got the route for Aberdeen. On the

march I have nothing interesting to take notice of, unless the

kindness which we experienced from the people where we were billeted

on the road, particularly after we crossed the Firth of Forth.

We arrived in Aberdeen, after a march of ten days, where we had

better barracks, and cheaper provisions than in Dunbar; but the

barracks being too small, a number of our men were billeted in the

town, and not being in the mess when pay-day came, it was a common

thing for many of them to spend what they had to support them in

drink; and some of them were so infatuated as to sell even their

allowance of bread for the same purpose. They were then obliged (to

use their own phraseology) to ‘Box Harry,’ until the next pay-day;

and some of them carried this system to such a length, that it was

found necessary to bring them into barracks, to prevent them from

starving themselves.

If I may be allowed to draw a conclusion from what I have seen, the

men’s morals are no way improved by being lodged out of barracks;

for, while here, the principal employment of many of them when off

duty was drinking, and associating with common women; and I think, if

anything tends to depreciate the character of the soldier in the eyes

of his countrymen, in civil life, more than another, it is this habit

of associating publicly with such characters. This total disregard

of even the appearance of decency, conveys an idea to the mind that

he must be the _lowest of the low_. But many of them seem to be proud

of such company; and it is quite a common thing to meet them on the

streets arm in arm.

This debasement of feeling and character, I imagine, arises from

the system of discipline pursued by many commanding officers, which

teaches the soldier to believe that he is a mere piece of machinery

in the hands of his superiors, to be moved only as they please

without any accordance of his own reason or judgment, and that he has

no merit in his own actions, independent of this moving power. Such a

belief has naturally the effect of making a man so little in his own

eyes, that he feels he cannot sink lower, let him keep what company

he may.

But let soldiers be taught that they have a character to uphold; give

them to understand that they are made of the same materials as those

who command them, capable of feeling sentiments of generosity and

honour; let officers evince by their conduct that they believe that

the men they command have feelings as well as themselves, (although

it would be a hard task to make some of them think so;) let them be

encouraged to improve their minds, and there will soon be a change

for the better in the army—one honourable to all concerned.

The doctrine which teaches that men are most easily governed when

ignorant, is, I believe, now nearly exploded; and I can say from

my own experience, and also safely appeal to all unprejudiced

individuals of the army, whether they have not found men having some

intellectual cultivation the best soldiers.

We had been about three months in Aberdeen, when we received

orders to hold ourselves in readiness to sail for Jersey; and four

transports having arrived for us, we prepared to embark.

This was a busy scene. We had been on good terms with the

townspeople, and many of them attended us to the pier. As we marched

down, the old women stood in rows, exclaiming,—‘Peer things!

they are gaun awa’ to the slauchter.’ While the boys were ranked

up, marching before our band, with as much importance as if they

considered themselves heroes; and no doubt, the fine music, and

the sight of the soldiers marching to it, gave them high ideas of

a military life; and perhaps, was the incipient cause of their

enlisting at a future period. Indeed, I must confess that when I

heard the crowd cheering, and our music playing before us, I felt

at least a foot higher, and strutted with as much dignity as if I

had been a general. I almost felt proud at that moment that I was a

soldier.

Once embarked, however, and fairly out to sea, my enthusiasm soon

evaporated. Stowed like any other part of a cargo, with only eighteen

inches allowed for each man to lie on, we had scarcely room to move.

The most of the men became sea-sick, and it was almost impossible to

be below without becoming so. The women particularly suffered much;

being crammed in indiscriminately amongst the men, and no arrangement

made for their comfort.

No incident of any consequence took place on this voyage, with the

exception of a severe gale of wind, which forced us to run into

Dungeness; but it soon abated, and proceeding on our voyage, we made

the island of Jersey, and disembarked at St Oban’s harbour; from

thence we marched through St Helier’s to the Russian barracks near

Groville.

All kinds of liquor, tea, sugar, and fruit, were here uncommonly

cheap; but bread was dear, and what we had served out as rations was

quite black and soft, something in consistence like clay. Brandy was

only a shilling a bottle; wine, two shillings; cyder, three-halfpence

a quart; and tobacco, fifteen pence a pound.

The jovial drinking fellows amongst us thought this another

paradise—a heaven on earth; and many of them laid the foundation of

complaints here which they never got rid of.

It was during the time we were here that the jubilee (on his late

Majesty’s entering the fiftieth year of his reign) was celebrated. We

were marched to the sands between St Helier’s and St Oban’s, where

the whole of the military on the island were assembled. We were

served out with eighteen rounds of blank cartridge per man, and the

_feu-de-joie_ was fired from right to left, and again taken up by the

right, thus keeping up a constant fire until it was all expended. The

artillery, with the various batteries, and shipping in the harbour,

joined in the firing; and altogether formed an imposing scene.

When we arrived at our barracks, we got a day’s pay in advance, and,

with great injunctions not to get drunk and riotous, we were allowed

to go and make ourselves merry until tattoo-beating. Dennis and I

resolved to hold the occasion like the others, although he said he

did not admire this way of ‘treating us to our own.’

We went to one of the usual drinking-houses; but it was full, up to

the door; volumes of tobacco smoke issued from every opening; and the

noise of swearing and singing was completely deafening.

We were obliged to go farther off to get a house to sit down in. At

last we found a place of that description, and went in. After a glass

or two, we became quite jovial; and Dennis insisted that our host

and his wife should sit down along with us. He was a Frenchman and

spoke little English; but Dennis did not mind that, and there soon

commenced a most barbarous jargon—Dennis laying off a long story, of

which, I am sure, the poor man did not understand a syllable. Yet

he went on, still saying at the end of every sentence, ‘You take me

now?’—‘You persave me now, don’t you?’ While our host, whose patience

seemed pretty well taxed, would shrug up his shoulders with a smile,

and looking at his wife, who seemed to understand what was said

nearly as well as himself, he would give a nod and say,

‘Oui, monsieur—yees, sare,’

Dennis having got tired of talking, asked the landlord if he could

sing. This completely puzzled the Frenchman. At last, after every

method had been tried in vain to make him comprehend, Dennis said,

‘You do this,’ and opening his mouth, he howled out a line of an

Irish song. The Frenchman, seemingly frightened with the noise that

Dennis had made, started to his feet and exclaimed,

‘Me no chanter.’

‘Och! the devil’s in ye, for a liar, Parly-vu. But no matter, I’ll

give you a song—a true Irish song, my jewel,’ and he commenced with

the ‘Sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.’ He had got as far as

‘An Irishman all in his glory was there,’ quivering and spinning out

the last line of the verse to a prodigious length, when a rap came

to the door, and the voice of the sergeant of the picquet, asking

if there were any soldiers in the house, put an unpleasant end to

his melody. Previous to this, however, Dennis had taken up a spade

handle, to represent the shillelah, and it was with difficulty that I

prevented him from bringing it down on the sergeant’s head.

We were then escorted to the guard-house, for being out after tattoo,

which we found so full that we could scarcely get admittance.

Dennis cried and sung by turns, until he fell fast asleep. I was

so stupified with the drink I had taken, that I scarcely knew how

I felt. Next morning, however, we were released along with all the

others who had been confined the preceding evening.

We had been about three months in Jersey when the order came for

our embarkation for Portugal; but only six women to every hundred

men were allowed to accompany us. As there were, however, a great

many more than that number, it was ordered that they should draw

lots, to see who should remain. The women of the company to which I

belonged were assembled in the pay-sergeant’s room for that purpose.

The men of the company had gathered round them, to see the result,

with various degrees of interest depicted in their countenances. The

proportionate number of tickets were made with ‘to go’ or ‘not to

go’ written on them. They were then placed in a hat, and the women

were called by their seniority to draw their tickets. I looked round

me before they began. It was an interesting scene. The sergeant

stood in the middle with a hat in his hand, the women around him,

with their hearts palpitating, and anxiety and suspense in every

countenance. Here and there you would see the head of a married man

pushed forward, from amongst the crowd, in the attitude of intense

anxiety and attention.

The first woman called, was the sergeant’s wife—she drew ‘not to go.’

It seemed to give little concern to any one, but herself and her

husband. She was not very well liked in the company. The next was

a corporal’s wife—she drew ‘to go.’ This was received by all with

nearly as much apathy as the first. She was little beloved either.

The next was an old hand, a most outrageous virago, who thought

nothing of giving her husband a knock down when he offended her, and

who used to make great disturbance about the fire in the cooking way.

Every one uttered their wishes audibly that she would lose: and her

husband, if we could judge from his countenance, seemed to wish so

too. She boldly plunged her hand into the hat, and drew out a ticket;

and opening it, she held it up triumphantly, and displayed ‘to go.’

‘Hurra,’ said she, ‘old Meg will go yet, and live to scald more of

you about the fireside.’ A general murmur of disappointment ran

through the whole.

‘Hang the old wretch!’ said some of them, ‘she has the devil’s luck

and her own.’

The next in turn was the wife of a young man, who was much respected

in the company for his steadiness and good behaviour. She was

remarkable for her affection for her husband, and beloved by the

whole company for her modest and obliging disposition. She advanced

with a palpitating heart and trembling hand, to decide on (what was

to her, I believe) her future happiness or misery. Every one prayed

for her success. Trembling between fear and hope she drew out one of

the tickets, and attempted to open it: but her hand shook so that she

could not do it. She handed it to one of the men to open.—When he

opened it, his countenance fell, and he hesitated to say what it was.

She cried out to him, in a tone of agony, ‘Tell me, for God’s sake,

what it is.’

‘Not to go,’ said he in a compassionate tone of voice.

‘Oh, God, help me! O Sandy!’ she exclaimed, and sunk lifeless in the

arms of her husband, who had sprung forward to her assistance, and

in whose face was now depicted every variety of wretchedness. The

drawing was interrupted, and she was carried by her husband to his

berth, where he hung over her in frantic agony. By the assistance

of those around her, she was soon recovered from her swoon; but she

awoke only to a sense of her misery. The first thing she did was to

look round for her husband, when she perceived him she seized his

hand, and held it, as if she was afraid that he was going to leave

her. ‘O, Sandy, you’ll no leave me and your poor babie, will you?’

The poor fellow looked in her face with a look of agony and despair.

The scene drew tears from every eye in the room with the exception

of the termagant whom I have already mentioned, who said, ‘What are

ye a’ makin’ sic a wark about? let the babie get her greet out. I

suppose she thinks there’s naebody ever parted with their men but

her, wi’ her faintin’, and her airs, and her wark.’

‘Oh, you’re an oul hard-hearted devil,’ said Dennis, ‘an unfeeling

oul hag, and the devil ’ill never get his due till he gets you;’—and

he took her by the shoulders and pushed her out of the room. She

would have turned on Dennis; but she had got a squeeze from him on a

former occasion, and I daresay she did not like to run the risk of

another.

The drawing was again commenced, and various were the expressions of

feeling evinced by those concerned. The Irish women, in particular,

were loud in their grief. It always appeared to me that the Irish

either feel more acutely than the Scotch or English, or that they

have less restraint on themselves in expressing it. The barrack,

through the rest of that day, was one continued scene of lamentation.

I was particularly interested in the fate of Sandy and his wife. I

wished to administer consolation; but what could I say? There was no

comfort that I could give, unless leading her to hope that we would

soon return. ‘Oh, no,’ said she, ‘when we part here, I am sure that

we’ll never meet again in this world!’

We were to march the next morning early. The most of the single men

were away drinking. I slept in the berth above Sandy and his wife.

They never went to bed, but sat the whole night in their berth, with

their only child between them, alternately embracing it and each

other, and lamenting their cruel fortune. I never witnessed in my

life such a heart-rending scene. The poor fellow tried to assume some

firmness; but in vain; some feeling expression from her would throw

him off his guard, and at last his grief became quite uncontrollable.

When the first bugle sounded, he got up and prepared his things.

Here a new source of grief sprung up. In laying aside the articles

which he intended to leave, and which they had used together, the

idea seemed fixed in her mind, that they would never use them in

that way again; and as she put them aside, she watered them with her

tears. Her tea-pot, her cups, and every thing that they had used in

common—all had their apostrophe of sorrow. He tried to persuade her

to remain in the barrack, as we had six miles to travel to the place

of embarkation; but she said she would take the last minute in his

company that she could.

The regiment fell in, and marched off, amid the wailing of those who,

having two or three children, could not accompany us to the place

of embarkation. Many of the men had got so much intoxicated that

they were scarcely able to walk, and the commanding officer was so

displeased with their conduct, that in coming through St Helier’s, he

would not allow the band to play.

When we arrived at the place where we were to embark, a most

distressing scene took place, in the men parting with their wives.

Some of them, indeed, it did not appear to affect much; others had

got themselves nearly tipsy; but the most of them seemed to feel

acutely. When Sandy’s wife came to take her last farewell, she lost

all government of her grief. She clung to him with a despairing

hold. ‘Oh, dinna, dinna leave me!’ she cried. The vessel was hauling

out. One of the sergeants came to tell her that she would have to

go ashore. ‘Oh, they’ll never be so hard-hearted as to part us!’

said she; and running aft to the quarter-deck, where the commanding

officer was standing, she sunk down on her knees, with her child in

her arms. ‘Oh! will you no let me gang wi’ my husband? Will you tear

him frae his wife and his wean? He has nae frien’s but us—nor we

ony but him—and oh! will ye mak’ us a’ frien’less? See my wee babie

pleadin’ for us.’

The officer felt a painful struggle between his duty and his

feelings; the tears came into his eyes. She eagerly caught at

this as favourable to her cause, ‘Oh ay, I see you have a feeling

heart—you’ll let me gang wi’ him. You have nae wife; but if you had,

I am sure you wad think it unco hard to be torn frae her this way—and

this wee darlin’.’

‘My good woman,’ said the officer, ‘I feel for you much; but my

orders are peremptory, that no more than six women to each hundred

men go with their husbands. You have had your chance as well as the

other women; and although it is hard enough on you to be separated

from your husband, yet there are many more in the same predicament;

and it is totally out of my power to help it.’

‘Well, well,’ said she, rising from her knees, and straining her

infant to her breast: ‘It’s a’ owre wi’ us, my puir babie; this day

leaves us friendless on the wide world.’

‘God will be your friend,’ said I, as I took the child from her until

she would get into the boat. Sandy had stood like a person bewildered

all this time, without saying a word.

‘Farewell, then, a last farewell, then,’ said she to him, ‘Where’s my

babie?’ I handed him to her—‘Give him a last kiss, Sandy.’ He pressed

the infant to his bosom in silent agony, ‘Now, a’s owre; farewell

Sandy, we’ll maybe meet in heaven;’ and she stepped into the boat

with a wild despairing look. The vessel was now turning the pier, and

she was almost out of our sight in an instant; but as we got the last

glimpse of her, she uttered a shriek, the knell of a broken heart,

which rings in my ears at this moment. Sandy rushed down below, and

threw himself into one of the berths, in a state of feeling which

defies description. Poor fellow, his wife’s forebodings were too

true! What became of her I have never been able to learn.

Nothing occurred worthy of remark on our voyage from Jersey to

Lisbon. When we made the mouth of the Tagus, we got a Portuguese

pilot on board. He had scarcely reached the gang-way when he was

surrounded by all the men on deck; for his appearance was grotesque

in the extreme. He was about four feet and a half high, and had

on a jacket and breeches of what would have puzzled a philosopher

to tell the original; for patches of red, yellow, blue, &c., were

mingled through the whole dress, without any regularity. A pair of

red stockings, and an enormous cocked hat, completed his costume.

His complexion was of the same hue as a well-smoked bacon ham; and

the whole contour of his face bore a striking resemblance to the ape

tribe. ‘Blessings on your purty face, my honey,’ said Dennis, as he

eyed him narrowly, ‘you have made your escape from some showman. May

I never sin, if I don’t think I have seen you tumbling on a rope

at Donnybrook fair.’ Our hero passed on, taking no notice of the

compliment Dennis had paid him, to take the helm from the seaman on

duty; but the tar, giving him a contemptuous look, called out to the

captain, ‘Will I give the helm to this here _thing_?’

‘Certainly,’ said the captain, laughing. The sailor, however, did not

seem sure about him; and as he passed on to the forecastle, could not

help throwing a doubtful look behind at his _substitute_. He proved

to be a good pilot, however, and managed the vessel well.

We passed Fort St Julian, and sailed up the Tagus as far as Belem,

where our pilot gave the order to ‘let go de ank.’ The attention of

those on deck was soon drawn towards a number of people who were

sitting in a row, beneath the walls of a large building, seemingly

very busy at something. After watching their motions for some time,

we discovered that they were picking the vermin off themselves!

There was none of that _modest pressing_ between the finger and

thumb, for fear of being seen, which we may observe in our dirty

and indigent neighbours at home. It was absolute open murder! in

all its varieties; and truly they had their hands full of work; for

although we looked at them for a length of time, the carnage still

continued as fierce as ever. It appeared to me that a new breed

sprung, Phoenix-like, from the remains of their predecessors. This

is a _biting_ sample of Portugal, thought I, turning away in disgust

from the scene; but I soon got accustomed to it; for in Spain and

Portugal, the latter particularly, the _peocha_ seems quite at home,

not confined to the poor alone; for I have seen the family of a rich

fidalgo, male and female, assembled on the sunny side of the house,

‘_sharp shooting_’ publicly, without seeming to feel any shame.

So far from that, it appeared to be the most interesting of their

forenoon amusements.

Next morning we disembarked and marched up to St Domingo convent,

part of which had been converted into barracks. In the course of the

day Dennis and I got into the town. We promised ourselves much from

the view we had had from the river the preceding evening; but were

miserably disappointed when we got into the streets; for mountains of

filth were collected in them, so that we could scarcely pass; and the

smell of oil and garlic issuing from the shops was quite sickening.

The most of the streets were very narrow.

The population seemed composed of monks and friars, for we met them

at every step either begging, or walking in procession with the

sacrament (or host) to some sick person. On these occasions they were

preceded by a bell, which warned the passengers of their approach;

whenever it was heard, they were down on their knees in a moment, in

the very middle of the mud, and continued praying and beating their

breasts until it passed. Poor Dennis was sadly puzzled the first

time he met one of these parties; he was a Catholic, and of course

could not avoid following the example of the _Christianos_ around

him; but he had a great aversion to kneeling in the dirty streets.

The procession was fast advancing, and he had been two or three

times half down on his knees and up again; at last a lucky thought

struck him—he snatched the hat out of the hand of a Portuguese

who was kneeling before him, and deliberately placing it on the

ground, kneeled down on it, and went through the ceremony with great

gravity—thus saving both his conscience and his breeches. The fellow

who owned the hat durst not move until the procession had passed; and

then, without giving him time to speak, Dennis clapped the hat, dirty

as it was, on the owner’s head, and walked off.

The fruit market was opposite to the convent gate; and it certainly

was to us a novel and a pleasing sight. The finest fruits, which

at home were rare and high in price, we found here as plenty and

as cheap as gooseberries. Pine apples, peaches, and grapes, of the

largest size and most exquisite flavour, with oranges, lemons, and

pomegranates, were arranged on the standings, in the most tempting

and tasteful manner. Dennis and I walked through amongst them with

a strong desire of tasting them, yet fearful that our finances would

not enable us to buy any. I ventured, however, to ask for the worth

of a vintin (about three halfpence English) of oranges; after giving

the woman the money, and pointing to the fruit, I held out my hand

to receive them, but she beckoned me to give her my hat, and to our

surprise, she nearly filled it.

The fragrant and delicious odour which perfumed the market place,

and the sight of the beautiful fruit and flowers, made it a much

more attractive place of resort, than the dirty streets filled with

the abominable stench which issued from their cook-shops. My opinion

of the interior of Lisbon was certainly very low; and I think, if

a stranger wishes to see Lisbon, and leave it with any idea of its

grandeur, he ought to contemplate it from the river, but never set

his foot on shore, for he will then feel nothing but disgust.

CHAPTER VII.

We remained only seven days in Lisbon; on the evening of the seventh

we were turned out, marched down to Belem, and embarked by torch

light for Cadiz. I do not remember anything worthy of notice which

took place on this voyage, only that it was tedious.

When we made the bay of Cadiz, we found a large fleet of British

vessels there before us. The French had possession of all the

surrounding country, with the exception of the Isle of Leon and

Cadiz; and these were closely besieged. When we first arrived, we

were not sure on which side of the bay we might be required to land;

but we were served out with flints and ammunition, and our commanding

officer issued a circular to the men on board the different

transports, ordering us to hold ourselves in readiness for immediate

action, and exhorting us to remember the honour of our country and

regiment.

That evening, our light company, with those of the other regiments,

forming a light brigade, under the command of Major-General the

Hon. Sir William Stewart, landed and marched to the outpost at the

town of Isla. Next day the remainder of the troops disembarked; and

entering Cadiz, we occupied part of the bomb-proof barracks under the

ramparts, where we remained with Lieutenant-General Graham, who was

chief in command.

I could not say that our reception by the inhabitants, on landing,

was very flattering. Here and there amongst the crowd, you could hear

a ‘Viva Englese;’ but the greater number received us with a gloomy

suspicious silence. Setting aside other causes, it was really not to

be wondered at, that the inhabitants should feel little attachment to

the English, when we consider that they had suffered so severely by

Nelson and the British fleet, about four years before, and that the

shattered remains of some of their vessels were still lying in the

bay.

Cadiz was, in my opinion, a much cleaner town than Lisbon, and in

point of situation, more picturesque. From the ramparts on the

Atlantic side of the town, the view was very fine; to the left, we

could see the African shore, with its mountains stretching out until

their outline was lost in the distance. Before you the prospect was

unconfined, and the eye was lost in the wide world of waters, unless

when it was arrested by a passing sail, or brought nearer the town by

the noise of the breakers lashing the dark sides of the rocks, which

ran out into the sea, and here and there showed their heads above

water. On the side of the town next the bay, the Rota, Bay of Bulls,

with the town of Port St Mary’s, Porto Real, Isla, Checuelina, and

Cape Trafalgar, brought the eye round to where it set out.

When we had anything to wash, we were obliged to go outside the walls

to some of the cisterns, a short distance from the town. It was here

I first learned to wash my own clothes. I was awkward enough when I

began, but practice soon made me expert at it.

In one of these washing excursions, I happened to pass a chapel; and

seeing people engaged at some ceremony in it, my curiosity prompted

me to enter. A corpse lay on a bier, with the face uncovered, and a

bunch of flowers were placed in its hands, which were joined together

in a praying attitude. The priest was performing the service of the

dead over it; near him stood two little boys, with silver censers

waving in their hands, filled with burning incense. The whole service

seemed to me impressive enough. After it was finished, the corpse

was removed to the outside of the chapel, and deposited in a hole in

the wall resembling an oven; it was then covered with quick lime;

the mouth of the hole shut up with a stone, which fitted it; and the

people retired.

As yet, none of the troops had been brought into action, with the

exception of the light companies, who had some slight skirmishing at

the outposts. The French had attempted nothing of any consequence.

They were very busy, however, prosecuting the siege—building

batteries in every direction. There was one battery, called Fort M

——. It lay on the French side, at the extremity of a point of land,

stretching down from Porto Real into the bay, opposite to Puntallis.

From this, had they manned it, they might have annoyed our shipping

very much; and it was resolved that we should take possession of it.

Accordingly, one evening the three first men from each company of

the regiment to which I belonged were turned out, in marching order,

for that purpose. At the quay, we were joined by a detachment of

artillery, and were conveyed across the bay in man-of-war boats. On

our passage we were joined by a party of seamen and marines; who,

with a captain-commandant, surgeon, two subalterns, one of whom acted

as adjutant, a lieutenant of artillery, and a midshipman, made in all

about one hundred and fifty men.

When we reached the fort, we used every precaution to avoid alarming

the French if there had been any there; but it was quite unnecessary,

for their picquet had retired, without firing a shot. After placing

a picquet in front, we set to work, and got up three guns, which we

had brought with us. This kept us busy enough until morning; when we

got a better view of the isolated place we had taken possession of.

The fort itself was about a hundred yards square; but it had been

completely demolished on its sea face, by the seamen of our fleet

when the French advanced to the siege, and the others were all more

or less in ruins. The bomb-proofs were nearly all destroyed. In what

remained there was not shelter for the half of our men; and by a rule

of division, often practised in the army, that little was made less

by the officers appropriating the half of it to themselves.

Day had not long dawned when the French gave us a salute from a

small battery, in the village at Fort Lewis; but when we got our

guns mounted, it was soon silenced. From that time we commenced with

redoubled exertion to work at the battery—building up the parapets,

and laying platforms for more guns. We were supplied with materials,

viz., fascions, gabions, and sand-bags, from Cadiz.

Here we were wrought like slaves, I may say, without intermission;

for our worthy adjutant, who aimed at being a rigid disciplinarian,

and was a great amateur in drill, was determined that no hard labour,

or want of convenience for cleaning our things, should tempt him to

deviate from a clean parade and formal guard-mounting every morning,

even although we had been out all night under the rain on picquet,

or carrying sand-bags and digging trenches up to the knees in mud.

All the varied forms of duty known in a militia regiment, with which

he was best acquainted, were by him indispensable; and in a place

where we had no convenience for keeping our things in order, not even

shelter for them, this exactness was certainly, to say the least of

it, unnecessarily teasing. We were also obliged to stand sentry on

different parts of the battery, full dressed, where there was no

earthly use for us, unless for show; and I could perceive no reason

the commandant and he had for their conduct, unless that, feeling

the novelty of their situation—in command of a fort—they wished to

ape, with their handful of men, all the importance of leaders of an

army.

We were driven from guard to working—working to picquet—picquet to

working again, in a gin-horse round of the most intolerable fatigue;

which we never could have borne for any length of time, exposed as

we often were to sun and rain, in a climate like that of Cadiz.

But, even with all this we had the mortification to find our best

endeavours repaid with the most supercilious haughtiness, and the

worst of usage. We were allowed little time to sleep; and that little

often interrupted.

But let it not be imagined that our officers participated in all this

fatigue; they know how to take care of themselves; and they could sit

and drink wine in their bomb-proof at night, as comfortably as in a

mess room at home. And it was a common amusement of the commandant,

when he got warmed with it, to order the drum to beat to arms in

the middle of the night—when the poor wretches who had perhaps just

lost sense of their fatigue in sweet oblivion, would be roused up,

and obliged to go to their several posts on the ramparts; and when

permitted to go below to our berths, we would scarcely be lain down,

when we were again roused to commence working. This was the usual

routine the most of the time we were here.

It may be well to remark, however, (for the benefit of those officers

who may wish to follow the example,) that the commandant had a most

_ingenious_ method of assembling his men quickly; he used to stand

with his fist clenched, at the top of the ladder leading from the

bomb-proof, ready to knock down the last man that came up; and as

some one must necessarily be last, he of course was sure of the

blow; and as he was a strong muscular man, it used to _tell_ (as we

military men term it) on the poor fellow’s head.

One man, I remember, who had suffered in this way, remonstrated,

and threatened to complain to his colonel; but the answer was a

second ‘knock down,’ and an order to confine him between two guns in

an angle of the battery, where he was exposed to the inclemency of

the weather for many days and nights without covering; and when his

health was impaired by this usage, he was still kept in the fort,

although it was the usual practice to send the sick to the general

hospital in Cadiz. He was not allowed to leave the place until we

all left it; and then it is probable if he had ventured to complain,

he might have been flogged in addition to all he had suffered, for

presuming to say anything against the Hero of M——.

We had now got up six guns and two mortars on the fort, which was

all we could mount to have any effect. We were supported by a

Spanish man-of-war and six or eight gun-boats; and with them we used

to bombard the small village at Fort Lewis, and annoy the working

parties coming down from Porto Real to build batteries. We often

made great havoc amongst them, with spherical case-shot. One day in

particular, I remember, we brought down an officer who was riding on

a white horse at the head of his party, and we saw them carry him off

in a litter from the place where he fell.

About this time a severe gale came on, by which a great number of

vessels were stranded on the French side of the bay; most of them

were abandoned by their crews, who got safe over to Cadiz; but one

transport containing the flank companies and staff of a battalion

of the fourth regiment, ran ashore near Port St Mary’s, and they

were all taken prisoners. They had their colours with them, and I

heard afterwards that they had put them under the coppers and burned

them, rather than let them fall into the hands of the enemy. Many of

these vessels were richly laden; and as they were sure ultimately to

fall into the hands of the enemy, being also considered fair prizes

when they ran ashore on an enemy’s coast, we procured a couple of

boats, and succeeded in securing part of the cargo of those nearest

us, which was principally silk, with some pipes of wine and salt

provision.

The stranded vessels, that lay along the shore, were often visited

by straggling parties of the French, who used to carry off heavy

burdens of the cargo. This stimulated some of our men to follow their

example; but there was great risk in the adventure. They could only

go at night, and run all hazard of their absence being discovered;

that, however, might be averted by the sergeants, who of course

shared in the booty; but the marsh which they had to cross was very

dangerous, the road uncertain, and they might have been taken by the

enemy’s picquets; but notwithstanding these obstacles, there were

many who, either out of a spirit of adventure, or a love of gain,

despised them all, and were well repaid for their trouble by the

valuable articles which they found.

Our party often fell in with the French stragglers, who were there

on the same errand; but they were quite friendly, and when any wine

or spirits were got in the vessels, they used to sit down and drink

together, as sociably as if they had been comrades for years. What

every man got was his own, and there was seldom any dissension.

One night I happened to be of the party. We had made our burdens,

parted with our French friends, and left the vessels on our way

to the fort. The party of the French had left it also. We had not

proceeded far, when we missed one of our comrades; and fearing that

some accident had befallen him, we returned, and near the vessel saw

him struggling with some one. We hastened up to him; but before we

reached the spot, the person with whom he was engaged fell to the

ground with a groan. At that moment, we saw our comrade stoop, and

tear something from him. ‘What is the matter?’ said one of our party.

‘Come away,’ said he, ‘and I’ll tell you as we go along;’ and he

passed us on his way to the fort.

We were anxious to see who his antagonist was; and on raising him up,

we found that he was one of the French party, who had been with us

in the vessel. He had been stabbed in the left side with a Spanish

knife, which still remained in the wound. One of the party withdrew

it. The blood flowed out of the wound with great force. The poor

Frenchman gave a deep groan—a convulsive quiver—and expired.

‘This is a horrid cold-blooded murder,’ said I. ‘Where is S——?’ At

this moment we heard the noise of footsteps approaching, and thinking

it might be the comrades of the Frenchman who had been barbarously

assassinated, we left the place precipitately, our minds filled with

horror at the savage deed.

On our way to the fort we overtook S——; but none of us spoke to him.

He, however, strove to extenuate his conduct, by saying that he

observed the Frenchman find a purse in a chest that he had broken

open, and seeing him linger behind his party for the purpose of

secreting it about his person, he went up to him, and asked a share

of it. The man refusing this, a scuffle ensued, and he stabbed him in

his own defence, the Frenchman having attempted to stab him. We knew

this to be false; for the Frenchman had no weapon in his hand, or

near him; and we had no doubt, from what we knew of S——’s character,

that he had perpetrated the murder for the sake of the money, which

was gold doubloons. He offered to share it with us; but not one of

us would touch it; and from that time forward, he was shunned and

detested by all who knew of the murder. He never prospered after. I

even thought that his countenance acquired a demon-like expression,

that rendered it repulsive; and we had not been long in Portugal,

when he went to the rear and died in great misery. After that we

never returned to the vessels.

The Spaniards had a number of hulks moored in the bay which Lord

Nelson made for them, on board of which they kept their French

prisoners, who, we understood, were very ill used, nearly starved,

and huddled together in such a way that disease was the consequence.

Many of them died daily. They were kept until sunset, and then thrown

over board, and allowed to float about in the bay. Every tide threw

some of them ashore, and the beach was continually studded here and

there with them. When our men discovered any of them, they scraped a

hole in the sand, and buried them; but they were totally unheeded by

the Spaniards unless when they practised some barbarity on them—such

as dashing large stones on their heads, or cutting and mutilating

them in such a way that the very soul would sicken at the idea.

I was one night on picquet, and along with the sergeant

reconnoitering the ground in front of the fort, as the French

picquets were in the habit of coming close down on us when it was

dark. We saw something white moving amongst the weeds near the shore,

to the left of the battery; and we went down in that direction to see

what it was; but in an instant we lost sight of it. When we came to

the place where we first saw it, we found the body of a man extended

on the ground. This was not an uncommon appearance; but as we had

seen something moving when we were first attracted to the spot, I was

induced to feel the body, to ascertain whether it was dead, and to

my surprise, I found him warm, and assisted by the sergeant raised

him up. It struck us that he had only fainted, and we rubbed him for

some time with our hands. He at last began to recover, and his first

action, when he came to himself, was to fall down on his knees at

our feet, and cry ‘Misericordia.’[5] We did not understand what he

said; but we asked him, in English, how he had come there. Whenever

he heard us speak, he sprung to his feet, and seizing our hands, he

cried ‘Vous etes Anglois—Grâce à bon Dieu!’[6]

We threw a great-coat over him, and took him into the fort, where,

placing him before a fire, and giving him some bread and wine, the

poor fellow soon recovered. When it was discovered that he had no

clothes on, one man took off his shirt and put it on him, another

gave him a pair of trousers, and he was soon comfortably clothed. He

poured out his thanks in French, but he saw we did not understand the

language. He tried the Spanish with like success. He attempted a

mixture of both with as little effect; but when he pressed his hand

on his heart, and the big drop gathered in his eye, he found by the

sympathising tear which it excited, that no words were necessary to

express the universal language of gratitude.

When he was perfectly recovered, we reported the affair to the

commandant, and the artillery officer speaking the French language,

he was questioned by him. In reply, he said he was a surgeon in the

French service; that he had been taken prisoner and confined on

board one of the prison ships; that that night he determined to make

his escape, or perish in the attempt; and having lowered himself

down from one of the gun ports, quite naked, he had swam a distance

of two miles; but was so exhausted when he reached the shore, that

he sank down insensible at the time we had first seen him; when he

recovered, his first idea was that he had fallen into the hands of

the Spaniards, who, he well knew, would have butchered him without

mercy; but when he found by our language that we were English, he was

overjoyed. He had saved nothing but a miniature of a female, which

hung round his neck, and which he seemed to prize very much, for when

he recovered, the first thing he did was to feel if it were still

there, and raise it to his lips and kiss it.

He was kept until next day in the fort, when he was sent over to

Cadiz. He seemed distracted at the idea of going there, lest he

should be delivered over to the Spaniards; and although he was

assured to the contrary, still he seemed to feel uneasy.

It was not many days, however, after that, when he was sent back,

with orders that he should be escorted to our outposts at night, and

left to join his countrymen. When night came, he took leave of the

men in the fort with a kind of regret. I again happened to be of the

party who escorted him. After leaving our picquet, the sergeant and

I conducted him up the path-way leading direct from the fort, until

we suspected that we were near the French picquet, and there we told

him that we would be obliged to leave him. He pressed our hands

in silence: his heart was too full to speak; but we could easily

guess what were his emotions. Joy at the idea of again rejoining his

countrymen, with a feeling of regret at parting with those to whom he

considered he owed his life, were contending in his mind.

The night was dark, and we soon lost sight of him; but we lay down

on the ground, and listened with anxious suspense, afraid that the

French outpost sentry might fire upon him before he had time to

explain, and he might thus lose his life on the very threshold of

freedom; but we did not hear the sentinel challenge him, nor did we

hear any shot fired. We had therefore every reason to believe he

reached his countrymen in safety.

During the time we were here, an attack was meditated on the

French positions, and a number of troops were landed on the fort

for that purpose. A strong party of seamen was also landed at fort

Catalina, who succeeded in storming it, and spiking the guns; but

in consequence of some signals being thrown up by adherents of the

French in Cadiz, they were alarmed, and the troops were obliged to

return without effecting what had been originally intended.

FOOTNOTES:

[5] Mercy.

[6] Thank God you are English.

CHAPTER VIII.

We had now been in the fort about two months; and from the time that

we had silenced the small battery that had opened on us, when we

first gained possession of the place, the French had not molested

us, although they occasionally fired shots at the boats passing up

and down the bay. We were well aware, however, that this was only a

deceitful calm before a storm; for they had been busy all this time

building batteries both in front and to our right in the village I

have already mentioned, although they were hidden from our view by

the houses.

At last, when every thing was prepared, they commenced their

operations one night by blowing up the houses which had hitherto

masked the batteries. I was out on picquet at the time; and we

perceived them moving round a large fire which they had kindled.

We suspected that they designed to attack us, and our suspicions

were soon verified; for in a short time after, they gave a salute

of grape shot, which ploughed the earth on every side of us; but

this was only a prelude. A volley of red-hot shot, at the Spanish

man-of-war, succeeded, which set her on fire, and obliged her to slip

her cable, and drop down the bay. A volley or two more of the same

kind scattered our gun-boats; and we were then left to bear the brunt

of the battle alone. Now it began in earnest. Five or six batteries,

mounting in all about twenty guns, and eight or ten mortars, opened

their tremendous mouths, vomiting forth death and destruction. The

picquet was called in.

There was a number of spare fascions piled up on the sea face of the

battery, amongst which, for want of room in the bomb-proof, we formed

huts. In one of these I lodged. They had been set on fire by a shell

that fell amongst them; and when I entered the fort, the Spanish

labourers were busy throwing them into the sea. I ran to try to save

my knapsack, with the little treasure which I had gained; but it was

too late—hut and all had been tossed over. There was no help for it:

I did not know how soon I might be thrown over also. I was called to

my gun, and had no more time to think on the subject. They were now

plying us so fast with shell, that I saw six or eight in the air over

us at once.

Death now began to stalk about in the most dreadful form. The large

shot were certain messengers where they struck. The first man killed

was a sailor who belonged to the Temeraire seventy-four. The whole

of his face was carried away. It was a horrid-looking wound. He was

at the same gun with me. ‘Ah! what will we do with him?’ said I to a

seaman next me.

‘Let him lie there,’ was the reply. ‘We have no time to look after

dead men now.’

At that time I thought it a hardened expression; but this was my

first engagement. Not so with the tar. He had been well used to them.

The French soon acquired a fatal precision with their shot, sending

them in through our embrasures, killing and wounding men every

volley. I was on the left of the gun, at the front wheel. We were

running her up after loading. I had stooped to take a fresh purchase,

a cannon ball whistled in through the embrasure, carried the forage

cap off my head, and struck the man behind me on the breast, and he

fell to rise no more.

The commandant was now moving from place to place, giving orders

and exposing himself to every danger. No one could doubt that he

was brave: had it been bravery, softened and blended with the finer

feelings of humanity, he would have been a true hero; but——. Our

artillery officer behaved like a gentleman, as he had always done;

and our subaltern in a tolerable medium: the midshipman in the style

of a brave, rough and ready seaman. But, alas, how had the mighty

fallen!—our brave adjutant, whose blustering voice, and bullying

important manner, had been always so remarkable, was now as quiet

as a lamb. Seated in an angle of the battery, sheltered from the

shot, no penitent on the _cutty stool_ ever exhibited so rueful a

countenance.

The carnage now became dreadful; the ramparts were strewed with the

dead and wounded; and blood, brains, and mangled limbs, lay scattered

in every direction: but our men’s spirits and enthusiasm seemed to

rise with the danger. The artillery officer stood on the platform,

and when he reported any of our shot taking effect, a cheer followed,

and ‘At it again, my heroes!’ was the exclamation from every mouth.

When any of our comrades fell, it excited no visible feeling but

revenge. ‘Now for a retaliating shot!’ was the word; every nerve was

strained to lay the gun with precision; and if it took effect, it

was considered that full justice was done to their memory.

We had a traversing gun in the angle of the battery which had done

great execution. The artillery sergeant commanded her; and they were

plying her with great vigour. In the course of the day, however, as

the man was returning the sponge after a shot, and the cartridge in

the hand of another, ready to reload, a thirty-two pound shot from

the French entered her muzzle, she rebounded, and struck the sergeant

with her breach on the breast, and knocked him over insensible. The

shot had entered so far that she was rendered useless, and abandoned.

The action was kept up the whole of that day, during which we lost

the best and bravest of our men. Our guns had been well directed

at first; but towards evening, the most of the artillery who had

commanded them were either killed or wounded; and the direction of

them was then taken by men who knew little about it. The consequence

was that much ammunition was used to little purpose. The artillery

soldier at the gun next to me was killed, and two men equally

ambitious for what they considered the post of honour, quarrelled

about it. From high words it came to blows; but the dispute was soon

settled; for a shell, falling between them, burst, and quieted them

for ever.

I could scarcely define my feelings during the action; but so far

from feeling fear, when it first commenced, and the silent gloom

of the night was broken by the rapid flash, and the reverberating

thunder of the cannon, I felt a sensation something resembling

delight; but it was of an awful kind—enthusiasm and sublimity, mixed

with a sense of danger—something like what I have felt in a violent

thunder storm.

The firing, on both sides, had been kept up without intermission

from two o’clock in the morning; but as it now became dark, it was

partially suspended. I then, for the first time, ventured to go below

to the bomb-proof. The scene there was dismal—the wounded filled the

whole place, and the doctor had not got through with the dressing of

them. In this he was materially assisted from the commencement of the

action by a female, (Mrs Reston,) whose heroism I have described in a

subsequent volume. It is matter of surprise to many, that the courage

she displayed, and the services she rendered on that occasion, should

have been entirely overlooked by those who had the power of rewarding

her, or that her claims on the country were not more warmly seconded

by the officer who commanded in the fort.

Here let me pause in my narrative, to pay a tribute of respect to

the memory of assistant-surgeon Bennet, who was with us during that

trying period. To a fair knowledge of his profession, he added one

of the kindest dispositions I ever knew any one possessed of; he was

absolutely without one drop of gall in his composition; so much so,

indeed, that some of the officers endeavoured to make him a butt for

their raillery, but his native wit defeated their purpose, and turned

against them their own weapons. Those who have been under his care

will remember him with grateful feelings. But his career was brief;

shortly after our arrival in Portugal, he caught infection from some

of the sick whom he was attending, and died.

During the day I had little time to reflect on anything—all was

noise and bustle; but now that I had time to look round, and saw

the ramparts covered with the pale and disfigured corpses of those

who, a few hours before, were rioting in the fulness of health and

strength, and others writhing in agony, under the severe wounds they

had received, I could not deny that I felt my heart sink within me,

and sensations of a melancholy and solemn nature took place of those

which had before excited my mind.

When daylight came in next morning, the firing again commenced

as warmly as the preceding day; and the precision the French had

attained with their shot was very remarkable. We had a flag-staff

of the usual size, on which was hoisted the Spanish colours. They

had cut it across with a cannon ball, it was repaired, and again

replaced; but it was not five minutes up, when another shot brought

it down again. This occurring four or five times successively, gave

great offence to the sailors, who attributed all that we had suffered

to fighting under the Spanish flag, and swore that if the union jack

were up in its place, the French would not bring it down so easily.

‘There’s that bloody Spanish flag down again,’ said one of the tars.

‘Look ye, Jack! I have got our boat’s ensign here—let me go, and I’ll

soon run it up.’

He went, and assisted in repairing the flag staff; but instead of

again bending the Spanish flag to the halliards, he put the English

in place of it.

A general huzza greeted its appearance. ‘Now, hang it! we’ll beat the

French dogs,’ said the seamen; but the cheering attracted the notice

of the commandant, and he ordered it to be hauled down again. Never

was an order so reluctantly obeyed. In a few minutes, a shot cut

through the flag staff. ‘There it goes down again—Oh, botheration;’

was the surly reply. ‘Let it lie there;’ and there it lay, for no one

would meddle with it. ‘Better to fight without a flag at all, than

under such a bloody treacherous flag as that,’ said an old sailor. ‘I

never could bear it, unless when I saw it flying at the mast head of

an enemy.’

By this time three of our guns were rendered unfit for service, and

they had made great impression on our parapet, with a breach in the

end of the bomb-proof. A corporal of our grenadier company had gone

below to get some refreshment, and was raising a tin with some wine

in it to his mouth, when a shot entered the breach, and striking

some small arms that were placed against the wall, shivered them to

pieces. One of the splinters entered his head, and he fell dead on

the spot. The rest wounded several of the men beside him.

A shell fell about the same time at the magazine door. A blanket was

the only partition between it and the powder. We were sure all was

over,—that it was impossible but that the magazine would be blown

up. We stood in awful suspense for the few seconds between its fall

and bursting—it burst—and already we imagined ourselves in the air;

but fortunately, it did not communicate with the powder. There were

two artillery men in the magazine at the time, whose feelings could

not be very enviable.

In the course of the morning, General Stewart came over from Cadiz

to inspect the state of the fort, when it was found that it could

not stand out much longer. A reinforcement of men from different

regiments was sent over to assist us, in case of the enemy attempting

to storm us in our disabled state, but we received little assistance

from them.

One of our sergeants, who, from his complexion, was called the ‘Black

Prince,’ had installed himself commissary; and on the pretence of

preventing the men from getting drunk, he seated himself beside the

cask, which contained our ration wine, and fulfilled his duty so

faithfully that he would not even give the men their allowance, but

gave it away very liberally to any of the strangers who could ‘_tip

him the blarney_;’ and among hands ‘he did not forget himself.’ He

got rather tipsy at last; and the men getting clamorous for their

just allowance, to settle the dispute, he staved the cask, and spilt

the wine about the place.

Let it be observed, however, that I do not blame the action, had his

motive been to prevent the men getting intoxicated, (the best proof

of which, would have been keeping sober himself;) but as the contrary

was obviously the case, it could only be attributed to caprice,

for he withheld the ration allowed from many of the men, while he

distributed to others what they chose to ask.

The affair was scarcely worth mentioning, only that it will serve

to show on what an uncertain basis a soldier’s fame rests; for he

was extolled to the skies, and subsequently got a situation in the

commissariat department for that action; while others, who had

distinguished themselves by their valour and intrepid exertions, were

passed by unnoticed.

It being found that we could not keep the place, boats were sent to

convey us to Cadiz. Mines had been previously laid, and a major of

engineers came over to superintend the operations for blowing up the

fort; but he had not taken many paces on the battery, when he was

struck by a cannon shot, and fell a lifeless corpse.

It is remarkable to observe the covetousness of some men, even in

the midst of danger. When he fell, the epaulettes were torn off his

shoulders, and the gold watch was taken out of his pocket. The watch

was afterwards recovered, but not, I believe, until the chain and

seals were disposed of.

The men were now busy gathering what things they had together, and

moving down to the boats. Some of them had already sailed. I had now

time to reflect on the almost naked situation in which I was left,

for I had thrown off my great-coat at the commencement of the action,

and some one had taken it away. I ran down to the bomb-proof, to try

if I could find anything to put on, but I met an engineer officer at

the end of the passage, with his sword drawn, who had been inspecting

the train laid to the mine. He asked me if I wished to be blown up,

and ordered me off instantly.

On coming up the ramparts, I found that all the men had left the

fort, with the exception of three or four, and the commandant. He was

watching the motions of a strong party of French who were evidently

coming down to take the place. Our ammunition was expended, but

he ordered all the loose powder, grape, and ball cartridge to be

collected, and having stuffed three guns (all we had left fit for

service) to the muzzle with them, we watched the enemy until within

about two hundred yards of the battery, when they were fired into the

very middle of their column, and laid the half of them prostrate on

the earth; the rest wheeled to the right about and left us to embark

at leisure.

A number of the men, who had been killed, were lying on the ramparts.

Some of them of the same regiment to which I belonged. We resolved

on giving them some sort of burial, as the last kind office we

could perform. We gathered them into a temporary hut, which had been

built of mud, and, throwing it down over them, ‘Sleep there, brave

comrades!’ said we: ‘far distant, and ignorant of your fate, is the

wife or mother who would have composed your mangled limbs.’ Hurried

and rude was their burial, and a heart-felt sigh all their requiem,

but it was more valuable than the ostentatious trappings of affected

woe.

We then hurried down to the boats; they were all gone but one, and

after entering, I learned from my comrades that two men of the party

who had come to reinforce us had got themselves so beastly drunk that

they could not stir, and had been left behind.

We were not a great distance from the fort when it blew up, but

only partially. The French were still firing, and one of the shells

falling into a boat, which preceded us, burst and killed three men,

besides wounding others. We were taken by the boats on board of the

Invincible seventy-four, where we were very kindly treated; from that

we were conveyed to Cadiz.

The regiment I belonged to had removed to Isla Camp, but we

were marched up to our old barracks in the bomb-proof, and a

motley-looking group we were. Half naked, and blackened with the

smoke of the gunpowder, we looked more like chimney-sweepers than

soldiers. We were received very coolly by the Spaniards. They did

not seem to feel any commiseration for us on account of what we had

suffered. I imagined their looks expressed vexation rather at any of

us escaping alive.

When we reached the barrack, exhausted with fatigue and want of

sleep, I threw myself on the stone floor. My mind was a chaos. The

events of the preceding thirty hours were all jumbled together in

my brain. Previous to that I had a good assortment of necessaries,

with a hundred and fifty dollars, and some pieces of silk. I was now

left with a pair of canvass trowsers, my shirt, shoes, and forage

cap; but it was the fortune of war, and I soon forgot it all in a

profound sleep, I do not know how long I slept, but when I awoke

all my comrades had left the bomb-proof, away drinking, with the

exception of one or two, who had been left as poor as myself.

I had received a wound in the leg from a splinter of a shell during

the action. At the time I paid little attention to it, but it had

now became so inflamed and swelled that I could scarcely move it.

My former excitement of mind, with the fatigue I had endured, had

produced a proportionate debility, and my feelings were no way

enviable. Nothing could be more lonely, desolate, and heartless, than

the state in which I felt myself the remaining part of that day.

CHAPTER IX.

The day following, we marched to join the regiment at Isla Camp.

Our comrades turned out to receive us, and our hearts thrilled with

exultation at the encomiums passed on our bravery. The poor fellows

flew with alacrity to procure wine to treat us; amongst the rest, my

comrade Dennis was not backward. He and I had been separated when I

went to the fort, and he was now overjoyed to see me. He seized my

hand in the warmth of his heart, and shook it so long, and squeezed

it so heartily, that I was ready to cry out with the pain.

‘Man alive, Joseph!’ exclaimed he, ‘is it yourself that’s in it?

troth, I thought I’d never see you more, for, when I saw the shot

and shell flying about ye like hailstones, I said to myself, “Poor

comrade! it’s all over with you;” but, thank God, here you are safe

and sound.’

‘Scarcely,’ said I.

‘What’s the matter, my dear fellow, are you wounded?’

‘Slightly, but that is not the worst of it, I have all my kit on my

back.’

‘Och, if that’s all, never fear, my boy—you’ll never want while

Dennis has a shirt in his knapsack, or a cross in his pocket.’

And his were not empty professions; my heart glows with grateful

feeling to this moment at the remembrance of his disinterested

kindness. In my chequered journey through life I met few friends of

his description.

After supplying me with things to change myself, he procured a

canteen of wine; and being joined by more of our comrades, who were

willing to show their good will, and who had come equally well

provided, we sat down in the tent, and I soon forgot all that I had

suffered.

When the wine warmed my head, I entered into a detail of our

proceedings during the time we were in the fort, and with a feeling

of pride and exultation—‘fought all the battle o’er again.’ My

comrades, ranged around, greedily devoured the relation; and their

exclamations and remarks served to heighten my enthusiasm. I can

smile now at the warmth of my feeling, and the high ideas I had

then of a warrior’s fame. Yet, I must say, that there is a feeling

connected with military enterprise, which will scarcely fail to carry

all before it, particularly in men of any imagination. Military

glory or fame, calmly considered, certainly appears a mere bauble,

an _ignis fatuus_: but show me the man, of any soul, who could

take this view of it in the midst of battle; there the imagination

soars unconfined beyond every trammel, and gets into the region of

sublimity and enthusiasm.

Next day we were called out. The regiment formed square, and the

remains of our party was marched into it. We were then addressed by

our commanding officer in terms of the highest eulogy, and held out

to the regiment as a pattern. The sergeant who had distinguished

himself by staving the wine cask, was particularly addressed, and

told that he would not be lost sight of. We were then dismissed; but

with the exception of this sergeant, I do not remember any of us

who were thought of after the speech. For my own part, I know that

I found difficulty enough in getting the sum of two pounds eight

shillings, in lieu of all that I had lost! The commandant, however,

was soon raised to the rank of major, and not long after to that of

lieutenant-colonel.

The regiments of the brigade in camp were busily employed at this

time working at the batteries, which were building on the island; for

which they received ninepence per day, in addition to their pay. They

had also extra rations, such as coffee and sugar for breakfast, and a

pint of porter daily; but the labour was very hard, and the exposure

to the sun brought on sickness amongst them.

Still we had little reason to complain, for we were under the command

of a general who did not think it below him to look into the men’s

rights and interests, and anticipate their wants. It was not an

uncommon thing, in a very wet morning, to find him up at our camp,

ordering an extra ration of rum to be served out to the brigade.

There were also double tents provided for us; as, in consequence

of the heavy rains, the single ones were found insufficient; and

on every occasion he paid the most indefatigable attention to

our comfort. In him was found a rare combination of the rigid

disciplinarian and the _soldier’s friend_. He discharged his own duty

faithfully and well; and he expected every one under him to do the

same, and would admit of no excuse for the non-performance of it from

either officer or soldier. To those who served under his command, in

that place, it will be unnecessary to say that the officer to whom I

allude, is Lieutenant-General the Hon. Sir William Stewart. His name

will be associated in their minds with the character of a gallant and

able officer, and a steady friend to the soldier.

We generally turned out for the working party at five o’clock in

the morning; and our breakfast, which was coffee with bread, was

always ready at that hour. I remember, the first time we had it, each

man came forward with his mess-tin for his allowance, which was

measured out by the cook. We had a Highlandman in the company, who

had enlisted raw from his native hills, and who, I believe, had never

seen anything of the kind before. When he came for his allowance of

the coffee, which was now nearly done, the cook was skimming it off

the top very carefully, to avoid stirring up the grounds. Donald,

who thought this a scheme to keep all the good part to himself,

exclaimed, ‘Tam your plod! will you’ll no gie some o’ the sik as well

as the sin?’

‘Oh, certainly,’ said the cook, (who was a bit of a wag,) and

stirring the grounds well up, he gave him a double proportion. Donald

came in, chuckling with satisfaction at having detected the knavery

of the cook, saying, ‘If she’ll socht to sheat a Highlandman, she’ll

be far mistook;’ and seeing the rest of his comrades breaking bread

in their coffee, he did the same: by this time the eye of every one

in the tent was on him, scarcely able to refrain from laughing.

Donald began to sup it with his spoon; but after taking two or three

spoonfuls, grinding the coffee grounds between his teeth, and making

wry faces, he threw the tin, contents and all, out of the tent door,

exclaiming, ‘Tam their coffee! you might as weel chow heather, and

drink pog water as that teevil’s stuff. Gi’e Donal a cog o’ brochan

before ony o’ your tea or coffees either.’

The French had once or twice made a powerful attack on our picquets,

but were repulsed with loss; and the skirmishing at our outposts,

and firing from the batteries, were now carried on almost without

intermission. We expected them to make an attack on us with their

whole force; and scarcely a night passed without being turned out, in

consequence of movements making on their side, notice of which was

communicated to the troops by different coloured rockets, thrown up

at our outposts.

At this time we had a strong force of British here. Besides artillery

and engineers, we had a battalion of guards, and nine or ten

regiments of the line. There was also a strong fleet of British

vessels in the bay; at one time we had three first-rate men-of-war,

namely, the Caledonia, Hibernia, and Ville de Paris, besides

seventy-four gun ships, frigates, and a great number of smaller

vessels and gun-boats. Batteries were built on every commanding

situation: one of which (St Fernando) we used to call the Friars’

battery, having been built in part by these gentry, and certainly

among the best deeds they had done in that part of the country. It

was on a very commanding situation, extending completely across the

Isthmus at its narrowest part, with a wide trench, which could be

filled with water from the sea on either side.

At this time the wound on my leg, to which I had paid little

attention, became so ill that I was obliged to go into the hospital;

and I, in a great measure, lost sight of what was going on amongst

the troops. I had now nothing to relieve the monotony of an hospital

life, unless a visit from Dennis now and then, when he could gain

time from working or duty; and one visit from a sergeant, (a

townsman,) who joined the regiment at that time, and had brought a

letter from my parents. He had been long on the recruiting service,

and was considered a first-rate hand at it. After some inquiries

respecting my friends and native place, I happened to remark how

successful he had been in getting recruits, and expressed my surprise

that he should have been so much more so than others who had been on

the same service. He replied, ‘No wonder at it—no wonder at all. I

knew Glasgow well. It was my own place—knew the minds of the young

fellows better than they did themselves—for I had been a weaver

myself, and a lazy one too. I knew how I used to feel. In winter

it was too cold, and in summer too warm to work. When it was good

trade, I could not resist the temptation of drinking and going idle

two or three days in the week; and when it was bad, I had no time to

work for trying to find out the cause, and setting the government

to rights. The truth is, you could scarcely ever catch a weaver

contented. They are always complaining. Therefore, you would never

have much trouble enticing them to enlist, if you know how to go

about it; or much in going after them, for whenever they got lazy,

they came up and lounged about the Cross. You could not manage them,

however, the same as a bumpkin. They were too knowing for that. The

best way was to make up to the individual you had in your eye, and

after bidding him the time of the day, ask him what sort of web he

had in. You might be sure it was a bad one; for when a weaver turns

lazy his web is always bad: ask him how a clever, handsome-looking

fellow like him could waste his time hanging see-saw between heaven

and earth, in a damp, unwholesome shop, no better than one of the

dripping vaults in St Mungo’s church, when he could breathe the pure

air of heaven, and have little or nothing to do, if he enlisted

for a soldier,—that the weaving was going to ruin, and he had

better get into some berth, or he might soon be starved. This was,

generally, enough for a weaver; but the ploughboys had to be hooked

in a different way. When you got into conversation with them, tell

how many recruits had been made sergeants, when they enlisted—how

many were now officers. If you saw an officer pass while you were

speaking, no matter whether you knew him or not, tell him that he

was only a recruit a year ago; but now he’s so proud he won’t speak

to you; but you hope he won’t be so when he gets a commission. If

this won’t do, don’t give up chase—keep to him—tell him that in the

place where your _gallant honourable_ regiment is lying, every thing

may be had almost for nothing,—that the pigs and fowls are lying in

the streets ready roasted, with knives and forks in them, for the

soldiers to eat, whenever they please. As you find him have stomach,

strengthen the dose, and he must be overcome at last. But you must

then proceed quickly to work, before his high notions evaporate. You

must keep him drinking—don’t let him go to the door, without one of

your party with him, until he is passed the doctor and attested.’

‘But,’ said I, ‘you would not find every one so easily duped.’—‘To

be sure,’ said he, ‘some of your sentimental chaps might despise all

this, but they were the easiest caught after all. You had only to get

into heroics, and spout a great deal about glory, honour, laurels,

drums, trumpets, applauding world, deathless fame, immortality, and

all that, and you had him as safe as a mouse in a trap.

‘But, if all these methods failed, and the fellow remained

obstinately determined against parting with liberty, the next

resource was to pretend you had been joking with him—that you had no

wish to enlist any man against his will—that you had advised many

a one not to enlist. Ask him in to take a friendly glass, ply him

briskly, send one of your party out to put on plain clothes; let

another of your men bring him in as a young man wishing to enlist,

set him down next to the man you have in your eye. After allowing

them some conversation, put the question to them, if they were

talking about enlisting. “Yes, I’ll enlist,” would be the reply

of your man, “if this young man will go also.” Perhaps he might;

but if not, your last resource was to get him drunk, and then slip

a shilling in his pocket, get him home to your billet, and next

morning swear he enlisted, bring all your party to prove it, get him

persuaded to pass the doctor, as it will save the _smart_ should he

be rejected. Should he pass, you must try every means in your power

to get him to drink, blow him up with a fine story, get him inveigled

to the magistrate in some shape or other, and get him attested; but

by no means let him out of your hands.’

‘At this rate,’ said I, ‘men are taken into the service by as unfair

means as they are pressed on board a man-of-war. Were you not afraid

of complaints being made to your officers; and did the magistrates

not scruple to attest men who were drunk?’

‘Not at all, man,’ was the reply. ‘It was war times. As for the

magistrates, we knew who to go to on these occasions. You know it was

all for the good of the service.’

‘But had you no honour or conscience of your own?’ said I.

‘Honour or conscience!’ said he, laughing. ‘Pretty words in the mouth

of a private soldier. You must do your duty, you know. A good soldier

does what he is ordered, right or wrong.’

‘But I am afraid,’ said I, ‘that you did more than you were ordered.’

‘Perhaps we were not ordered to do all that we did; but we were

blackguarded if we didn’t get men, and that was the same thing; and

what’s the use of a man if he can’t take a hint?’[7]

‘You must have made a good deal of money in this way.’

‘Money!’ said he, ‘no, no. Did you ever hear of men making money on

the recruiting service? They must have come from the north if they

did. No, our money didn’t do much good—it all went in raking and

drinking. “It melted awa’ like snaw aff a dyke,” as the old women

at home would say, and we left Glasgow with bad kitts, and worse

constitutions.’

‘Well,’ said I, ‘you may be glad you have left it, for more reasons

than one, and I hope you will never return to it.’ The conversation

was dropped, and he soon left me; but I could not help thinking how

many poor fellows were thus inveigled into a profession they did not

like, and rendered miserable the remainder of their lives.

While here I was near losing my life in a very simple manner.

There was a garden behind the hospital, which had formerly been a

gentleman’s house, kept by a Spanish gardener, who raised vegetables

for the Isla market. In it there was a cistern, from which the water

ran when required to water the garden; and this was supplied by a

contrivance very unlike anything I have seen in Britain, although

common enough on the Continent. It was raised from a deep well, by

means of pitchers attached to the circumference of a large wheel,

which, revolving by the power of a horse and gin, were successively

filled and emptied into the cistern. To this cistern the men who

were able brought their things to wash; but the gardener, who either

thought that the soap used spoiled his vegetables, or from sheer

crossness, tried every means in his power to prevent them.

One day, while here dabbling my linen, he came to the cistern in a

rage, and seizing my shirts he threw them into a dunghill close by.

This act was far from pleasing me, and I applied my fist to his ear

in a very unceremonious manner. This he returned, as is the usual

custom with Spaniards, by drawing his knife, and making a thrust at

me. I saw there was no safety unless in closing with him, to get it

out of his hand; but as I got in upon him, he made a lunge at me,

and drove it through my coat and shirt, grazing my ribs. I seized

the hand which held it with both of mine, and tripped up his heels.

We both came to the ground. He was now foaming at the mouth. I could

not disengage his hand; and it would have been a doubtful thing

who would have prevailed had not some of my comrades come into the

garden at that moment. They freed his hand from the knife, which they

withdrew and threw it into the cistern. They then left me to manage

the Spaniard as I best could, which I found no difficulty in doing,

as he could not use his fists with much effect. He, however, managed

to bite me several times, before I had done with him.

I was obliged to be extremely cautious after this, as long as I was

in the hospital; for I often saw him lurking about, eyeing me like

a tiger watching his prey, and, no doubt, if he could have got an

opportunity, he would have despatched me.

We had little opportunity of knowing much about the Spaniards here;

but what we did know gave us no great idea of them, particularly the

lower class. They seemed to be a jealous-minded, vindictive, and

cowardly race, grossly ignorant and superstitious. Their soldiers

are complete scarecrows, (I speak of them as I found them in every

part of Spain,) badly clothed, ill paid, and worse officered. There

could not be imagined a more barbarous-looking, grotesque assemblage

of men in the world than a Spanish regular regiment. No two men are

dressed alike—one wants shoes, another a coat, another has a slip of

blanket, with a hole cut in the middle, and his head thrust through

it, a lapell hanging before and another behind. It is a rare thing

to find one of them with his accoutrements complete; and their arms

are kept in such order, that if brought into action, the half of them

would be useless. On the march they have no regularity—just like a

flock of sheep; and such chattering amongst them, that you would take

it for the confusion of tongues at Babel!

They rarely ever succeeded at anything unless Guerilla fighting, and

then only when they could take their victims by surprise, or when

they were double or triple the number of their enemy.

There are certainly many brave and noble souls amongst them, whose

hearts beat high in the cause of liberty, and who have evinced

it by their gallant enthusiasm; but unfortunately they are but a

small number, in comparison to the millions who are sunk in slavish

ignorance and superstition.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] I do not know whether the sergeant exaggerated or not; but,

in justice to the service, I must remark that such stratagems are

neither authorised nor resorted to at present.

CHAPTER X.

We had been about seven months in Cadiz, when the regiment to

which I belonged was again embarked; and after a passage of eleven

days landed at Lisbon. We remained there two or three days, making

preparation for our advance; and were then conveyed in boats up the

Tagus to Villa Franca, on our way to join the grand army under the

command of Lord Wellington. From Villa Franca we marched to the

convent of Alcantara, situated in a bleak moor; it had been wholly

deserted by the monks, and the interior of it completely destroyed.

From that we moved to Rio Mayor, where we were for the first time

quartered on the inhabitants; they seemed comparatively settled and

happy to those of other places, where the troops had more frequently

passed. The site of this village was beautiful—the river, from which

it took its name, glided past it in silent majesty, skirted with

rows of large trees; between which could be seen the sloping fields

of maize, interspersed with vineyards, where the bunches of large

purple-coloured grapes were peeping forth, half hid by the green

foliage with which they were surrounded, tempting, as it were, the

passenger to try how deliciously they tasted; and some of our men

could not resist the temptation, although they were forbidden fruit.

There was something about this village so calm and serene, combined

with the simple scenery around, which forcibly brought back to my

imagination the Sabbath in a country village on the banks of the

Clyde. I almost considered myself at home; and when I left it a day

after, I felt grieved, as if leaving a place with which I had been

long acquainted.

After halting one day here, we proceeded on the main road as far as

Cavallos. Here we received information, from men going to the rear

sick, that our army was retreating, after having fought an action

at Busaco. This intelligence was soon confirmed by cars coming in

with the wounded—those who had suffered slightly were walking, while

others, whose wounds were more severe, were either sitting or lying

on the cars, which from their construction were ill calculated for

conveying sick and wounded men. They were about five feet long, and

two and a-half broad; but instead of being boarded at the sides,

there were stakes placed in holes about eighteen inches apart; the

wheels were about two feet in diameter, rather octagonal than round;

and as they were not girt with iron, it was quite a common thing to

have a piece broken out of the circumference, and of course every

time the wheel turned, the whole car was violently shaken. This

was drawn by a pair of oxen, yoked by the head. A peasant, with a

long stick and a sharp nail in the end of it, walked before them,

and every now and then run his goad into their shoulders to hasten

their pace. This generally produced an awkward zig-zag trot for a few

yards, when the jolting occasioned by the inequality of the wheels,

caused the most excruciating torture to the poor fellows who were in

them, and forced them to groan with agony. In this manner, exposed

to the inclemency of the weather, and going at the rate of two miles

an hour, they had to travel to Lisbon, a distance of forty or fifty

miles, before they reached an hospital. The wounded continued to pass

during the remaining part of the day, and throughout the whole night.

The continual creaking of their wheels was intolerable. I know of

nothing in this country I can liken it to, unless the grating of an

iron door on rusty hinges, but it was still worse than that. The

Portuguese never put any grease on their wheels; for they think the

noise of them frightens away the devil. The consequence is, that the

axletree often takes fire with the friction, and burns completely

through. I never after could bear the noise of those cars. The

hideous grating sound was always associated in my mind with the

pallid faces and piercing groans of the wounded whom we that day saw

passing.

Next morning we got orders to march across the country to Alcobaco,

where we were to join the third division of the army, commanded by

General Picton. This was a beautiful little village, with a very

large convent in it, occupied by Bernardine monks—one of the richest

orders in Portugal. It was built by Alphonso the First, to fulfil a

vow made by him after the taking of Santarem from the Moors, and for

its support he endowed it with all the land within view of its walls,

which was not a little, for the prospect was extensive.

When we entered the village, we found it empty of inhabitants; for

they had fled with precipitation when they heard that our army was

retreating, leaving every thing behind them, but what money or jewels

they could carry about their persons. We were quartered in one of

the passages of the convent. The monks had all left it, with the

exception of a few who remained to superintend the removal of some of

their precious articles.

I forget how many hundred monks there were cells for in the convent;

but an idea of its size may be formed, when it is known that a whole

division of the army, consisting of not less than five thousand men,

were lodged in the galleries alone, without filling them. Attached to

it was a spacious chapel, the whole inside of which was decorated in

the most superb style; the walls covered with valuable paintings, and

in it a magnificent organ.

In the convent was the library, which contained a selection of many

thousand volumes, with philosophical apparatus.

Contiguous to the church belonging to the convent there was a Gothic

mausoleum of hewn stone, in the midst of which were two magnificent

sepulchres of white marble, containing the remains of Don Pedro the

First of Portugal, and of Dona Ignes de Castro,—a description of

whose tragical death forms a beautiful episode in the third book of

the Luciad.

The kitchen of the holy fathers, which was on the sunk floor,

presented a scene of plenty, which was not very favourable to the

opinion of their severe abstinence. It was about a hundred feet long;

the fire-place, which was raised on cast-iron pillars in the centre

of the apartment, was thirty feet long, by twelve wide; a stream of

water ran through the kitchen, which was occasionally overflown to

cleanse the floor, and also supplied the tanks in which they kept

live fish. Certainly, if they lived as well every day as they seemed

to do while we were there, they could not boast much of fasting;

for, in their larders, and kitchen, there was a profusion of every

delicacy which could be thought of. Their cellar contained upwards

of seven hundred pipes of the choicest wines, and in the gardens

belonging to the convent were the rarest and finest fruits, besides

vegetables and plants of every description.

To judge from what we saw, they ought to have been the happiest

fellows imaginable. Good eating and drinking, fine grounds to walk

in, and plenty of books! What could they wish for more? It is likely,

however, that their usual mode of living was not so luxurious as we

were inclined to think, from what we saw of their kitchen; but I

suppose they considered it better to use what they could of their

dainties, than leave them to the French; and, to tell the truth, the

poor monks did not seem to have any great appetite while we were

there: for any of our men who entered the kitchen were liberally

supplied with anything that was cooked.

Previous to the regiment being dismissed, the colonel cautioned us

against taking anything which had been left by the inhabitants.

Before the division came in, I believe this order was punctually

obeyed, and our men walked peaceably up and down the streets, the

same as they would have done in a village at home; but when the

other regiments, composing the division, arrived, the scene was soon

changed; for they scarcely took time to take off their knapsacks,

before they commenced breaking up the doors, and plundering every

thing they could lay their hands on.

Some of our men, considering, I suppose, that they might as well have

a share of the spoil as the others, joined in the throng; but they

had a lesson to learn which some of them paid for rather dearly. They

were not aware that there was a provost marshal[8] attached to each

division.

And while they were busy he came upon them with his guard: the old

campaigners made good their retreat, but our _innocent boys_, (as the

Irish regiments in the division called them,) not being acquainted

with his person or power, kept their ground, and were so warmly

received, that they did not forget either him or his kindness while

in the division.

An inspection was made next day of the division, to ascertain whether

they had any plunder in their knapsacks, and anything found more than

the regulated compliment of necessaries was taken from them. The town

fell into the hands of the French the following day, and it may be

thought that it would have been better to allow us to take the things

left than that they should fall into the hands of the enemy; but

nothing is more subversive of discipline in an army than the habit

of plundering, exclusive of the men, through covetousness, burdening

themselves in such a way that they cannot march. Whether the means

used to prevent it were the best and most efficient, I do not pretend

to say; but there can be no doubt as to the necessity of preventing

it as much as possible.

In the course of this day, the monks who had been left departed in

chaises, and took not a few boxes of doubloons with them. The greater

part of the pipes of wine in the cellars were staved, to prevent

them falling into the hands of the enemy. We left the convent that

afternoon, and having marched as far as Torres Vedras, encamped

outside of the town.

When I say encamped, I do not mean that we pitched tents, for

the army were not supplied with tents, until the last campaign

in 1813-14. At this time, the blue canopy of heaven was all our

covering, the earth our bed, and a single blanket our bed-clothes.

A newly-ploughed field, on the face of a hill, was our portion. We

got out our blankets, and lay down, expecting to get a comfortable

nap, although the weather was rather cold; but towards morning, it

began to rain so heavily that we were soon wet to the skin. Some,

who had a little wisdom in their heads, got up, and packed up their

blankets; but others lay still, until they were literally floated

with water and mud, which came rolling in streams down the ridges,

in such a way that they could scarcely be distinguished from the

soil around. They were then obliged to get up, and squeeze their

blankets in that wet and dirty state into their knapsacks. The

rain got heavier, the longer it continued, and we stood huddled

together, shivering with cold and wet. At last, an order came for

us to march into Torres Vedras; but such a march I never saw, even

in the worst of times afterwards. We were novices in the business,

and not yet weather-proof. Had it not been that the town was so

near, we would have occupied three or four miles of a line of road,

we were so straggled. The ground was of a clayey nature, and with

the rain that fell it had become like bird-lime. Our feet stuck

fast at every step, and our shoes were actually torn off, and many

of them were left lying in the clay. Some were walking barefoot;

others in their stockings, without shoes; and more had one shoe on,

and another carrying in their hand. We were a set of drenched and

miserable-looking creatures, and the officers were in as bad a plight

as ourselves.

At last we reached the town and got into houses; but the village was

too small, and we were crowded in such a way that we had scarcely

room to sit down. In the course of the day, however, arrangements

were made; and some of the regiments sent to other villages, so that

we were better accommodated.

During the time we were in the Peninsula, the troops suffered much

from exposure to rain; and nothing renders a soldier so uncomfortable

as having wet clothes about him; or, I believe, hurts his health

more, when first exposed to it. I have often wondered that no means

were taken to prevent this. Many of the officers had oil-cloth cloaks

that completely covered them. Some such thing for the men would have

been neither expensive nor heavy to carry, and would have been the

means of saving many lives. Much more attention ought also to be

paid to the quality of the shoes served out to the army, for they in

general are of the very worst kind, and it was no uncommon thing for

our store shoes to be in tatters before we had worn them a week.

After a stay of a few days here, we removed to Cadaciera in the

same line of position, which extended from the Tagus to the sea. We

had not long taken up our quarters in the village, where our whole

brigade was, when a peasant entered it, driving a flock of sheep

before him. In a moment, a race was made amongst them by some of the

soldiers. Others, stimulated by their example, followed; and in a few

minutes, officers and men were seen promiscuously scrambling for the

mutton. Dennis joined in the throng, and had seized one of them, at

the same moment that an officer of the Irish regiment in the brigade

made a grasp at it. ‘Give me that sheep, sir,’ said the officer in

an authoritative tone. ‘Arrah, be aisy, honey!’ said Dennis. ‘Kill a

Hessian for yourself, if you plase.’[9] The officer relinquished his

claim, and pursued another. The poor Portuguese shepherd stood like a

statue, not knowing well what to do. At last, when he found himself

relieved from all his charge, he went away, lamenting and muttering

curses on the ‘_ladrones Englese_,’[10] to make his complaint to the

general.

Soon after, a wine store was found out, and as plundering was the

order of the day, the contents of it were soon lessened. This

depredation was discovered by the men becoming intoxicated. The most

severe investigation and search took place, and those with whom any

of the stolen property was found were confined, tried by a court

martial, and flogged; but they were not the most guilty who suffered.

While we remained in this position, we were obliged to be under arms

two hours before daylight, and remain until clear day; and for a few

days after, these two hours were pretty well occupied by flogging.

Terror seems to be the only engine of rule in the army; but I am

fully persuaded in my own mind that if a more rational method were

taken, the character of the soldier in quarters would be as exemplary

as in the field.

I cannot adduce any reasonable excuse for this wanton breach of

honesty; for we were regularly supplied with rations at the time; but

I imagine that most of the men were led into it by the example set

by others, without taking time to think about the impropriety of the

action. The soldier could scarcely think that there was any harm in

the deed which an officer joined in. This was rather rare, however;

but many of them had no objection to participate in what was stolen,

which to me appeared equally blameable.

When settled in a place for any time, the brigade assembled on

Sundays for divine service. We were always in full marching order on

these occasions; and not uncommonly had a field day after it. If a

person were to judge from the hitching of knapsacks, and wry faces

that were making, during this ceremony, he would have thought the

soldiers would rather have dispensed with it; but I dare say, the

anticipation of the drill that was to follow, prevented them from

feeling much benefit from their devotions.

The first Sunday after the outrage already related, when the chaplain

left his station, General Picton took his place.

This was the first time he had addressed us. I felt anxious to

examine the features of a man who had been so much the public talk

on account of his reputed cruelty at Trinidad. I could not deny

that I felt a prejudice against him, and his countenance did not do

it away; for it had a stern and gloomy expression, which, added to

a very dark complexion, made it no way prepossessing; but when he

opened his mouth, and began to pour forth a torrent of abuse on us

for our conduct, and his dark eye flashed with indignation, as he

recapitulated our errors, ‘hope withering fled, and mercy sighed

farewell.’ He wound up the particular part of his speech addressed to

us with, ‘_You are a disgrace to your moral country, Scotland!_’ That

had more weight than all his speech. It sunk deep in our hearts. To

separate a Scotsman from his country—to tell him he is unworthy of

it—is next to taking away his life.

But General Picton was not the character which we, by prejudice,

were led to think him. Convinced of the baneful effects of allowing

his men to plunder, he set his face sternly against it, but in other

respects he was indulgent; and although no man could blame with more

severity when occasion required, he was no niggard of his praise

when it was deserved. Nothing could surpass his calm intrepidity and

bravery in danger; and his presence in battle had the effect of a

talisman, so much had his skill and valour gained the confidence of

the men under his command.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] The provost marshal is invested with power to inflict summary

punishment on all soldiers whom he may find plundering, or straggling

from their regiment.

[9] I asked Dennis what the expression meant. He said that during the

rebellion, a number of Hessian soldiers had been in Ireland, and an

‘United Man,’ having shot one of them, was busy plundering him, when

one of his comrades asked share of the booty. ‘Kill a Hessian for

yourself, my gay fellow,’ was the reply.

[10] English Robbers.

CHAPTER XI.

From Torres Vedras, we removed to Alcoentre, a small village some

miles in rear of Rio Mayor; and we were kept pretty busy while in it,

strengthening our position, making batteries, breast-works, abattis,

&c.

The general of the brigade was quartered in the same village; and as

he had, or seemed to have, a great antipathy to every thing Scottish,

our regiment of course was included, and he found means to annoy us

a good deal. Perhaps, he believed, with many people in England, that

the Scots run wild about their native hills, eating raw oats like

horses, with nothing but a kilt to cover their nakedness, and that

they had no right to receive any other treatment, when they entered

the army, than what is usually given to any wild animal when caged.

‘Rousing up with a long pole’ seemed to be his hobby. When exercising

in the field, our regiment could do nothing right. When our guard

turned out to salute him, they were either too late, or they did not

present arms properly; and he would order the sergeant to drill them

for an hour; while he stood by and gave vent to the harsh epithets

which he was in the habit of using on those occasions, ‘Scottish

savages—stupid—barbarous,’ &c.

I have often been led to think that he studied expletives on

purpose. He pretended that he could not understand a word that any

of us said—that we spoke Gælic; and his aid-de-camp was called to

interpret, although he had no right to understand what was said

better than himself, for I believe he was also an Englishman.

As a sample—he once took a fancy to the wooden cases which the

Portuguese use instead of stirrup irons, and ordered his Scottish

servant to get a pair for him; for although he disliked the Scots, he

employed them as his servants. The man procured them; but they were

not fellows.

‘Well, sir,’ said the general, ‘have you got those things?’

‘Yes, sir, but they are no marrows.’

‘Marrows! marrows! what’s that? what’s that?’ and calling his

aid-de-camp, he asked him what ‘the Scottish savage’ said.

‘He means, sir, that they are not fellows.’

‘Poh! poh! you surely do not pretend to understand what is no

language.’

‘That is his meaning in his own language, sir.’

‘Nonsense, sir, you are as bad as he; go and read your dictionary.’

He was very strict in duty affairs, particularly in details, which

perhaps another general would not have troubled his head about. He

was very fond of surprising the sentinels at the outposts, by taking

circuitous routes, and keeping under cover of the bushes. On one

occasion, however, he met his match, if the story reported was true:

but as I only had it from report, I will not pledge myself for its

truth.

One of the men on picquet was planted as outpost sentry on the road

leading to Rio Mayor.

‘Now, George,’ said the corporal to him, as he was leaving him, ‘mind

that the general is out in front, keep a good look out, or he may

surprise you, and you know the consequence. Be sure you challenge in

time.’

‘Leave that to me,’ said Geordie.

A short time after (it was dusk when he was posted) he heard some

one coming up the road very cautiously, as if wishing to avoid

observation. At last, when about to turn the road, the individual,

who was on horseback, clapped spurs to his horse, apparently for

the purpose of passing him before he could challenge. There was no

time to lose, and many a poor fellow might have been so confused

at being taken unawares, that he would have neglected to challenge

before the person was on him. Not so with Geordie. The moment he saw

him quicken his pace, he challenged. The challenge was either not

heard or purposely unheeded. Another challenge was given; the general

continued his gallop without answering. ‘You’ll no tak me in that

way, my gentleman,’ said Geordie; and as he gave the third and last

challenge, he came to the present, and made a bullet whiz past the

general’s ear. The horse was drawn in immediately.

‘What! do you mean to shoot your general, you rascal?’

‘I dinna ken wha folk are in the dark; but whether you’re a general

or no, my orders are to fire at ony body that attempts to pass me

without answering when I challenge. It’s the general’s orders; and I

ken what I would get if I didna obey them.’

‘Well, sir, I am your general; and I wish to pass into the town.’

‘I’m no sure about ye—ye may be some French spy for ony thing I ken;

and ye maun just stay whar ye are till the sergeant o’ the picquet

comes; he’ll no be lang now, for the report o’ my piece would alarm

them.’

At that moment the picquet arrived, and the general was allowed to

proceed; but from that time, he did not trouble the outpost sentries

so much.

Some time before we left these quarters to advance, an attack was

made by the French, under General Junot, on our advanced posts; and

we were ordered under arms to defend our position, in the event of

them pushing forward. During that day, and the succeeding night, the

baggage of the troops in front, along with the inhabitants of the

surrounding country, filled the road leading through our village.

It was a melancholy sight to see the poor natives, carrying their

children, and any little thing which they were able to bring with

them, moving along the road, after having left their homes and

property—travelling they knew not whither, desolate and friendless.

In a few days they might be reduced to beg, or perhaps (what was not

uncommon in Portugal) die of hunger. Alas! thought I, what misery war

causes! I hope I will never see my own country in such a state.

The French were beaten back, and our troops resumed their former

station; but few of the inhabitants returned. Not long after this,

we were reviewed, along with part of the first division, by Lord

Wellington. From the place where we were assembled, we could see

Santarem, General Massena’s head-quarters. Next day (the sixth of

March) the whole army was ordered to advance, as the French had

retreated in three divisions, by separate routes during the night.

This opened the campaign of 1811. From Alcoentre we marched to Rio

Mayor (our former quarters when we were on our way to join the army;)

but it was sadly altered,—the inhabitants had mostly all left it; the

houses were in ruins; and it wore a desolate appearance. Next day we

crossed to Alcaneyde. From thence we proceeded to Porto de Mos.

When we entered the latter place, there was a large convent fronting

us, which, as well as many of the houses, had been set on fire by

the French. I never before witnessed such destruction. The finest

furniture had been broken up for firewood; the very floors torn up,

beds cut in pieces, with their contents thrown about, intermixed

with kitchen utensils, broken mirrors, china, &c. &c., all in one

heterogeneous mass of ruin, and not an inhabitant to be seen.

We had scarcely taken up our quarters, until I was called out for

duty, and placed on the commissary guard. The mules with the stores

had arrived, and the store-keeper looking for a place to put them in,

when we joined him. At last he pitched on a chapel for the purpose.

There was a large fire in the middle of the floor, on which was

heaped broken pieces of the altar, wooden images, frames of pictures;

even the ornamented wood-work of the organ was broken up for the

purpose.

In searching for the cleanest place to set down the bags of biscuit,

we found a door leading to some place apart from the chapel. As

it was quite dark, I caught up a burning piece of wood to inspect

the place—but what was my horror, when I entered and found the

half-consumed skeletons of human beings on every side; some lying,

others kneeling, and more of them standing upright against the walls.

The floor was covered with ashes, in many places still red. I stood

fixed to the spot—the burning stick dropped from my hand. I informed

some of my comrades of what we had seen, and we re-entered. Such an

appalling sight was never witnessed. Of those who had sunk on the

floor, nothing remained but the bones; while the others, who were in

a kneeling or standing posture, were only partially consumed; and

the agonised expression of their scorched and blackened features was

awful beyond description.

Next morning we continued our march to Leria, and on entering it

found it burned. We were quartered in a convent outside the town,

which was partially consumed, where we remained the succeeding day.

On the top of a hill, to the left of the town, was a sort of redoubt.

I went with Dennis to take a view of the place, and going up to

where some of our soldiers were standing, we found three children

lying, two already dead, but the other was still breathing. There

were pieces of biscuit lying beside them, which our soldiers had

brought—but it was too late. They had evidently perished from hunger;

one of them had expired with the bit in his mouth. This was part of

the horrors of war; but only a part. The wanton cruelty of the French

soldiers, on this retreat, defies description.

From Leria we advanced towards Pombal, in front of which the French

army had concentrated their force and made a stand; but they retired

during the night, and took up a strong position at the end of a

defile between Pombal and Redinha, with their right on a wood, and

their left occupying the high ground above the river of Redinha, the

town being in their rear. In this position our division attacked

their left, the light division their right, and the fourth their

centre; the rest of our army being in reserve. Their right was soon

dislodged from their position in the wood, and retreated across a

narrow bridge over the Redinha, followed by our light troops; but

as the fords and bridge were commanded by their cannon, some time

was lost before a sufficient number of troops could be passed over,

to make a new disposition to attack the heights on which they had

taken post. A portion of the division crossed the river by swimming,

headed by Major Lloyd; but the columns moved on towards the bridge.

As we were advancing, a cannon shot from the enemy struck our column,

killed a sergeant, and wounded two or three men; besides tearing our

armourer’s knapsack open, and scattering its contents about in every

direction—the poor fellow was so frightened that he grew sick, went

to the rear, and soon after died.

Our troops having passed the river, we soon drove them from their

position back upon the main body, and next day their whole army

was strongly posted at Condeixa. Our division was ordered to march

through the mountains on their left towards the only road open for

their retreat, which had the effect of dislodging them from their

strong position; here our part of the duty was very fatiguing, for

the hills were so steep that we had to scramble up the one side on

our hands and feet, and slide down in the same manner on the other.

The French had retreated in such haste from their position at

Condeixa that they left the communication with Coimbra unguarded, and

our army communicated with Colonel Trant and the Portuguese militia,

who were in possession of it.

They were now obliged to abandon all the positions which they had

successively taken in the mountains, and their rear guard was

thrown back on the main body at Miranda de Corvo, from which they

immediately retreated, destroying part of their ammunition and

baggage. At this place we passed many dead bodies of French and

Portuguese, lying on the road; and one part of it was covered with

asses, which the French had hamstrung before they left them. It

was pitiable enough to see the poor creatures in this state; yet

there was something ludicrous in the position that the animals had

taken, when thus cruelly lamed; they were sitting in a group upon

their hinder end, staring in each other’s faces, seemingly in deep

consultation on some important subject, and looking as grave and dull

as many an assembly of their _biped brethren_ at home.

The enemy now took up a new position on the river Ceira, leaving a

division at a small village as an advanced guard, which was attacked

by the third and light divisions, and after some hard fighting their

army retired across the Ceira during the night, destroying the

bridge. The enemy suffered severely here, for besides their killed

and wounded, numbers were drowned in crossing the river.

Having taken up another position, from which they were driven by our

division, with the first, and light, they concentrated their whole

army on the Seirra Moito, from which they retired on the eighteenth,

and our army occupied the ground they had left. They now continued

their retreat so rapidly that our army, with the exception of our

division, the sixth, and light, were halted for the necessary

supplies of provision to come up. From this until the twenty-seventh

we followed them through the mountains, harassing their rear, and

suffered much fatigue, for during that time we were very ill

supplied with rations, at times wanting bread and rum for two days

together, and when we did get it, perhaps only half allowance; we

were almost always supplied with beef, but it was of that description

that there was little nourishment in it. The cattle were brought

from Barbary, and often had to travel many hundred miles before

they were used, with very little to eat during their journey; the

consequence was, that when killed they were nothing more than a mass

of emaciated muscle, with a semi-transparent covering of, what would

be a perversion of language to call fat—it was more like a coating

of train oil. It was never bled properly; and when boiled, it was as

tough and stringy as a piece of junk. The water it was boiled in was

dignified with the name of soup: and if the blood which boiled out of

the beef, along with the wood ashes that fell into it, constituted

soup, we had it in perfection.

One day we had halted rather early; at this time we had been without

rations for two days. Many a curse was poured on the head of the

commissary, who was considered the responsible person.

‘There comes the stores, at last,’ cried one of the men.

‘Where? where?’ said those around. Every eye was now directed to a

hill at some distance, where a long train of mules were perceived

successively rising over its summit, and bending their way towards

the division. The men were in transports of joy; a general cheer

greeted their appearance.

‘We will have full rations to-day,’ cried one; ‘and rum too,’ said

another, ‘for I can see casks on the mules.’

Another cheer succeeded this discovery; and we were dancing about

overjoyed. ‘Who goes for the rations? Get out blankets for the

biscuit, and camp kettles for the rum.’ There were soon enough of

volunteers for this duty. The mules had by this time got into a

sort of defile. Every eye was on the stretch, waiting for their

re-appearance. As the first mule emerged from the place where they

were hid, every face was dressed in smiles; but the next second

produced an effect, similar to that which a criminal might feel,

who had been informed of his reprieve on the scaffold, and the next

moment told it was a mistake; for it turned out to be mules with

ammunition for the division. Never did I witness such a withering

effect on men, as this disappointment produced. We stood looking

at each other for a minute, in all the agony of hope deferred: the

next was opened by a torrent of execration on all concerned. Those

who have never experienced extreme hunger can form no idea of our

feelings.

A day or two after this, we crossed a river and ascended a hill,

where we encamped. Dennis and I were for duty, and both placed on the

out picquet, which was posted on the face of a hill in front of the

division. The French were on the opposite rise, and a small river ran

at the foot of it. We had only got one day’s rations from the time

the incident mentioned above occurred; and as Dennis expressed it,

‘our bellies were thinking our throats were cut.’

I procured leave from the officer to go to the river for water;

intending to proceed a little farther down, to try if I could find

anything that I could eat. Turning round the hill, I came to a mill;

and entering it, found a number of soldiers belonging to different

regiments of the division busy grinding Indian corn; others were

employed drawing a baking of bread, which the French had left in

their hurry, when we took up our position. I attempted to help myself

to some corn, which was lying in a basket.

‘Drop that like a hot potato,’ said one of the Connaught Rangers.

I tried another basket, but it was also appropriated; and as there

were none of my regiment there, I could not expect to succeed by

force; so I left the place sorrowful enough, on my way back to the

picquet, with a cargo of cold water—poor cheer, certainly. But just

as I turned round the hill, I met my friend Dennis, who had got

leave from the officer on some pretence to go down to the river. I

told him my melancholy story; he paused for a moment; then clapping

his hand to his forehead, he exclaimed, ‘Now I have it! Give me the

canteens.’

When I gave them to him, he poured out the water, and slung them over

his shoulder.

‘Now, just stand there a minute,’ said he, ‘and I’ll show you a

scatter.’

He then commenced running, with the canteens clattering at his back.

Those who were in the mill, being startled by the noise, looked out

to see what was the matter. When Dennis saw them, he cried out, ‘Och,

ye rogues o’ the world, run for your lives; for the division has fell

in, and the provost is coming down with his guard; and every one of

yees will be taken.’

They were all out in a moment.

‘Which way is he coming?’

‘This way,’ said Dennis, pointing to the way he had come himself. ‘I

am on picquet, and I just run down to give you warning.’

They all took to their heels in the opposite direction, leaving the

field clear to Dennis and me; and we lost no time in filling our

haversacks.

The right of the French army had retreated by the high road upon

Celerico, but the left (which we were pursuing) had fallen back upon

Govea and the mountains of Guarda; and having augmented their force,

held the position in great strength. Our army having collected in the

neighbourhood of Celerico, on the morning of the 29th our division

moved for the purpose of flanking the enemy, and the light and sixth

divisions having moved also, by different routes, in the direction

of Guarda, the attack was combined in such a manner that the enemy

were nearly surprised, and abandoned many of their effects in their

flight, without attempting to fire a shot, notwithstanding the strong

position they occupied,[11] and retired on Sabugal on the Coa,

leaving an advanced guard on our side.

The position which the enemy had now taken was very strong, the river

behind which they were posted being difficult of access, and could

only be approached by its left.

Our troops were set in motion on the morning of the third April, to

turn the enemy’s left above Sabugal, and to force the passage of the

bridge of that town. A strong corps of the enemy were posted on a

height immediately above the bridge.

The light division and cavalry were ordered to cross the river at

two separate fords, upon the enemy’s left. The fifth division and

artillery were destined to attack the bridge, and our division to

cross at a ford about a mile above the town. The light division

crossed first, and commenced the attack, but they were warmly

received, and the action was for some time doubtful. Our division

now crossed and attacked their centre; while at the same time the

fifth division crossing the bridge, ascended the heights on the right

flank of the enemy, and the cavalry appeared in rear of their left;

they made a precipitate retreat, leaving a howitzer in possession of

the light division, and about two hundred killed on the ground, six

officers, and three hundred prisoners.

As we descended the hill towards the river, we passed a convent or

chapel, half way down; at the door lay an old man, who had been

killed with a musket shot, and a genteelly-dressed Portuguese was

standing beside him; he spoke to us as we passed, but we had no time

then to pay any attention to what he said. We learned after, from the

men who were following us with the baggage, that he had been hung up

by some of the French soldiers, because he would not, or could not,

show them where he had hid his money. His old father, who was lying

at the door, had been shot, and his mother’s throat cut. His sisters

had been first violated by the monsters, and then cruelly used: one

of them had her eyes blackened, and the other her arm broken. His

life was saved by the French General, who came up just as he had

been suspended, and ordered him to be cut down. Such were the tender

mercies of the French soldiery!

When we had gained the edge of the river, the French columns were

posted on the height above us. We passed the river under a heavy

fire, and proceeded to ascend the hill. We could now see that more

of our army had crossed, both to our right and left. As we advanced

up the hill, we formed line. General Picton rode up in front of us,

with his stick over his shoulder, exposed to the heavy fire of the

enemy, as composedly as if he had been in perfect safety. ‘Steady,

my lads, steady!’ said he; ‘don’t throw away your fire until I give

you the word of command.’ We were now close on them; the balls were

whizzing about our ears like hailstones. The man before me received a

shot in the head, and fell. ‘Why don’t they let us give the rascals

a volley,’ said some of the men. The left of our brigade, which was

nearest them, now opened a heavy fire; and by the time the line was

all formed, the French had taken to their heels. At this moment a

severe rain storm commenced, and darkened the air so much that we

lost sight of them completely; when the sky cleared up, they were

discovered, about a mile forward, scrambling their way over hedge and

ditch without any regularity. The ground which they had occupied now

lay before us, strewed with the dead and wounded; and the Portuguese

regiment belonging to our division were busy stripping them naked.

In this barbarous action, however, they were joined by very few of

the British. The division to our right and left had by this time

succeeded in turning the flanks of the French army; and they were now

retreating in great confusion.

After waiting under arms for some time, we were ordered to encamp on

the ground we then occupied, where we remained during that night.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] Guarda lies on the top of a high hill; we were much fatigued in

ascending it, and entered the town with empty stomachs, but we were

agreeably surprised to find that the French had left their dinners

for us ready cooked, as in their haste they had left them on the fire

in the different houses where they had been lodged. In one house

where some of their officers were quartered, and had been obliged to

retreat from table, after it was laid for dinner, some wag placed a

mule’s head in the centre, with a label in its mouth on which was

written ‘POUR MONS. JEAN BULL’

THE

WAR IN THE PENINSULA:

A CONTINUATION OF RECOLLECTIONS OF

THE EVENTFUL LIFE OF A SOLDIER.

CHAPTER I.

The night we passed in the encampment at Sabugal was uncommonly dark,

and at intervals the rain fell in torrents; fires had been kindled

in the hollow trunks of some large chestnut trees, which, burning

up as high as the branches, illuminated them to the very top. The

flickering, lurid glare which these fiery columns threw on the naked

bodies of the slain, the indistinct objects in the back ground, and

the groups of soldiers which flitted around them, presented a scene

at once sublime and picturesque; it looked like the midnight orgies

of some supernatural beings.

Next morning we fell in at daylight, and, in a short time after,

pursued our march by the same route the French had taken the

preceding day. The ground was covered with gum cistus, which had

been previously burned, either through accident, or to serve some

purpose, among which they had left visible marks of their confused

flight, in the torn pieces of clothing and broken arms which strewed

their line of march. They continued their retreat without halting

until they reached Ciudade Roderigo, a fortified town on the Spanish

frontier, at which place, having crossed the Agueda, they made a

stand and concentrated their force. In consequence of this our army

also halted, and, in a few days after, our regiment was quartered in

a Portuguese village within some miles of them.

On the advance to this place, I became acquainted with a lad of the

name of Henry G——. While on guard with him one day, I perceived him

reading a book, which, on inquiry, I found to be Cromek’s Remains of

Nithsdale and Galloway Song, which he had borrowed from an officer’s

servant. Books of any kind were rare amongst us at that time, but

one of this description had too much nationality in it, not to be

considered a valuable prize in a foreign land. We read the book

together, and a similarity of feeling and sentiment subsequently

led to a friendship which continued unimpaired while we remained in

the Peninsula. In his romantic turn of mind and acute sensibility,

he bore a strong resemblance to my former friend and shipmate,

William. He had read a great deal, but, like myself, he had read

with little discrimination. The effects were nearly the same in

both, a propensity to day-dreaming and castle-building. Many a weary

mile have we travelled together, almost unconscious of progression,

charming the sense of hunger away by anticipating our future honour

and preferment, and in forming romantic schemes of rural retirement,

when our campaigns were ended. This peculiarity of disposition,

although it might sometimes occasion us uneasiness, where others,

less sensitive, felt but little, yet, on the whole, in a life like

ours, where the scene was continually shifting, it rendered our minds

more elastic; and the continual play of fancy which was thus excited,

diversified the lights and shadows so much, that even now, I am at a

loss to say, whether at that time I felt more pain or pleasure. We

had only been a few days in quarters, when my friend Henry was near

being involved in an affair, the consequence of which would have

ruined a mind like his for ever. The captain of his company was a man

of a strange disposition, which rendered him an object of dislike to

both officers and men. A fellow of infinite jest, he rarely spoke

but in a humorous strain; but there was ‘a laughing devil in his

sneer,’ and, like the cat, when she has secured her prey, he always

felt most inclined to sport with the individual on whose destruction

he was bent. It would be endless to enter into a detail of the

methods by which he tormented his company,—those who served under him

will remember them well; suffice it to say, that I have known many

officers who possessed bad qualities, but none who possessed fewer

good ones than Captain S.

On the march, he was in the habit of riding his mule among the ranks,

very much to the annoyance of his company, and one day during the

previous advance, the column was marching through fields which were

fenced in by broad thin stones. The other officers finding they

could not get through conveniently with the regiment, had taken

a lane to the right of the column, but he continued to move on;

finding, however, that his mule could not get through the openings

made, he desired Henry to overturn one of the stones. Henry made

the attempt, but finding his strength inadequate to the task, and

seeing himself getting behind the regiment, he passed through and

rejoined his company. The captain had now to take the same road with

the other officers. When he overtook the column, foaming with rage,

he commenced in a measured, affected style, to abuse Henry, ending

with his usual phrase of encouragement, ‘_I’ll get you a sweet five

hundred._’ From that day forward, poor Henry was marked out as a butt

for his caprice and tyranny. Not long after, two men of the company

were ordered to be confined on a charge of selling their necessaries,

one of whom happened to be Henry’s comrade, and Captain S—— thinking

this a favourable opportunity for carrying his promise into effect,

ordered him to be confined also. A court-martial was ordered, and the

prisoners warned for trial. Whether by some sinister manœuvreing, or

that it fell his regular turn, Captain S—— was president.

The witnesses were examined; the evidence was sufficiently clear

against the other two, but none was adduced against Henry.

The president, trusting, I suppose, to his influence with the other

members, proceeded (without taking any notice of the total want of

evidence against Henry) to recommend the prisoners to acknowledge

the crime laid to their charge, and throw themselves on the mercy of

the court. Poor Henry was so struck with the flagrant injustice of

this proceeding, that he could scarcely muster courage sufficient to

say that he had heard no evidence against him. The president did not

allow him to finish what he had to say, before he opened on him with

a string of the most abusive epithets; and then, addressing himself

to the members of the court—‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘this is one of the

most insolent dogs in my company. You may take my word for it, he is

guilty—he confessed to me that he was, before I confined him, which

I can prove.’ The members sat mute, as is generally the case while

under the influence of a superior officer’s rhetoric; and Henry had

bade farewell to hope, when one of the officers, who was but a young

subaltern, bursting through the blind deference too often cringingly

paid to power, even in matters where discipline is not concerned, and

giving way to the words which a natural love of justice prompted,—‘We

have no right, Captain S——,’ said he, ‘sitting here as we do, to try

the case according to the evidence laid before us, to presume that

the prisoner is guilty, in the absence of all evidence. Nor are we

entitled to pay attention to any representation which you may feel

inclined to make, prejudicial to his character. Sitting where you

do as president of this court—either sufficient evidence must be

produced against the prisoner, or we are bound to acquit him.’

Captain S—— turned the scowl of his dark grey eyes upon him,

wherein the disappointment of baffled revenge and rage was

distinctly visible: but the subaltern bore the look intended for

his annihilation with the utmost indifference—there even seemed to

be a smile of contempt playing on his countenance. Captain S—— then

proceeded to bring forward evidence to prove Henry’s connection

with the crime for which the prisoners were tried—principally

for the purpose of proving that he had confessed his guilt; and,

according to the president’s opinion, this evidence was perfectly

conclusive. The officer already mentioned, seeing that Henry was

nearly sinking under the influence of his feelings, said, ‘Don’t

be afraid, my man, justice will be done you—I believe you to be

innocent—at least I have heard nothing yet to induce me to think

otherwise; take time, collect yourself, and if you have any questions

to ask the evidence, or any witnesses to call in your defence, to

disprove what has been stated, speak out fearlessly.’ Encouraged

by the officer’s kind and manly conduct, and with his assistance,

Henry cross-questioned the evidence, and brought forward witnesses

that not only disproved all that had been stated against him, but

fixed a suspicion on the minds of those present, that the president

had not only confined him without cause, but had suborned witnesses

for the purpose of bringing him to punishment. Captain S—— seeing

that his designs were frustrated, sullenly gave up the point, and

poor Henry was acquitted: but had it not been for the independent

character of the officer above mentioned, he might not have escaped

punishment. Courts-martial were at that time much too frequent to

expect that justice would be always administered impartially by them;

and I am sorry to say it was too often evident that individual pique

influenced the decisions. In some regiments, indeed, courts-martial

were resorted to merely to give a colour to the proceedings of the

officer commanding, whose wishes were oftener consulted than the

ends of justice. This was not remedied by what are called company

courts-martial, where the individual was tried by his peers; for I

remember in one case, where I was president, the point in agitation

among the members was not, ‘what punishment was adequate to the

crime?’ but ‘what punishment would please the commanding officer?’

and I had some difficulty in convincing them that the former was the

point they had to determine. The _surveillance_, established by the

commander-in-chief over courts-martial, was a wise measure, and has

altered matters very much. Indeed, too much praise cannot be bestowed

on His Royal Highness, for the humane and effective policy which has

been gradually introduced into the army: the situation of the soldier

at present is very different from what it was twenty years ago. From

the specimen Henry had got of Captain S——’s disposition, he thought

it the wisest plan to get transferred from his company, which he

effected shortly after.

A few days after this occurrence, our regiment was moved to the

village of Fuentes de Honore, a few miles nearer Almeida; great

part of the way, we moved through a wood of oak trees, in which the

inhabitants of the surrounding villages had herds of swine feeding:

here the voice of the cuckoo never was mute; night and day its simple

notes were heard in every quarter of the wood.

The village we now occupied was in Spain, and formed a striking

contrast to those of Portugal; the inhabitants and their houses wore

an air of neatness, cleanliness, and comfort about them, unlike

anything we had as yet seen in the country; their dress and language

were also different.

The site of the village itself was beautiful and romantic; it lay in

a sort of ravine, down which a small river brawled over an irregular

rocky bed, in some places forming precipitous falls of many feet;

the acclivity on each side was occasionally abrupt, covered with

trees and thick brushwood. Three leagues to the left of our front lay

the villages of Gallegos and Espeja, in and about which our light

division and cavalry were quartered. Between this and Fuentes lay a

large wood, which, receding on the right, formed a plain, flanked

by a deep ravine, being a continuation of that in which the village

lay; in our rear was another plain, (on which our army subsequently

formed,) and behind that, in a valley, Villa Fermosa, the river Coa

running past it.

We had not been many days here, when we received intelligence that

the light troops were falling back upon our village, the enemy

having re-crossed the Agueda in great force, for the purpose of

relieving Almeida, which we had blockaded. On the morning we received

this intelligence, (the 3d of May, 1811,) our regiment turned out of

the town, and took up their position with the rest of the division

on a plain, some distance behind it. The morning was uncommonly

beautiful, the sun shone bright and warm, the various odoriferous

shrubs, which were scattered profusely around, perfumed the air,

and the woods rang with the songs of birds. The light division and

cavalry falling back, followed by the columns of the French, the

various divisions of the army assembling on the plain from different

quarters, their arms glittering in the sun, bugles blowing, drums

beating, the various staff-officers galloping about to different

parts of the line giving orders, formed a scene which realised to my

mind all that I had ever read of feats of arms, or the pomp of war; a

scene which no one could behold unmoved, or without feeling a portion

of that enthusiasm which always accompanies ‘deeds of high daring;’ a

scene justly conceived and well described by Moore, in the beautiful

song—

‘Oh the sight entrancing,

When morning’s beam is glancing

O’er files array’d,

With helm and blade,

And plumes in the gay wind dancing.’

Our position was now taken up in such a way, that our line ran along

the frontiers of Portugal, maintaining the blockade of Almeida by our

left, while our right kept open the communication with Sabugal, the

place where the last action was fought.

The French advanced on our position in three columns, about three

o’clock in the afternoon, and detached a strong body of troops

against Fuentes, which was at this time occupied as an advanced post

by the 60th regiment, and the light company of our division. The

skirmishers were covered in their advance by cavalry, in consequence

of which ours were obliged to fall back, for greater safety, to

some stone fences on the outskirts of the village, while a party of

our German hussars covered their retreat. The cavalry now commenced

skirmishing, the infantry keeping up an occasional fire. It was

rather remarkable that the cavalry on both sides happened to be

Germans. When this was understood, volleys of insulting language,

as well as shot, were exchanged between them. One of our hussars

got so enraged at something one of his opponents said, that raising

his sword, he dashed forward upon him into the very centre of their

line. The French hussar, seeing that he had no mercy to expect from

his enraged foe, wheeled about his horse, and rode to the rear; the

other, determined on revenge, still continued to follow him. The

whole attention of both sides was drawn for a moment to these two,

and a temporary cessation of firing took place; the French staring in

astonishment at our hussar’s temerity, while our men were cheering

on. The chase continued for some way to the rear of their cavalry.

At last our hussar coming up with him, and fetching a furious blow,

brought him to the ground. Awakening now to a sense of the danger he

had thrown himself into, he set his horse at full speed to get back

to his comrades; but the French, who were confounded when he passed,

had recovered their surprise, and determined on revenging the death

of their comrade; they joined in pursuit, firing their pistols at

him. The poor fellow was now in a hazardous plight, they were every

moment gaining upon him, and he had still a long way to ride. A band

of the enemy took a circuit, for the purpose of intercepting him; and

before he could reach the line he was surrounded, and would have been

cut in pieces, had not a party of his comrades, stimulated by the

wish to save so brave a fellow, rushed forward, and just arrived in

time, by making the attack general, to save his life, and brought him

off in triumph.

The overwhelming force which the French now pushed forward on the

village, could not be withstood by the small number of troops which

defended it; they were obliged to give way, and were fairly forced

to a rising ground on the other side, where stood a small chapel.

The French now thought they had gained their point, but they were

soon undeceived; for being reinforced at this place by the Portuguese

caçadores, our lads came to the right about, and attacked them with

such vigour, that in a short time they were driven back to their old

ground. While retreating through the town, one of our sergeants who

had run up the wrong street, being pushed hard by the enemy, ran into

one of the houses; they were close at his heels, and he had just

time to tumble himself into a large chest, and let the lid down,

when they entered and commenced plundering the house, expressing

their wonder at the same time concerning the sudden disappearance

of the ‘Anglois’ whom they had seen run into the house. During the

time, the poor sergeant lay sweating, and half smothered, they were

busy breaking up every thing that came in their way, looking for

plunder; and they were in the act of opening the lid of his hiding

place, when the noise of our men cheering, as they charged the enemy

through the town, forced them to take to flight. He now got out, and

having joined his company, assisted in driving the French back. No

other part of the line had as yet been attacked by the French; they

seemed bent on taking the village of Fuentes in the first place, as

a ‘stepping stone,’ and the main body of each army lay looking at

each other. Finding that the force they had sent down, great as it

was, could not keep possession of the place, they sent forward two

strong bodies of fresh troops to retake it, one of which, composed of

the Irish legion, dressed in red uniform, was at first taken for a

British regiment, and they had time to form up and give us a volley

before the mistake was discovered. The village was now vigorously

attacked by the enemy at two points, and with such a superior force,

that in spite of the unparalleled bravery of our troops, they were

driven back contesting every inch of the ground.

On our retreat through the village, we were met by the 71st

regiment, cheering, led on by Colonel Cadogan; which had been

detached from the line to our support. The chase was now turned, and

although the French were obstinately intent on keeping their ground,

and so eager, that many of their cavalry had entered the town, and

rushed furiously down the streets, all their efforts were in vain:

nothing could withstand the charge of the gallant 71st; and in a

short time, in spite of all resistance, they cleared the village.

This regiment during the Peninsular war, was always remarkable for

its gallantry. The brave Cadogan well knew the art of rendering his

men invincible; he knew that the courage of the British soldier is

best called forth by associating it with his country, and he also

knew how to time the few words which produced such magical effects.

We were now once more in possession of the place, but our loss, as

well as that of the French, had been very great.

In particular places of the village, where a stand had been made,

or the shot brought to bear, the slaughter had been immense, which

was the case near the river, and at the small chapel on our side

of the town; among the rest lay one poor fellow of the 88th light

company, who had been severely wounded, and seemed to suffer

excruciating agony, for he begged of those who passed him to put

him out of torture. Although from the nature of his wound there was

no possibility of his surviving, yet none felt inclined to comply

with his request, until a German of the 60th rifle battalion, after

hesitating a few moments, raised his rifle, and putting the muzzle of

it to his head fired the contents of it through it. Whether this deed

deserved praise or blame, I leave others to determine. The French,

enraged at being thus baffled in all their attempts to take the town,

sent forward a force composed of the very flower of their army; but

they gained only a temporary advantage, for being reinforced by the

79th regiment, although the contest remained doubtful until night, we

remained in possession of it, with the exception of a few houses on

the rise of the hill at the French side.

The light brigade of our division was now withdrawn, and the 71st

and 79th regiments remained as a picquet in it during the night;

next morning it was again occupied as before. On the fourth, both

sides were busily employed burying the dead and bringing in the

wounded; French and English promiscuously mixed, and assisted each

other in that melancholy duty as if they had been intimate friends.

So far did this friendship extend, that two of our lads who spoke

French, went up that night after dark to the enemy’s picquet, and

having conversed and drank wine with them, returned unmolested to

their company. During this day the French Generals reconnoitered

our position, and next morning, (the fifth), they made a movement

to their left with two strong columns; this caused a corresponding

movement in our line, and it was scarcely made, when they attacked

our right, composed of the seventh division, with all their cavalry,

and succeeded in turning it; but they were gallantly met by some

squadrons of our dragoons, and repulsed. Their columns of infantry

still continued to advance on the same point, and were much galled

by the heavy fire kept up on them by the seventh division; but in

consequence of this movement, our communication with Sabugal was

abandoned for a stronger position, and our army was now formed in

two lines, the light division and cavalry in reserve, this manœuvre

paralyzed their attack on our line, and their efforts were now

chiefly confined to partial cannonading, and some charges with their

cavalry, which were received and repulsed by the picquets of the

first division in one instance; but as they were falling back, they

did not perceive the charge of a different body in time to form, and

many of them were killed, wounded, and taken prisoners. Colonel Hill,

who commanded the picquets, was among the latter; the 42d regiment

also, under Lord Blantyre, gallantly repulsed another charge made by

the enemy’s cavalry. The French then attempted to push a strong body

of light infantry down the ravine to the right of the first division,

but they were driven back by some companies of the guards and 95th

rifles.

While on the right this was going on, the village of Fuentes was

again attacked by a body of the imperial guard, and, as on the third,

the village was taken and retaken several times. At one time they had

brought down such an overwhelming force, that our troops were fairly

beat out of the town, and the French formed close column between it

and us; some guns which were posted on the rise in front of our line,

having opened upon them, made them change their ground; and the 88th

regiment (Connaught Rangers) being detached from our division, led on

by the heroic General M’Kinnon, (who commanded our right brigade,)

charged them furiously, and drove them back through the village with

great slaughter. Some time previous to this, General Picton had had

occasion to check this regiment for some plundering affair they had

been guilty of, and he was so offended at their conduct, that in

addressing them, he had told them they were the greatest blackguards

in the army;—but as he was always as ready to give praise as censure,

where it was due, when they were returning from this gallant and

effective charge, he exclaimed, ‘Well done the brave 88th!’ Some of

them, who had been stung at his former reproaches, cried out, ‘Are we

the greatest blackguards in the army now?’ The valiant Picton smiled,

and replied, ‘No, no, you are brave and gallant soldiers; this day

has redeemed your character.’

At one time during the contest, when the enemy had gained a partial

possession of the village, our light troops had retired into a

small wood above it, where they were huddled together without any

regularity; a French officer, while leading on his men, having

been killed in our front, a bugler of the 83d regiment starting

out between the fire of both parties, seized his gold watch; but

he had scarcely returned, when a cannon shot from the enemy came

whistling past him, and he fell lifeless on the spot. The blood

started out of his nose and ears, but with the exception of this,

there was neither wound nor bruise on his body; the shot had not

touched him. The phenomenon here described has been the subject of

much discussion among medical men, some attributing it to the shot

becoming electrical and parting with its electricity in passing the

body; while others maintain, that the ball does strike the individual

obliquely, and although there is no appearance of injury on the

surface, there always exists serious derangement of the system

internally.

We had regained possession of the village a short time after, and

got a little breathing time; a few of our lads and some of the 79th

were standing together, where a poor fellow lay a few paces from them

weltering in his blood. As he belonged to the 79th, they went over

to see who he was; the ball had entered the centre of his forehead,

and passed through his brain, and to all appearance he was completely

dead; but when any of the flies which were buzzing about the wound,

entered it, a convulsive tremor shook his whole body, and the muscles

of his face became frightfully distorted; there could scarcely

be imagined anything more distressing, or more appalling to the

spectator.

Within the walls of the old chapel, where our men and the French

had got under cover alternately, as they were pursuing or pursued,

there lay a mixture of various nations, wounded, dying, and dead, and

presented a sight which no language could describe, raving, groaning,

calling for assistance and drink. He must have had a hardened heart

who could have beheld it without feeling deeply. One noble-looking

fellow of the imperial guard lay wounded through both legs, and

one of his arms shattered; he had been plundered and stripped half

naked. One of our light company, of the name of James Cochran, as

much distinguished for bravery in the field as for a mild and humane

temper, (for they are not incompatible,) seeing the poor fellow lying

in this plight, unable to help himself, and the flies irritating

his wounds—threw his own blanket over him—brought some water, and

left it and some bread with him; but what was his mortification on

returning that way, to find that he was again plundered of all, and

left as before. The poor fellow, however, seemed to feel the most

lively gratitude for what Cochran had done, and wished to force some

money on him, which had escaped the search of his plunderers.

After the various taking and retaking of the village, night again

found us in possession of it. On the 6th no attempt was made to

renew the attack, and, as on the 4th, the army on each side were

employed in burying the dead, and looking after the wounded. On the

7th we still remained quiet; but on this day the whole French army

were reviewed on the plain by Massena. On the night of the 7th, some

companies of our regiment were detached on picquet to the ravine on

the left of the town, and during the night I was placed one of the

outpost sentries. The French picquets occupied the opposite side, and

the distance between us was but trifling. The night was very dark,

and the place where I was posted was amongst bushes and trees, near

the river’s edge. All was still save the river gurgling over its

rocky bed, or when a slight breeze set the leaves in motion, and the

_qui vive_ of the French sentinels could be distinctly heard.

I had been some time posted, ruminating on the awful responsibility

attached to my post, as it was probable the enemy might make an

attack during the night. I was straining my eyes through the thick

darkness towards the spot where I imagined the French sentry was

placed, at the same time eagerly listening. In the midst of this

anxiety I was alarmed by the noise of something rustling among the

bushes near the river. The thought struck me instantly that it must

be the French picquet advancing on my post; my first impulse was to

fire in the direction of the noise, but I recollected that there

was a possibility of giving a false alarm, and I felt myself in a

strange dilemma—I could not fire until I ascertained that it was

an enemy, and before that could be done I might be surprised and

killed. The noise ceased, but still I was all attention, for this did

not give me confidence; sticking my ramrod in the ground, I put my

ear to it, but could hear nothing. I now assumed more courage, and

almost persuaded myself I had been deceived. At that moment, a burst

through the bushes in my front, accompanied by a horrid yell, robbed

me of all presence of mind. In the desperation which fear sometimes

inspires, I dashed forward against the object of my alarm with my

charged bayonet, and plunged it in the foe; he fell, and for a few

seconds I had not power to move. Silence was now only broken by the

smothered groan of my dying victim; and recovering myself a little, I

stooped to ascertain whether it was really a French grenadier I had

slain, but found it was only a poor ass’s colt which had strayed from

its dam, and browsing about had thus been the unconscious cause of my

alarm.

On the 8th the French sentries were withdrawn at day light, the main

body of the enemy having retired during the night, to the woods

between Fuentes and Gallejos. On the 9th they broke up, and retired

from their position; and on the 10th they had re-crossed the Agueda

without having accomplished the relief of Almeida. On the morning of

the 11th, however, about one o’clock A.M., the garrison having blown

up part of the fortifications, made their escape past the troops who

had blockaded them, in consequence of the darkness of the night—some

said the carelessness of the regiments on that duty. One regiment in

particular was blamed, but the excuse might be more properly sought

for in the masterly dispositions which the governor (General Brenier)

had made, both for the escape of the garrison, and the subsequent

retreat.

CHAPTER II.

We were again quartered in Fuentes, but the place was sadly altered;

the inhabitants had fled, many of the houses were destroyed, and

all of them plundered; although the dead had been in general buried,

there still remained some bodies lying about swelled and blackened

by the heat of the sun; the ground was strewed with uniform caps and

clothing, and the streets were dyed with the blood of the combatants;

the whole place wore an air of desolation and wretchedness. We were

only a few days there when we received orders to march along with the

7th division, for the purpose of laying siege to Badajos, a fortified

town on the Spanish frontier, in the province of Estremadura. The

distance between Fuentes and Badajos might be about 40 leagues,

Portuguese, (150 miles;) we proceeded by Alfeyates, Penamacore, and

Castello Branco, where we were quartered in a Franciscan convent for

two days. From thence we marched to Villa Valhe, where boats were

ready for us to cross the Tagus. This was a romantic spot: the side

on which we lay previous to passing was a plain, the opposite one

a mountain, which rose abrupt and precipitous, clothed with trees

and bushes to the top, throwing its dark shade on the bosom of the

river which rolled along at its base, deep, dark, and rapid. Here it

was reported Lord Wellington had lost his two orderly dragoons some

days before. He had received information that the French army under

Marshal Soult was coming down in great force on Beresford’s army, and

he was so anxious to get forward, that when he came to the river, and

found the bridge of boats not thrown across, he plunged in followed

by his orderly dragoons, (certainly a most hazardous attempt;) the

current was so strong that the dragoons with their horses were

carried away and drowned, his lordship only escaping by the superior

strength of his horse.

Having crossed the river, we proceeded by a winding road cut in the

face of a hill to Niza; this was a most distressing march, being up

hill the whole way. Passing Alpalhao, we reached Porto Legre two days

after. From this we marched to Arronches, and from thence to Campo

Mayor, situated about ten miles from Badajos, where we remained for

some days, while preparations were making for the siege. This was a

very handsome town, walled, but very slightly fortified; one building

in particular, a small chapel, called Capella des Osses, is worth

noticing. It had been erected to commemorate some massacre. The whole

interior was built up with skulls and thigh bones, laid across, and

two skeletons, one on each side, were built into the wall.

On the 25th of May we marched towards Badajos, which the French had

gained possession of in the beginning of the campaign, through the

treachery of the Spanish governor, at the very time Lord Wellington

had promised relief, and given orders to hold out. When we first

came in sight of the town, its spires appeared above the hill which

rises on the Campo Mayor side of it, as if the town lay immediately

beneath, but we found it was still a great way off; we then took a

circuitous route to the left of the town, and having crossed the

Guidiana, we encamped about three miles from it, on the slope of a

small hill which skirted the Elvas road; here we constructed huts in

the best manner we could, with bushes and branches of trees.

On the night of the 29th, the stores and ordnance having arrived, we

marched down towards the town, for the purpose of breaking ground:

it was fortunately very dark, and as we kept the greatest silence,

the French were not aware of our approach. When we reached the place

where it was intended we should open the trenches, we formed a line

across the front of the town, where two thousand intrenching tools

had been laid. We were then told our safety depended on expedition,

for if the French discovered our presence before we had worked

ourselves under cover, a warm salute might be expected. The officers

were dependent on our exertions for safety; and it was remarked in

what kind and familiar tones some of those spoke, who, in greater

security, would have acted the blustering tyrant. I cannot understand

what makes many officers so supercilious, haughty, and morose to

their men, when, by a little good humour, or friendly feeling

displayed, I have no doubt they might not only make themselves

beloved, but have their orders much better obeyed.

We now commenced work vigorously, and in six hours were under cover,

without the French having discovered our presence. The operations

of the siege were now carried on with great vigour on both sides of

the river Guidiana; the opposite one was conducted by the seventh

division against fort St Christoval, an outwork that protected the

advance to the bridge. By the second of June we had two batteries

playing on the walls, and four were opened by the seventh division

on fort St Christoval. The guns were partly served by Portuguese

artillery, who behaved extremely well. The troops were told off in

two parties, relieving each other every twenty-four hours.

A communication was kept up between the several trenches, and a

covered way formed, which prevented the men from being so much

exposed in going to, and returning from the camp; but still we

suffered severely from the enemy’s shot and shell, with which they

now plied us hotly, having their guns constantly ready to fire at

even a single individual if he put his head above the trench; and the

shells fired from the garrison were thrown so as to make them fall in

it. At night we could see them by the fusee, and were often enabled

to get out of their way; in the day, we ran more risk, although we

could still distinguish them from shot, by the whistling sound they

made coming through the air.

The second or third night after the trenches were opened, Dennis and

I were down on the working party. Captain S——, already mentioned,

was one of the officers. They were telling off a covering party,

who were to go out in front, to prevent any sudden surprise by the

enemy making a sortie, when the word ‘shell!’ was given. All eyes

were instantly turned on it, watching its direction, that they might

run in the opposite one. Captain S——, although so valiant on parade,

seemed to have no predilection for a ‘glorious death’ more than

his neighbours; and he, in company with a brother captain, headed

the retreat. They had not gone many paces, when notice was given of

another shell falling in the direction they were running. By this

time the first had fallen short of the trench, and a retrograde

movement took place; but the captains were now in a bad plight, for

the crowd was so condensed in the direction they had to go, that

there was no getting through. The shell was giving intelligence by

its quickened revolutions, that it was falling, but there was no

means of escape, the whole were fairly wedged in and had fallen on

each other; and had the shell burst among them, it would have made

dreadful havoc. As I threw myself down by the side of the trench, I

perceived Captain S—— running about like a chicken in a coop, seeking

an opening by which he might escape, but finding none he wormed

his head into the crowd, which had fallen in his front, and thus

remained. The shell fell in a direction that placed me in imminent

danger; but I could not refrain from laughing at his ludicrous

position; it burst, however, without doing any injury.

On one occasion, when Dennis and I were on duty in the trench, and

at one of the batteries with some others, at the formation of an

embrasure, we had nearly completed it, but it still required opening

and facing off towards the enemy; this was a very hazardous business,

as we were sure of a volley of cannon shot, the moment we mounted the

parapet. ‘Come, my brave fellows,’ said the superintending engineer

officer, ‘which of you will volunteer to go outside, and form the

embrasure?’ Dennis and I were standing close by him, and jumped upon

the top of the breastwork. We were followed by two more, but had

scarcely appeared, when a cannon shot striking the parapet close

where I stood, covered me with earth. ‘Never mind,’ said Dennis, ‘to

miss is as good as a mile,’ He scarcely had finished, when he was

served in the same manner—no way dispirited, he exclaimed, ‘Time

about is fair play.’ One of the lads who worked with us began to show

symptoms of fear. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ said Dennis, ‘you’ll never die

till your time come.’ His eloquence did not seem to take effect.

‘Go into the trench,’ said Dennis, ‘we will do without you.’ The

lad was in the act of doing so, when a shot struck him, and he fell

mortally wounded. Soon after, our dinners having come down, we were

relieved by others and called in. The mess I belonged to had sat down

round the camp kettle, and were beginning to help themselves, when

the cry ‘shell!’ was given; all were to their feet in an instant,

for we found by the noise that it was coming in our direction. The

others endeavoured to make their escape; whether from a belief in

Dennis’s doctrine of predestination, I cannot at present recollect,

but instead of running from it, I threw myself down flat in the

embrasure. I had scarcely done so, when the shell fell within two

yards of me. ‘Now,’ thought I, ‘there is no chance of escape,’ and

during the few seconds of suspense, while the last part of the fusee

was whizzing in my ear, reflections which would have occupied an hour

at another time, on home, parents, death, and my future fate, whirled

through my mind, like a wild and giddy dream. The shell burst, and

for a few moments I was bereaved of recollection. Coming to myself, I

scrambled out from amongst the stuff with which I was covered. ‘Are

you kilt?’ asked Dennis, running up to me with an expression of real

concern: looking to myself to see whether I was wounded, I replied,

‘No;’ but I had been well frightened. ‘That’s right, my boy,’ said

he, ‘I don’t believe the shot’s made that will kill any of us. Many’s

the long yarn about this business I’ll be after telling to the ould

women of Ireland yet.’

On the sixth, the breach in fort St Christoval being considered

practicable, a detachment of the different regiments composing the

seventh division was selected to storm it: being at night we could

not see the attack farther than the flash of their fire-arms, which,

from our encampment, looked like an exhibition of fire works; but

we understood that from the nature of the impediments thrown in our

way, although they had advanced under a heavy discharge of shot

and shell from the town, and musketry and hand grenades from the

garrison, they were unable to succeed, and were ordered to retire.

The firing was continued upon the breach for three days longer, and a

second attempt was made to carry it on the evening of the ninth, with

another detachment of the seventh division. The attack was made with

the utmost gallantry, and they advanced intrepidly to the foot of the

breach; but the same obstacles presented themselves as on the first

attempt, and after having suffered most severely, without being able

to effect a lodgment, they were again ordered to retire. The loss in

officers and men was considerable.

The men of our division, unaccustomed to failure in any enterprise,

and perhaps rather conceited, were inclined to attribute the failure

of these attempts to the troops composing the seventh division being

mostly foreigners; but in this opinion it is likely they were wrong,

as in the subsequent storming of the town, in the ensuing year,

the obstacles thrown in the way were sufficient to resist even the

bravest British troops. A day or two after this affair, intelligence

having been received that Soult was advancing with a large army,

for the purpose of relieving Badajos, Wellington deemed it prudent

to raise the siege, converting it into a blockade. From this until

the seventeenth we were busy withdrawing the guns and stores, which

were sent to the garrison of Elvas, as a place of security, and on

the seventeenth quitted our investment of the place, and withdrew to

Campo Mayor. On the morning we left it, the French cavalry were out

skirmishing with a party of the eleventh hussars, who were covering

our retreat, and followed us the greater part of the way.

While in Campo Mayor, where we remained for some time, a German of

the sixtieth regiment, a Frenchman, and two Italians, belonging

to the Chasseurs Britannique, were shot for desertion,—the former

belonging to our division, the latter three to the seventh. On the

morning that the sentence of the first was carried into execution,

the division was assembled outside of the town, where they formed

three sides of a square. The prisoner was marched past the various

regiments, accompanied by the chaplain of the division, and the guard

appointed to shoot him. When his devotions were finished, he was

blindfolded by the provost marshal, and placed kneeling on the brink

of his grave already open to receive him. He gave the signal, and

the next moment he fell pierced by half a dozen musket balls. The

different regiments then marched past the body, receiving the word

‘eyes left’ as they past him.

I was on the general provost guard, the evening previous to those

of the seventh division being shot. The sergeants came with the

company’s books to settle their accounts; the two Italians were in

paroxysms of agony, crying and wringing their hands. The behaviour

of the Frenchman, who had been taken prisoner, had volunteered

into the Chasseurs Britannique, and afterwards deserted from them

to his countrymen, formed a strong contrast to that of the others.

Calm and dignified, he seemed to feel no fear of death, nor did any

complaint pass his lips, save an occasional exclamation against the

injustice of trying him as a deserter, being a Frenchman. In his

circumstances, he argued it was natural that he should endeavour

to join his friends the first opportunity that offered. When the

sergeant was settling their accounts, the Italians paid no attention

to anything said to them; but he discussed every item with the

greatest exactness, and the sergeant wanting a small coin about the

value of a farthing to balance, he desired him to procure it before

he would sign the ledger; but though thus exact with the sergeant,

the moment he received his balance, which amounted to some dollars,

he divided every penny of it amongst his fellow-prisoners. When the

Italians received their money, they sent for brandy, and began to

drink intemperately, endeavouring to drown their sorrows and sear

their minds; but it had quite a different effect, for they then

broke from all restraint in the expression of their feelings, and

cried and groaned with agony in such a manner, that they could be

heard at a considerable distance from the guard-room. In this state

they continued until morning, when they ceased their lamentations,

only because nature was exhausted by their former violence. Quite

different was the conduct of the Frenchman: when the brandy was

procured, the Italians pressed him to take some, but he thanked

them, and refused, ‘No,’ said he, throwing a look of mingled pity

and contempt on them, ‘I need no brandy to enable me to face death.’

He continued to walk about with his arms folded during the whole

evening, without seeming in the least disturbed; occasionally,

indeed, his countenance softened, and a tear-drop gathered in his

eye, but it was not permitted to linger there; and as if ashamed

of showing the least want of firmness, he assumed redoubled

inflexibility of countenance.

I could not help admiring his manly fortitude and courage. I had

no opportunity of speaking to him, without being intrusive; but

in silence I watched the expression of his face, with a feeling I

could hardly describe. It was reported that he was a brother of

Marshal Soult: the truth of this I cannot pretend to affirm. He was,

however, certainly a man of a noble mind and independent spirit.

About midnight he lay down and slept soundly until near the hour of

execution; his courage seemed to be now even more exalted. He cleaned

himself with the greatest nicety, conversed with his fellow-prisoners

cheerfully, and endeavoured, although without success, to infuse some

courage into the poor Italians. The guard having arrived, he took

leave of those prisoners who were confined with him; and to one,

with whom he was more familiar than the others, he gave some private

injunction, and on parting with him he said emphatically, ‘Remember,

I die a Frenchman.’ He marched off to the place of execution with the

same collected intrepidity he had before evinced, and I understood

afterwards, that his demeanour on the ground where he was shot, was

similar to that displayed while a prisoner. All admired his courage,

and were sorry for his fate.

CHAPTER III.

Leaving Campo Mayor we returned by the same route that we had come,

re-crossing the Tagus at Ville Valhe, and halting at Albergeria, a

village near the place from whence we had first set out to go to

Badajos, and not far distant from Ciudade Roderigo, in which the

French had a garrison. We remained here in camp for some time, very

busy making fascions and gabions to fortify the position which our

army had taken. While we lay in this encampment the weather was

uncommonly warm, and the bushes and long grass, among which we had

raised temporary huts, were rendered inflammable as tinder; the grass

on our left had been by accident set fire to, and the flames soon

spread in every direction. The whole of the soldiers were turned

out to stop its progress; but in spite of their endeavours, it

communicated to a wood which lay on the face of a steep hill in our

rear, burning with the greatest fury. The night happened to be very

dark, and there could scarcely be anything more grand or awful: the

whole mountain was in a blaze of fire, and the noise and crackling

of the trees burning was like the noise of a hurricane; it was a

scene which a person could stand and gaze at it in mute astonishment,

without being able to define the sensations which were raised in

his mind. The wind fortunately carried the fire to the rear of our

encampment, or it might have been productive of great injury, by

blowing up the ammunition, &c.

From this place we removed more in advance to Robleda, a Spanish

village. The people seemed to be comfortable, the houses were

extremely clean, and here we had a fair specimen of the manners of

the Spanish peasantry. All their domestic concerns were conducted

with the greatest regularity: they were very punctual in the

observance of all the rites of their church, and in catechising

their children. They seemed to me to be really pious, and from their

prudent, industrious habits, happy and contented. The people I was

quartered on were uncommonly friendly; being able to speak the

language a little, and Dennis being of the same religious persuasion,

we were almost considered as members of the family. The inhabitants

were mostly all employed in agriculture, and were very lively and

fond of amusement, particularly of singing and dancing; here they had

their fondangos and boleras every Sunday evening after mass, dressed

in the gay and becoming fashion of their country, and many a ditty

was chaunted in praise of General Mina and Don Julian. The village,

however, proved very unhealthy: during the short time we were in it,

eighty or ninety of our men left us to go to the rear sick, most of

them with fever and ague, and among the number my poor friend Dennis.

On the 24th September, in consequence of the advance of the French,

we were ordered to march from this to El-Bodon; and it was with

unfeigned regret on both sides, I believe, that we parted with our

friendly hosts.

On the 25th, at two o’clock in the morning, we were turned out to

the heights above the town, which our brigade, along with one of

cavalry, occupied. Our position was on a range of heights, over

which passed the road leading from Roderigo to Fuente Guinaldo. Here

we lay under arms until about eight o’clock in the morning, when

we perceived, issuing out of Roderigo, one column of cavalry after

another advancing along the road towards our post, to the amount of

about forty squadrons; these were succeeded by twelve or fourteen

battalions of infantry, with twelve piece of cannon. Our situation

now began to get precarious, being completely separated from the

rest of the army, by at least six miles. Still we had no orders

to retreat—and to retreat without orders is not the custom of the

British army.

One of the regiments was posted on the hill over which the road

passed, and when it was seen that the French were bent upon advancing

in that direction, two more regiments, the 77th British, 21st

Portuguese, and the brigade of cavalry, were sent to reinforce them.

This was scarcely done, when the advanced squadrons of the enemy’s

cavalry and artillery made a furious attack on this post, and

succeeded in taking two piece of Portuguese cannon. The Portuguese

artillery behaved bravely, having stood until actually cut down

at their guns, which were posted on a rising ground to the right.

The 5th regiment was now ordered to charge, and they succeeded in

retaking the guns. While this was going on on the right, we were

attacked by another body of cavalry in front, which was met and

repulsed with determined bravery by the 77th regiment. Our cavalry

also were warmly engaged, and charged different bodies of the

enemy which ascended on the left. Here we kept our post gallantly,

surrounded by about two thousand cavalry—until at last the French

infantry being brought up, we were ordered to retreat in squares on

Fuente Guinaldo, supported only by the small body of cavalry already

mentioned. The French cavalry seeing us preparing for retreat,

rushed furiously on, and the various squares were now successively

charged by powerful masses of their cavalry, one in particular on

three faces of the square, but they halted, and repulsed them with

the utmost steadiness and gallantry. The French in those charges

suffered severely, having a tremendous fire poured in on them each

time. As they rushed on with impetuosity, when they were brought to

a dead stop by the points of our bayonets, they were thrown into the

greatest confusion, and were brought down by our shot in numbers. The

whole now proceeded to retreat in excellent order, at an ordinary

pace, keeping exact distances, ready to form up in the event of a

charge being made.

We were much annoyed by shot and shell from the heights where the

French artillery were posted, some of which falling in the squares

did great mischief, killing and wounding several of our men, and

blowing up our ammunition. We had about six miles to retreat in

this manner before we reached the body of the army, with the French

cavalry hanging on our flanks and rear, some of whom had even

the audacity to ride to our front, and having taken part of our

baggage, brought it back close past our columns: we could render no

assistance, as our own safety wholly depended on keeping ourselves

ready to form square. Here General Picton showed that coolness and

intrepidity for which he was so much distinguished; for some time

he rode at the head of our square, while a strong body of French

hung on our right, waiting a favourable opportunity to charge.

The captain who commanded us (both field officers being sick)

was throwing many a fearful glance at them, and was rather in a

state of perturbation—‘Never mind the French,’ said Picton, ‘mind

your regiment; if the fellows come here, we will give them a warm

reception.’

At length we came in sight of the rest of our army, and the main body

of the French hung back, but we were escorted into the very lines by

their advanced guard. Here, however, they met with a warm reception

from some squadrons of our cavalry, which made them retreat. We

halted in rear of Fuente Guinaldo, where an intrenched camp had been

formed, and remained here that night and next day, during which

the French, having brought forward their infantry, took post on a

hill opposite, and we expected an engagement; but Lord Wellington,

for good reasons, no doubt, deemed it more prudent to retire. When

night came, we were ordered to kindle a great number of fires, for

the purpose of making the French believe we still remained in our

encampment. Two hours after, we commenced our retreat, leaving the

fires burning brightly, and marched all night; the road we travelled

was uncommonly narrow, and various impediments in the way often

caused the rear to halt. The fatigue we had undergone the preceding

two or three days, and the almost total want of sleep during that

time, completely overcame us; the moment a halt was made, we dropped

down on the ground fast asleep, and it was by the greatest exertion

that we were able to rouse ourselves to proceed. So overpowering was

its effects, that I would have been content to be taken prisoner, or

even to suffer death, I dare say, had it been the alternative, had

I been allowed to sleep. Indeed, some of the men could not resist

its effects, and stepping aside off the road, threw themselves down,

and yielded to its influence, although certain of being taken by the

enemy, which they accordingly were. Next day we halted in a meadow,

where, having our rations served out, we proceeded on to a village,

near which our light division and cavalry had a severe skirmish with

the French, whom they repulsed. The enemy then retreated to their

old position, and we were quartered in a Portuguese village, on

the frontiers, within a few leagues of Roderigo, where we remained

until January, 1812. This was a miserable, dirty place, with a few

poor wretched inhabitants in it. It was designated by the soldiers,

the ‘Hungry Village;’ as, to answer some purpose which we were then

unacquainted with, we had only half rations during the greater

part of the time we were in it; to add to the rest, the officer in

temporary command of the regiment at that time, was ignorant of his

duty, which, in conjunction with a naturally cruel and vindictive

disposition, bade fair to ruin the regiment in the few months he had

the command of it. I shall not trace his pedigree to the low origin

from whence he sprung, because, had he been a good man, it would only

have enhanced his merit; nor shall I particularize the deformity of

his person, which he could not help; but there will be no harm in

giving a specimen of his mode of discipline while in command of the

regiment, particularly as it forms a strong contrast to that of an

officer whom I shall have occasion to mention in the course of this

narrative.

Having neither the education nor the breeding of a gentleman, he felt

jealous in the company of the officers, and lived in a retired and

sullen manner. He generally passed his time in gossiping with his

barber or his cook, or indeed any of the men, with an affectation of

entering into all their concerns. By this and eavesdropping he became

acquainted with little circumstances which another commanding officer

would have disdained to listen to, and which he always made a bad

use of. The full extent of his malevolent disposition was not known,

however, until he got command of the regiment, when he introduced

flogging for every trivial offence—in fact, the triangles were

generally the accompaniment of every evening parade. In addition to

this, he invented more disgraceful and torturing modes of inflicting

the punishment; but all this was not enough,—he ordered that

defaulters should have a patch of yellow and black cloth sewed on the

sleeve of the regimental jacket, and a hole cut in it for every time

they were flogged. The effects of this soon became visible: as good

men were liable to be punished for the slightest fault, the barrier

between them and hardened ill-doers was broken down, and as they had

lost respect in their own eyes, they either became broken-hearted and

inefficient soldiers, or grew reckless of every thing, and launched

into crime; those who were hardened and unprincipled before, being

brought by the prevalence of punishment nearer a level with better

men, seemed to glory in misconduct. In fact, all ideas of honour and

character were lost, and listless apathy and bad conduct were the

prevailing features of the corps at this time.

That flogging is notoriously useless in reclaiming men where they are

bad, must be evident to every one who knows anything of the service,

and surely it is not politic to disgrace an individual, and break his

heart for a casual error. There ought always to be an opening left

for a man to retrieve a false step; but once bare his back at the

halberts, and you shut it for ever.

In the regiment I belonged to, I had a good opportunity of marking

its effects, and in every instance, I have observed that it

changed the individual’s character for the worse; he either became

broken-hearted and useless to the corps, or shameless and hardened.

In two individual cases, its inefficiency to prevent the recurrence

of the fault was particularly marked,—the first was desertion, and

the second drunkenness. These men had received at various times

upwards of two thousand lashes, but the first continued to absent

himself, and the other to get drunk, periodically, although they were

perfectly sure that flogging would be the result. There were men in

the service to whom the excitement produced by ardent spirits seemed

as necessary as food; in them this unnatural craving for liquor

appeared to me to be a disease, calling for medical treatment more

than punishment.

I have no doubt that many commanding officers resorted to corporal

punishment from the conviction that it could not be done without;

they had tried to dispense with it and could not—but I doubt much

whether the experiment was fairly made. They found difficulties at

the outset, and that it was more easy to exert their authority than

their patience; the consequence was, that flogging was again resorted

to, and they satisfied their conscience, by saying that it could

not be dispensed with. The real method of accomplishing the desired

end was neglected, namely, making themselves acquainted with the

character and disposition of the men under their command: this, I

believe, many would think incompatible with their dignity; but has

not a commanding officer as good a right to make himself acquainted

with the dispositions of his men, as the medical officer with their

constitutions? If they did so, they would soon find other means than

flogging, to make those under their command what they would wish

them to be. I am aware that its frequency at one time had the effect

of blinding the judgment of officers who possessed both feeling

and discrimination; and I have occasionally witnessed a ludicrous

waste of sympathy on some inferior animal, where nothing of the kind

was felt for their fellow-creature suffering under the lash. For

instance, I have known an officer shed tears when his favourite horse

broke its leg, and next day exult in seeing a poor wretch severely

flogged for being late of delivering an order; but I am happy to

say, that the severe discipline of the old school is fast falling

into disrepute, and I hope the time is not far distant when it will

altogether be abolished.

The lieutenant-colonel joined when Captain L—— had been some time

exercising his power in this despotic manner, and being a man of

a different stamp, he was not well pleased to find the men of his

regiment, whom he had always been proud of, treated in this manner.

His first order was to cut off all the badges which Captain L—— had

ordered on the men. The frequent punishment was next done away, and

the regiment was again placed on a fair footing; but the effect of

their previous ill usage did not so soon disappear.

This village was situated at the foot of a high hill, which was

covered with wood, and from which the wolves were in the habit of

coming down at night, and prowling about the village in quest of

prey. On one post beside the field where the cattle were killed, the

sentries were very much annoyed by them; but I believe they did no

farther injury than devouring some pigs and an ass, which had been

left out all night. Towards the end of December we were once or twice

marched from our village, to within a short distance of Roderigo, for

the purpose of intercepting supplies which the French attempted to

throw into it, and the weather being extremely cold, we suffered much

on the journey. The governor of that garrison (General Renaud) while

out on a reconnoitering party about this time, was taken prisoner by

the Spanish Guerilla chief, Don Julian.

In the beginning of January, 1812, we were removed for the purpose

of besieging Ciudade Roderigo, and we left this miserable village in

the midst of a snow storm, and marched to Morti Agua. Next day we

forded the Agueda, and took up our quarters in Ceridillo del Arroyo.

The siege now commenced; the light division having succeeded, on the

night of the 8th January, in storming one of the principal outworks

(the redoubt of St Francisco), we opened the trenches the same night,

within 600 yards of the town, the outwork which they had carried

forming part of the first parallel. The weather was so severe,

and the cold so intense, that the army could not encamp, but the

divisions employed at the siege marched from their different quarters

and relieved each other alternately, every four-and-twenty hours. Our

division took its turn of the duty on the 11th, and the frost was

so excessive that we were almost completely benumbed, and nothing

but hard working, I believe, kept us from perishing with the cold;

indeed, it was said that some Portuguese soldiers actually died from

its effects. Still, however, the work went on rapidly, and on the

night of the 13th, another outwork (the fortified convent of Santa

Cruz) was stormed by the 1st division, under General Graham. On the

14th the batteries in the first parallel were formed, and commenced

firing from twenty-two pieces of cannon; that same night the fourth

division carried all the remaining outworks, and we were established

in the second parallel, 150 yards from the town, on the 15th, on

which day it fell our turn, a second time, for the duty.

The French kept up a very destructive fire on us during the whole of

our operations, and while forming the second parallel they threw out

some fire balls to enable them to see where we were working, that

they might send their shot in that direction; one of them fell very

near where a party were working, and by its light completely exposed

them to the view of the enemy. A sergeant belonging to our regiment,

of the name of Fraser, seeing the danger to which they were exposed,

seized a spade, and jumping out of the trench, regardless of the

enemy’s fire, ran forward to where it was burning, and having dug a

hole, tumbled it in and covered it with earth.

On the morning of the 18th, a battery of seven guns was opened in the

second parallel, while those in the first still continued their fire

upon the walls. On the 19th our division again took their turn of the

duty; but as the breaches were now considered practicable, the other

troops destined for the attack were also assembled, it being Lord

Wellington’s intention to storm it that night.

The attack was directed to be made in five different columns: the two

right composed of part of our division, under the command of Major

Ridge of the 5th regiment, and Colonel O’Toole of the 2d Caçadores,

were to protect the attack of the third column (composed of our right

brigade, commanded by General M’Kinnon), upon the principal breach;

the left of this assault was to be covered by part of the light

division, who were, at the same time, to ascend the breaches on the

left; while General Pack’s brigade made a false attack on the south

of the fort. On the right of the whole, the regiment I belonged to

were to descend into the ditch, for the purpose of protecting the

descent of General M’Kinnon’s brigade against any obstacles which

might be thrown in the way by the enemy.

Thus arranged, some time after it was dark, we moved down from our

encampment towards the town, and our regiment having formed behind

the walls of an old convent, each section being provided with a

pickaxe and rope, we advanced rank entire under a heavy fire from

the garrison, to the brink of the trench, where, planting the one

end of the pickaxe firmly in the ground, we threw the noose of the

rope over the other, and then descended by it into the ditch. After

descending, we moved along towards the breach. Our orders were

to remain there, and protect the right brigade; but our colonel

finding no obstacles in the way, pushed up the breach, leading on

his regiment to the attack; the fifth regiment, which also belonged

to the covering party, joined us as we ascended, and together we

succeeded in establishing ourselves on the ramparts, in spite of the

obstinate resistance made by the French. The other troops advancing

at the same time, we were masters of the town in half an hour from

the commencement of the attack; but the gallant General M’Kinnon was

killed by the springing of a mine, just as we gained the ramparts.

The last time he was seen alive was when addressing a young officer

who had displayed much courage,—‘Come,’ said he, ‘you are a fine lad,

you and I will go together.’ The next moment the mine sprung. In the

morning his body was got a short distance from the place, wounded

and blackened by the explosion. He was much regretted, for he was an

intelligent, brave, and enterprising officer. General Crawford, a

brave and much beloved officer, who commanded the light division, was

also mortally wounded in the assault.

The French had behaved well during the siege, and made a tolerable

resistance at the breaches the night of the storm; but they appeared

either to be panic struck, not expecting us to storm the town so

soon, or the individual who commanded wanted ability, for the

dispositions made for the defence were a mere nothing, in comparison

to those at Badajos, when that town was taken some time after. In

mounting the breach, we found great difficulty in ascending, from the

loose earth slipping from under our feet at every step, and throwing

us down; the enemy at the same time pouring their shot amongst us

from above. After having gained possession of the ramparts, the enemy

retreated into a square in the centre of the town, where they were

pursued, and gave up their arms.

Among the prisoners taken, were eighteen deserters from our army, who

were subsequently tried and shot. The town was partially plundered

by those who had straggled from their regiments, but the different

columns remained formed on the ramparts until daylight, when a party

from each regiment were sent to bury the dead, and collect the

wounded, and I was one of the number. The first we found was Captain

W., a brave and good officer. He fell mortally wounded near the head

of the breach, while cheering on his men to the assault.

Among the wounded lay Lieutenant T., whom we used to call Robinson

Crusoe, from his wearing very large whiskers, and always carrying

a goat skin haversack, in which he kept the greater part of his

necessaries, including his pipe and tobacco, of which he was very

fond. The other officers rather shunned his company, from his not

being very exact in his dress, and eccentric in his habits; but he

was well liked by the soldiers, being an excellent officer, and brave

as a lion.

In this respect he was worth a hundred dandies. A few moments

before he received the wound, he dragged a minikin officer from a

hiding-place, and brandishing his sword over him, threatened to cut

him down if he did not advance. But the poor fellow did not go many

paces farther himself, when he was brought down by a grape shot;

yet still he continued to cheer on, and encourage the men who were

ascending.

On the ascent of the breach, lay many dead, and among the rest my

ill-fated friend Sandy, whom I have had already occasion to mention,

as parting from his wife at Jersey. When I saw him stretched lifeless

on the breach, that scene flashed full upon my memory, and I could

not but remark how true his wife’s forebodings had turned out.

By taking the town, we became masters of one hundred and fifty-three

piece of cannon, including the heavy train of the French army, and a

great number of stores. The Governor (General Banier,) seventy-eight

officers, and one thousand seven hundred men, were taken prisoners.

Our division was marched out of the town in the morning, and returned

to the village where we were quartered. On the way home we lost one

of our men, and we never heard of him after. It was suspected that

he either perished among the snow, which lay thick on the ground, or

that he was murdered by some of the peasantry.

CHAPTER IV.

After remaining a few days in Ceridillo del Arroyo, we removed to

Villa Mayor, where we remained until we received orders to march back

our old route to Badajos, which we invested on the 17th of March.

Our division again taking the left of the Guidiana, along with the

4th and light, while the right was occupied by a brigade of General

Hamilton’s division, we broke ground rather to the left of our old

trenches, within about two hundred yards of Fort Picurini, a strong

outwork.

On the 19th the enemy made a sortie from one of the gates, a little

to the right of our trenches, with two thousand men; but they were

almost immediately driven in, without effecting anything, having

suffered severely.

On the 25th we opened six batteries with twenty-eight piece of

cannon; and having kept up a heavy fire on Fort Picurini during the

day, for the purpose of destroying the defences, when it was dark, a

detachment of five hundred men of our division, under the command of

Major General Kempt, were ordered to storm it. They were formed in

three parties, who attacked at different places at the same time; and

they succeeded, after an obstinate resistance, in gaining possession

of it. Two hundred men garrisoned the place, out of which one hundred

and sixty were killed, or drowned in the overflow of the river. The

colonel commanding, three other officers, and eighty-six men, were

taken prisoners. Seven cannon were found in the place, besides some

stores. During the assault, the enemy made a sortie from the town,

with a view either to recover the place, or cover the retreat of the

soldiers who manned it; but they were driven in by a party of the

detachment stationed to protect the attack.

In this affair we lost a great number of officers and men, some of

them after the place was taken, the enemy having bombarded the fort

from the town, when they found we were in possession of it.

The second parallel was now opened within three hundred yards of the

town, in which two batteries commenced firing on the 28th. During

this time the weather was so bad, and the rains so heavy, that we

were working in the trenches up to the knees in mud, and the river

swelled to such a height, that the pontoon bridge, over which we

crossed the Guidiana, was carried away. On the 29th another sortie

was made by the enemy on the right; but they were repulsed by General

Hamilton’s division. On the 31st twenty-seven piece of cannon were

opened in the second parallel, on the walls of the town; and the

firing was continued with great effect until the 4th, when another

battery of six guns was opened. Practicable breaches were effected on

the 5th, and we were turned out that night to storm the town; but the

enemy having made formidable preparations for the defence, the attack

was deferred until next night, during which time all the guns in the

second parallel were brought to bear upon the breaches. This delay

was productive of very serious feeling throughout the succeeding day,

as we were warned at the time to be ready to storm the town the next

night.

Various were the effects produced on different individuals. There

was an unusual talking of relations, a recalling to mind of scenes

forgotten; a flow of kindly feeling which softened down the rough

soldier into something milder and more pleasing. Many letters were

written during that day to absent friends, in a more affectionate

style than usual; and many injunctions given and taken, about

writing, in the event of the fall of either party, to their relations.

The nearer the time drew for the intended attack, the more each

individual seemed to shrink within himself; yet still nothing of fear

or doubt of our success was expressed—every feeling displayed was

natural and manly. At length night came, and the appointed hour for

turning out.

It was dark and gloomy; not a single star showed its head; the air

was still, not a sound could be heard but the noise of the field

cricket, and the croaking of frogs; every word of command was given

in a whisper, and the strictest silence enjoined, which I believe

was unnecessary; few felt inclined to speak. At last the order was

given to advance, and with palpitating hearts we commenced our

march—slow and silent, a dead-weight hanging on every mind. Had we

been brought hurriedly into action, it would have been different;

but it is inconsistent with the nature of man not to feel as I have

described, in such a situation. The previous warning—the dark and

silent night—the known strength of the place—the imminent danger of

the attack—all conspired to produce it. Yet this feeling was not

the result of want of courage; for I never witnessed anything like

the calm intrepidity displayed in the advance, after we came within

range of the enemy’s cannon. Being apprized of our intentions, they

threw out fireballs in every direction, and from total darkness they

changed the approaches to the garrison into a state light as day. By

this means they were enabled to see the direction of our columns,

and they opened a fire of round and grape shot which raked through

them, killing and wounding whole sections. A circumstance occurred

at this time, which may be worthy of notice:—A man who had been

very remarkable for his testy disposition, and inveterate habit of

swearing on all occasions, happened to hit his foot against a stone,

and stumbled; this vexed him, and uttering an oath, he wished a shot

would come and knock his brains out; he had scarcely finished these

words, when a grape shot struck him on the forehead, and literally

fulfilled the rash wish. We still advanced, silent as before, save

the groaning of our wounded comrades, until we reached a sort of moat

about fifty feet wide, formed by the inundation of the river; here we

had to pass, rank entire, the passage being only capable of admitting

one at a time. On this place the enemy had brought their guns to

bear, and they kept up such a fire of grape and musketry on it,

that it was a miracle any of us escaped. When we reached the other

side we formed again, and advanced up the glacis, forcing our way

through the palisades, and got down into the ditch. The ladders by

which we had to escalade the castle were not yet brought up, and the

men were huddled on one another in such a manner that we could not

move; we were now ordered to fix our bayonets. When we first entered

the trench, we considered ourselves comparatively safe, thinking we

were out of range of their shot, but we were soon convinced of our

mistake, for they opened several guns from angles which commanded the

trench, and poured in grape shot upon us from each side, every shot

of which took effect, and every volley of which was succeeded by the

dying groans of those who fell. Our situation at this time was truly

appalling. The attack had commenced at the breaches towards our left,

and the cannon and musketry which played upon our troops from every

quarter of the town attacked, kept up a continual roll of thunder,

and their incessant flash one quivering sheet of lightning; to add to

the awfulness of the scene, a mine was sprung at the breach, which

carried up, in its dreadful blaze, the mangled limbs and bodies of

many of our comrades.

When the ladders were placed, each eager to mount, crowded them in

such a way that many of them broke, and the poor fellows who had

nearly reached the top, were precipitated a height of thirty or forty

feet, and impaled on the bayonets of their comrades below; other

ladders were pushed aside by the enemy on the walls, and fell with a

crash on those in the ditch; while more who got to the top without

accident were shot on reaching the parapet, and tumbling headlong,

brought down those beneath them. This continued for some time,

until at length a few having made a landing good on the ramparts,

at the expense of their lives, enabled a greater number to follow.

When about a company had thus got collected together, we formed and

charged round the ramparts, bayoneting the French artillery at their

guns. In the direction that the party I was with took, they had

drawn out a howitzer loaded to the very muzzle, pointed it towards

us, and a gunner had the match ready to fire, when he was brought

down by one of our party; in this direction we charged until we

reached the sally-port communicating with the town. In a short time

the whole division were established in possession of the castle, but

the contest at the breaches was still severe.

The light and 4th divisions had advanced from the trenches a short

time after us, until they reached the covered way; their advanced

guards descended without difficulty into the ditch, and advanced to

the assault with the most determined bravery, but such was the nature

of the obstacles prepared by the enemy at the head of the breach, and

behind it, that they could not establish themselves within the place.

Repeated attempts were made until after twelve at night, when Lord

Wellington finding that success was not to be obtained, and that our

division had succeeded in taking the castle, they were ordered back

to the ground where they had assembled, leaving the breach covered

with dead and wounded. When the governor (Philipon) found the castle

was taken, he retreated into fort St Christoval, and at daylight in

the morning he surrendered with all the garrison; it had consisted of

five thousand men, of which number twelve hundred were killed during

the siege.

When the town surrendered, and the prisoners were secured, the

gate leading into the town from the castle was opened, and we were

allowed to enter the town for the purpose of plundering it. We were

scarcely through the gate when every regiment of the division were

promiscuously mixed, and a scene of confusion took place which

baffles description: each ran in the direction that pleased himself,

bursting up the doors and rummaging through the houses, wantonly

breaking up the most valuable articles of furniture found in them.

Small bands formed, and when they came to a door which offered

resistance, half-a-dozen muskets were levelled at the lock, and it

flew up; by this means many men were wounded, for having entered

at another door, there was often a number in the house, when the

door was thus blown open. The greater number first sought the spirit

stores, where having drank an inordinate quantity, they were prepared

for every sort of mischief. At one large vault in the centre of the

town, to which a flight of steps led, they had staved in the head of

the casks, and were running with their hat-caps full of it, and so

much was spilt here, that some, it was said, were actually drowned in

it. Farther on, a number of those who had visited the spirit store

were firing away their ammunition, striving to hit some bells in

front of a convent.

The effects of the liquor now began to show itself, and some of

the scenes which ensued are too dreadful and disgusting to relate;

where two or three thousand armed men, many of them mad drunk,

others depraved and unprincipled, were freed from all restraint,

running up and down the town, the atrocities which took place may

be readily imagined; but in justice to the army, I must say they

were not general, and in most cases perpetrated by cold-blooded

villains, who were backward enough in the attack. Many risked their

lives in defending helpless females, and although it was rather a

dangerous place for an officer to appear, I saw many of them running

as much risk to prevent inhumanity, as they did the preceding night

in storming the town. I very soon sickened of the noise, folly, and

wickedness around me, and made out of the town towards the breach.

When I arrived at where the attack had been made by the light and 4th

divisions, what a contrast to the scene I had just left! Here all was

comparatively silent, unless here and there a groan from the poor

fellows who lay wounded, and who were unable to move. As I looked

round, several voices assailed my ear begging for a drink of water: I

went, and having filled a large pitcher which I found, relieved their

wants as far as I could.

When I observed the defences that had been here made, I could not

wonder at our troops not succeeding in the assault. The ascent

of the breach near the top was covered with thick planks of wood

firmly connected together, staked down, and stuck full of sword and

bayonet blades, which were firmly fastened into the wood with the

points up; round the breach a deep trench was cut in the ramparts,

which was planted full of muskets with the bayonets fixed, standing

up perpendicularly, and firmly fixed in the earth up to the locks.

Exclusive of this they had shell and hand grenades ready loaded

piled on the ramparts, which they lighted and threw down among the

assailants. Round this place death appeared in every form, the whole

ascent was completely covered with the killed, and for many yards

around the approach to the walls, every variety of expression in

their countenance, from calm placidity to the greatest agony. Anxious

to see the place where we had so severe a struggle the preceding

night, I bent my steps to the ditch where we had placed the ladders

to escalade the castle. The sight here was enough to harrow up the

soul, and which no description of mine could convey an idea of.

Beneath one of the ladders, among others lay a corporal of the 45th

regiment, who, when wounded, had fallen forward on his knees and

hands, and the foot of the ladder had been, in the confusion, placed

on his back. Whether the wound would have been mortal, I do not know,

but the weight of the men ascending the ladder had facilitated his

death, for the blood was forced out of his ears, mouth, and nose.

Returning to the camp, I passed the narrow path across the moat,

where many lay dead with their bodies half in the water. When I

reached the opposite side, I perceived a woman with a child at her

breast, and leading another by the hand, hurrying about with a

distracted air, from one dead body to another, eagerly examining

each. She came to one whose appearance seemed to strike her (he

was a grenadier of the 83d regiment), she hesitated some moments,

as if afraid to realise the suspicion which crossed her mind. At

length, seemingly determined to ascertain the extent of her misery,

releasing the child from her hand, she raised the dead soldier (who

had fallen on his face), and looking on his pallid features, she gave

a wild scream, and the lifeless body fell from her arms. Sinking on

her knees, she cast her eyes to heaven, while she strained her infant

to her bosom with a convulsive gasp; the blood had fled her face, nor

did a muscle of it move; she seemed inanimate, and all her faculties

were absorbed in grief.

The elder child looked up in her face for some time with anxiety; at

last he said, ‘Mother, why don’t you speak to me?—what ails you?—what

makes you so pale?—O speak to me, mother, do speak to me!’ A doubt

seemed to cross her mind—without noticing the child, she again raised

the mangled corpse, looked narrowly at his face, and carefully

inspected the mark of his accoutrements—but it was too true—it was

her husband. Neither sigh, nor groan, nor tear escaped her; but

sitting down, she raised the lifeless body, and placing his head on

her knee, gazed on his face with feelings too deep for utterance. The

child now drew himself close to her side, and looking at the bleeding

corpse which she sustained, in a piteous tone, inquired, ‘Is that my

father? is he asleep? why doesn’t he speak to you? I’ll waken him

for you’—and seizing his hand, he drew it towards him, but suddenly

relapsing his hold, he cried, ‘O mother! his hand is cold—cold as

ice.’

Her attention had been drawn for some moments to the child: at length

bursting out, she exclaimed, ‘Poor orphan! he sleeps, never to wake

again—never, O never, will he speak to you or me!’ The child did not

seem to understand her, but he began to cry. She continued, ‘O my

God! my heart will burst, my very brain burns—but I can’t cry—Surely

my heart is hard—I used to cry when he was displeased with me—and now

I can’t cry when he is dead! O my husband! my murdered husband!—Ay,

murdered,’ said she, wiping the blood that flowed from a wound in

his breast. ‘O my poor children!’ drawing them to her bosom, ‘what

will become of you?’ Here she began to talk incoherently—‘Will you

not speak to me, William?—will you not speak to your dear Ellen? Last

night you told me you were going on guard, and you would return in

the morning, but you did not come—I thought you were deceiving me,

and I came to look for you.’

She now ceased to speak, and rocked backwards and forwards over the

bleeding corpse; but her parched quivering lip, and wild fixed look,

showed the agonized workings of her mind. I stood not an unmoved

spectator of this scene, but I did not interrupt it. I considered her

sorrow too deep and sacred for commonplace consolation. A woman and

two men of the same regiment who had been in search of her, now came

up and spoke to her, but she took no notice of them. A party also who

were burying the dead joined them, and they crowded round striving to

console her. I then withdrew, and hastened on to the camp, my mind

filled with melancholy reflections; for many days after I felt a

weight on my mind, and even now I retain a vivid recollection of that

affecting scene. But she was not a solitary sufferer: many a widow

and orphan was made by the siege and storming of Badajos; our loss

amounting, in killed and wounded, to about three thousand men.

The camp during that day, and for some days after, was like a

masquerade, the men going about intoxicated, dressed in the various

dresses they had found in the town; French and Spanish officers,

priests, friars, and nuns, were promiscuously mixed, cutting as

many antics as a mountebank. It was some days before the army could

be brought round to its former state of discipline. Indeed the

giving leave to plunder the town, was productive of nothing but

bad consequences, and for the interests of humanity, and the army

at large, I hope such license may never recur, should we be again

unfortunately plunged in war.

CHAPTER V.

A few days after the town was taken, I took the fever and ague, with

which I was so extremely ill, that when we marched, which we did

immediately after, I was unable to keep up with my regiment, and

was left with four others, about five leagues from Castello Branco,

in charge of a sergeant, who was to endeavour to bring us on; but

being unable to proceed, he was obliged to put us into a house in

the small village in which we were left. It was occupied by a poor

widow, who had two children; there was only one apartment in the

house, in which there was a loom; and having crept under it, I lay

there for four days without bed or covering, with the exception of

an old great-coat, my necessaries, which I was unable to carry,

having gone forward with the regiment. The poor Portuguese widow had

little to give except commiseration, and seemed to feel much for

me in particular, as the others could move about a little. I have

often heard her, when she thought I was asleep, soliloquizing on

the grief it would give my parents, were they to know my situation;

and in her orisons, which she was in the habit of repeating aloud,

she did not neglect a petition for the ’povre rapaz Englese.’[12]

She often brought me warm milk, and pressed me to take a little of

it; I felt very grateful for her sympathy and kindness, but I was

too sick to taste it. As we were here without any means of support,

the sergeant managed to press five asses to carry us to Castello

Branco, where there was a general hospital forming; on one of these

I was mounted, and supported by the man who drove it, I took leave

of the tender-hearted widow, while the tears stood in her eyes. Such

disinterested feeling I was at that time little accustomed to, and

it was precious. We proceeded on our journey, but never did I endure

such torture as I did on that day, and I often begged of them to

allow me to lie down and die.

On the second day we reached our destination, and remained waiting

in the street for two hours before the general doctor would look at

us. When he did come, his countenance foreboded no good. ‘What’s

the matter with you, sir?’ said he to me, in a scowling tone of

voice. ‘You ought to have been with your regiment; a parcel of lazy,

skulking fellows—there’s nothing the matter with any of you!’

I said nothing, but I looked in his face, with a look which asked him

if he really believed what he said, or if he did not read a different

story in my pale face and sunken cheek. He seemed to feel the appeal,

and softening his countenance he passed on to another. We were

then placed along with others, in the passage of a convent, which

was converted into an hospital; here I lay that day on the floor,

without mattress or covering. Night came, and a burning fever raged

through my veins; I called for drink, but there was no one to give

it me. In the course of the night I became delirious; the last thing

I remember was strange fantastic shapes flitting around me, which

now and then catched me up, and flew with me like lightning through

every obstacle—then they would hold me over a precipice, and letting

me fall, I would continue sinking, with a horrid consciousness of my

situation, until my mind was lost in some wild vagary of a different

nature. For some days I was unconscious of what was passing, and

when I recovered my senses, I found myself in a small apartment with

others who had bad fevers, but I was now provided with a mattress and

bed-clothes.

A poor fellow, a musician of the 43d regiment, was next berth to

me, sitting up in his bed in a fit of delirium, addressing himself

to some young females, whom he supposed to be spinning under the

superintendence of an old woman, in a corner of the ceiling; he kept

a constant conversation with his supposed neighbours, whom he seemed

to think were much in awe of the old dame, and he frequently rose

out of his bed to throw up his handkerchief as a signal. When he

recovered, the impression was so strong, that he remembered every

particular.

There was a great want of proper attendants in the hospital, and

many a time I have heard the sick crying for drink and assistance

during the whole night, without receiving it. There seemed also to

be a scarcity of medical officers during the Peninsular war. I have

known wounded men often to be three days after an engagement before

it came to their turn to be dressed, and it may be safely calculated

that one-half of those men were thus lost to the service. Those

medical men we had were not always ornaments of the profession.

They were chiefly, I believe, composed of apothecaries’ boys, who,

having studied a session or two, were thrust into the army as a

huge dissecting room, where they might mangle with impunity, until

they were drilled into an ordinary knowledge of their business; and

as they began at the wrong end, they generally did much mischief

before that was attained. The extent of their medical practice in

most disorders was to ‘blister, bleed, and purge,’——what then?

why ‘blister, bleed, and purge again.’ This method of cure with

poor wretches who were anything but over-fed, and whose greatest

complaint often was fatigue and want of proper sustenance, was quite

à-la-Hornbook, and the sufferers were quickly laid to rest. In the

field they did more mischief, being but partially acquainted with

anatomy; there was enough of what medical men call _bold practice_.

In cutting down upon a ball for the purpose of extracting it, ten

chances to one but they severed an artery they knew not how to stem;

but this gave no concern to these enterprising fellows, for clapping

a piece of lint and a bandage, or a piece of adhesive plaster on the

wound, they would walk off very composedly to mangle some other poor

wretch, leaving the former to his fate.

Here I may be accused of speaking at random, on a subject I do not

understand; but there is no man who served in the Peninsular war, but

can bear witness to the truth of what I have stated. I, however, do

not pretend to say there were not many exceptions to this character;

and in justice to the whole, it must be admitted, that the duties

of a surgeon on the Peninsula, were fatiguing and arduous in the

extreme. The medical department of the French army was much superior

to ours at that time in every respect; this can only be accounted

for by the superior opportunity they had of studying anatomy,

which in Britain is now almost prohibited—more the pity! Those who

have witnessed the evils resulting to the army in particular, from

imperfectly educated surgeons, must regret that government does not

afford greater facilities to the study.

The ague fits having returned when the severe fever left me, I

recovered very slowly; the medicine I received, which was given very

irregularly, having done me no good. While in this state, General

Sir John Hope, who lately commanded the forces in Scotland, happened

to pay a visit to the hospital, and going round the sick with the

staff-surgeon, he inquired, ‘What was the prevailing disease?’ the

reply was,

‘Fever and ague.’

Sir John, whose kind and humane disposition is well known, mentioned

that he had heard of a cure for that disease among the old women in

Scotland, which was considered infallible. The staff-surgeon smiled,

and begged to hear what it was. ‘It is,’ said the good old general,

‘simply a large pill formed of spider’s web, to be swallowed when the

fit is coming on. I cannot pledge myself for its efficacy, but I have

heard it much talked of.’ The staff-doctor gave a shrug, as much to

say it was all nonsense, looked very wise, as all doctors endeavour

to do, and the conversation dropped. I had been listening eagerly to

the conversation, and no sooner was the general gone, than I set out

in quest of the specific. I did not need to travel far, and returned

to my room prepared for the next fit; when I felt it coming on, I

swallowed the dose with the greatest confidence in its virtues, and

however strange it may appear, or hard to be accounted for, I never

had a fit of the ague after, but got well rapidly, and was soon fit

to march for the purpose of joining my regiment, which I overtook at

Pollos. They had been quartered for some weeks in a village on the

frontiers, from whence they advanced, and having passed Salamanca,

were now in this place, which was situated on a rising ground on the

bank of the river Douro, our army occupying the one side, and the

French the other.

In this place we were in the habit of turning out of the town during

the night, and lying under arms in the field; in the day we occupied

the village, still wearing our accoutrements. Fuel was uncommonly

scarce; the inhabitants in the best of times, having only the

prunings of their vines for that purpose, and we were obliged to cook

our victuals with stubble. While here there was an understanding, I

believe, between both armies, that each should have the use of the

river without molestation, and our men and the French used to swim in

it promiscuously, mixing together, and at times bringing brandy and

wine with them, for the purpose of treating each other; but though

thus friendly to our men, the French soldiers studiously avoided

coming near the Portuguese, whom they knew by the dark colour of

their skin. This friendly feeling between our soldiers and the French

was remarkably displayed during the whole war, whenever we were

brought in position close to each other, or either party were taken

prisoners, and it could only be accounted for by the respect excited

by the bravery of each nation, and a similar generosity of sentiment,

for in this the French were not deficient. How different were our

feelings in this respect from many of our countrymen at home, whose

ideas of the French character were drawn from servile newspapers

and pamphlets, or even from so low a source as the caricatures in

print shops; but I myself must confess, in common with many others,

that I was astonished when I came in contact with French soldiers,

to find them, instead of pigmy, spider-shanked wretches, who fed on

nothing but frogs and beef tea, stout, handsome-looking fellows, who

understood the principles of good living, as well as any Englishman

amongst us; and whatever may be said to the contrary, remarkably

brave soldiers.

During the time we lay in this position, a German belonging to our

band deserted to the enemy, taking with him a horse and two mules; he

had taken them down to the river to drink, and led them through to

the opposite side, in the face of both armies; when he reached the

opposite bank, the French lifted him on their shoulders, and leading

the cattle behind him, carried him up to their camp in triumph,

cheering all the way.

From this place, in consequence of orders to that effect, we retired

upon Salamanca, followed by the enemy, and took up our position

about a mile and a half from that town, on the right bank of the

river Tormes, where we lay until the 22d July. On the evening of the

21st it came on a dreadful storm of thunder and lightning, which so

terrified the horses and mules, who were fastened to stakes in the

camp, that they broke loose and ran about in every direction, causing

great confusion.

On the morning of the 22d, having re-crossed the Tormes, we took up

our position in front of Salamanca, behind the village of Aldea Teja.

The enemy, who had manœuvred during the forenoon, about two o’clock

began to extend their left, and moved forward on our position,

which was now taken up,—the seventh division on the right, the

fourth and fifth in the centre, while the first and light divisions

on our left were opposed to the enemy’s right, and were, with the

fifth division, in reserve. The attack commenced by our division,

in four columns, moving forward, supported by a body of cavalry,

to turn the enemy’s left: we were led on by General Packenham,

(General Picton having gone to the rear sick a few days before,) and

completely succeeded; for having formed across the enemy’s flank,

we advanced under a heavy fire from their artillery, overthrowing

every thing before us. The fifth regiment, in attacking a body of

infantry posted on a small height, were furiously charged by the

enemy’s cavalry, and thrown into some confusion: but ours coming

up in time, not only routed them, but cut off the retreat of their

infantry, who were taken prisoners, many of them dreadfully wounded

by our dragoons, some having their arms hanging by a shred of flesh

and skin, and others with hideous gashes in their faces. In this

manner driving in their left, we came in front of where our artillery

were playing on the enemy; but no time was lost, for by marching

past in open column, they continued to fire without interruption,

sending their shot through the intervals between each company,

without doing us any injury, although it created rather unpleasant

sensations to hear it whistling past us. The enemy’s shot and shell

were now making dreadful havoc. A Portuguese cadet who was attached

to our regiment, received a shell in the centre of his body, which,

bursting at the same instant, literally blew him to pieces. Another

poor fellow receiving a grape shot across his belly, his bowels

protruded, and he was obliged to apply both his hands to the wound

to keep them in; I shall never forget the expression of agony

depicted in his countenance. These were remarkable cases, but the

men were now falling thick on every side. During the time we were

thus successfully engaged, the fourth and fifth divisions advanced

on the enemy’s centre, supported by Sir Stapleton Cotton’s cavalry,

and drove them from one position after another with great slaughter;

but they were in some measure retarded in their progress by a fresh

body of troops being pushed forward on their left, from a height

which the enemy had continued to hold in spite of the efforts of a

brigade of our troops under General Pack. This accession of force

was so powerful, that the fourth division was now brought up, and

success was restored; but the enemy’s right, which was reinforced by

those who had fled from the left, and who had occupied the heights

above-mentioned, still made a stand; the first and light divisions

now had their turn of the battle, and attacking them with determined

vigour, in a short time succeeded in turning their right. The flanks

being now turned, the centre was attacked by the sixth division,

supported by ours and the fourth; but the enemy made a brave and most

determined resistance, and it was dark before the point was carried.

The French then broke up in great confusion, and fled through the

woods towards the fords of the Tormes, pursued by the cavalry and

first and light divisions, as long as any of them could be found

together. Next morning the pursuit was renewed at daybreak by the

same troops, who, having crossed the Tormes, came up with the enemy’s

rear-guard of cavalry and infantry; they were immediately attacked

by our dragoons, and the French cavalry fled, leaving the infantry

unprotected, who were charged by the heavy cavalry of our German

legion, and the whole body, consisting of three battalions, were

taken prisoners.

During the battle, the Spanish army, under Don Carlos d’Espagne, had

remained at a respectable distance on a height in our rear without

having been engaged; they seemed to be perfectly contented with

seeing us fighting for their country, without having a hand in it

themselves; and when we were successful, they threw up their caps in

the air, and cheered as heartily as if they had earned the victory;

they had only one or two men wounded of their whole army, while ours

lost nearly the half of its number in killed and wounded.

In this engagement twenty piece of cannon were taken, several

ammunition waggons, two eagles, and six colours; one general, three

colonels, three lieutenant-colonels, one hundred and thirty officers

of inferior rank, and between six and seven thousand prisoners. Four

generals were killed and General Marmont severely wounded.

The French continuing their retreat, our army, passing Alba de Tormes

and Penaranda, continued their advance towards Madrid, some leagues

from which, there was a severe skirmish between the French cavalry

and some of our German dragoons. The Portuguese cavalry had been

first engaged, but behaving ill, the Germans were obliged to take

their place, and soon retrieved the day. When we passed the village

where the skirmish had taken place, those who had fallen were lying

on the road side, and our attention was drawn particularly to one

of the French cavalry, who had received such a dreadful blow, that

his head was completely cleft through his brass helmet. Passing on,

we encamped about half a league from Madrid on the 11th of August,

and in a short time our camp was filled with the inhabitants who had

come out to see us, and in their own language, welcomed us as their

deliverers. On the 12th, being ordered to march into the town, we

were met by the inhabitants carrying branches of laurel, and playing

on guitars and tambourines; joy beamed on every countenance, the

ladies thronged round the British colours eager to touch them, and

the air was rent with acclamations—‘Viva los Engleses,’ echoed from

every mouth. The windows were hung with embroidered cloth, and filled

with ladies waving their handkerchiefs.

This was a proud day for the British army. Having marched up to the

Placa del Sol, we took up our quarters in a large building; but our

work was not yet finished. The French having fortified the Retiro,

had left a garrison in it, whose outposts were established in the

Prado and botanic garden; but that night a detachment having driven

them in, broke through the wall in several places, and established

themselves in the palace of Retiro, close to the exterior of the

enemy’s works, enclosing the building called La China. Next morning,

the 13th, we were turned out and assembled on the Prado, with scaling

ladders ready to attack the works, when they capitulated, and were

allowed to march out with the honours of war, the officers their

baggage, and soldiers their knapsacks, and surrendered themselves

prisoners.

There was found in the garrison one hundred and eighty-nine piece

of brass cannon, nine hundred barrels of gunpowder, twenty thousand

stand of arms, and considerable magazines of clothing, provisions,

and ammunition, with the eagles of the thirteenth and fifty-first

regiments. Having relieved their guards, they marched out at four

o’clock in the afternoon, two thousand five hundred and six men,

among whom were two colonels, four lieutenant-colonels, twenty-two

captains, and thirty-five subalterns.

We were now peaceably quartered in the town, having time to look

about us and recover from our former fatigues. No place could have

been better adapted for this than Madrid; the air was pure and

healthy; wine, fruit, and provision, good and cheap. Here we had

food for observation in the buildings, institutions, and manners

of the inhabitants, and we ranged about in the environs, and from

one street to another, as if we had been in a new world. Madrid has

been so often described by writers of ability, that it would be

presumption in me to attempt it, even did the limits of this work

allow; but the delightful walks of the Prado, the gardens breathing

perfume—the beautiful fountains—the extensive and picturesque view

from the Segovia gate—the cool and delicious shades on the banks of

the Manzanares—their women—their music and nightly serenades, gave it

to my mind the charm of romance.

During the time we remained in Madrid, our troops were allowed free

access to the museum, in the street Alcala, nearly opposite our

barracks. In it there was a very valuable collection of natural

history, particularly a lump of native gold brought from South

America, which weighed many pounds, some enormous boa constrictors,

and the entire skeleton of a mammoth. This, like the British Museum,

was free to all visitors three or four days a-week.

Several times during our stay in Madrid we were admitted, gratis, to

see the bull fights, the great national amusement of the Spaniards.

The place of these exhibitions was a vast amphitheatre, with three

tiers of boxes ranged along the wall, the roof of the building

projecting so far over as to cover them only, all the rest being

open. In the highest range of these on the shade side, was the king’s

box, gorgeously decorated, those on its right and left being occupied

by the principal nobility. About a dozen seats sloping from the

lowest tier of boxes formed the pit, where the common people were

admitted, and which varied in the price of admission, according to

the degree of shade afforded. In front of the pit was a passage of a

few feet wide, separated from the arena by a barricade between five

and six feet high. The arena or space where the bulls were fought was

of great dimensions; two main passages opened into it through the

barricade, one by which the bulls were drawn off when killed, and the

other by which they entered, communicating with a place where they

were kept previous to the fight, that resembled, in some degree, a

large cage, having spaces between the planks that covered it, where

they goaded and otherwise tormented the animals, to render them more

savage before they entered the arena. But besides these entrances

there were smaller doors opening into the passage, by which the bull

could be driven back into the area, in the event of his leaping the

barricade, this being no unfrequent occurrence.

I only witnessed the sight once. Lord Wellington was present, and sat

in a box on the right of the king’s, the royal box being empty. The

performance commenced by a guard of soldiers marching into the centre

of the arena, forming a circle, and on a signal by beat of drum,

facing outwards, and marching up to the barricade, where, placing

a foot on a step, on the next signal, they vaulted over into the

passage, where they stood during the exhibition. The horseman who was

to attack the bull, now entered, dressed somewhat in the same manner

as our equestrians or rope dancers, armed with a spear, rolled round

with cord to within half an inch of the point, to prevent the wound

which he might give the animal from proving mortal. With him also

entered the men on foot, whose office was to irritate or divert the

attention of the bull from the horseman when in too great danger.

They were dressed in nearly the same style, only carrying different

coloured mantles or cloaks.

The signal was now given for the performance to commence. The footmen

ranged themselves round the barricade, while the horseman, placing

his spear in the rest, remained opposite to, and some distance from,

the door by which the bull was to enter. All being thus prepared, the

door was thrown open—the animal rushed furiously out, his nostrils

dilated, and his eyeballs gleaming fire. A flight of pigeons which

were let off at his head as he entered the arena, irritated him,

and attracted his attention a little; but perceiving the horseman,

he began to roar and paw the ground, and rushed forward upon him.

The horse being urged to a gallop, he was met half-way, and struck

by the spear on the shoulder, and fairly thrown on his hind legs,

bellowing fearfully with the pain of the wound. The horse had now

started aside, and when the animal regained his feet, which he did

almost instantaneously, he was surrounded by the footmen, who,

whenever he made charge at one of them, threw a mantle over his head,

and while he tossed it, and roared to get rid of it, danced round,

planting arrows in his sides and neck filled with crackers, which,

by the time he got free of the cloak, began to go off, and maddened

him to the utmost degree. His appearance at this time was terrific.

The horseman was now prepared for a second charge, which being made,

the bull was again attacked by the footmen, who often ran imminent

danger, being pushed so closely that they were obliged to leap the

barricade. This alternate attack was continued several times, until

the people being tired, the matador was called for, who entered on

foot without any defence but a small sword. The men on foot still

continued to irritate the animal, until it was roused to the utmost

pitch of madness, when the matador placing himself in its way, in the

midst of one of its most furious attacks, calmly waited its approach.

Seeing the bull close upon him, we expected that the man would be

gored to death—that there was no possibility of his escape. But the

moment the enraged animal came within his reach, he darted the sword,

quick as lightning, between the horns into the back of his neck,

and he fell dead at his feet, without giving a single struggle. The

music now began to play, and amidst the deafening plaudits of the

spectators, six mules, gaily caparisoned, entered, and having their

traces fastened to the dead bull, dragged him from the arena.

Six bulls were thus despatched without much variation in the mode;

but one of them (of Andalusian breed), remarkable for its strength

and fierceness, having been missed by the horseman in his attempt to

strike him, came on so furiously that he had not time to escape, and

the bull running the poor horse up against the barricade, lowered his

head, and bringing up his horns, tore up his belly in such a way,

that part of his bowels protruded at the wound, and hung down to the

ground. The horseman, who had with great agility drawn up his leg,

was now supported from falling by those who were in the passage, his

right leg being jammed in between the horse and the barricade. The

attention of the animal was soon drawn off by the men on foot; and

the man was no sooner released from his dangerous situation, than,

mounting afresh the wounded animal, he endeavoured to push it forward

to another charge, with its bowels trailing on the ground. This

action, which deserved to be execrated as a piece of wanton cruelty,

was lauded to the skies, and cries of ‘Bravo! bravo!’ resounded from

every quarter. But the poor animal only moved a few steps, when it

fell down dead.

The bull was now enraged so much that nothing could divert him from

his purpose, and having followed one of the footmen to the limits of

the arena, fairly leaped the barricade after him. A scene of dreadful

confusion ensued, those in the pit and passage flying in every

direction. The danger was soon over, however, for opening one of

the doors already mentioned, he was driven back into the arena, and

despatched by the matador.

The last bull ushered in was baited by dogs. I do not believe that

many of our men were much captivated with this amusement; it was

rather considered a cruel and disgusting one. I cannot understand how

it is so much encouraged in Spain, unless it be to serve the same

purpose that we pay boxers to murder each other, namely, to keep up

the national courage.

I have known some of those ‘bruising’ fellows in the army,—indeed

every regiment has its ‘bully;’ but although they were always forward

enough to abuse and tyrannize over their fellow-soldiers, who were

not of the ‘fancy,’ I never knew one of them that displayed even

ordinary courage in the field; and it was invariably by fellows of

this description that outrages, such as those perpetrated at Badajos,

were committed.

While in Madrid, one of their state prisoners was executed for

treason: I do not remember his rank or name, but the mode of

execution was so singular, that it may be worth describing.

On the day appointed for his execution, a scaffold was raised in the

Placa Real, or Royal Square. In the centre of this platform there

was fixed an apparatus, resembling a chair, only, in place of the

usual back, there was an upright stake; to this there was fastened an

iron collar, which, by means of a screw behind, could be tightened

or relaxed at pleasure. A vast concourse of people had assembled

to see the criminal suffer. He was led to the place of execution

on an ass, having his arms pinioned, a crucifix in his hand, and

surrounded by priests. On mounting the scaffold, he was placed on

the seat already described, bound firmly down, and the priest took

his place in front of him, with a crucifix in his hand, and from his

violent gesticulations, seemed to be exhorting him very earnestly.

This ceremony finished, the garotte or collar was placed about his

neck, and his face covered. The executioner stood prepared, and on

the signal being given, as far as I recollect, one wrench did the

business, having completely flattened his neck. In this situation

he remained a considerable time, when the body was removed, and the

crowd dispersed.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] Poor English Boy

CHAPTER VI.

About the 24th of October, we marched from Madrid to Pinto, a

distance of about three leagues; in consequence of the enemy

advancing in great force in that direction. Here we remained until

the 30th, when we were ordered to retreat upon Madrid, and passed our

pontoons burning on the road side, having been set on fire to prevent

them falling into the hands of the enemy.

We supposed at first that we would again occupy Madrid, but when we

came in sight of it the Retiro was in flames, and we could hear the

report of cannon, which proceeded from the brass guns in the fort

being turned on each other for the purpose of rendering them useless

to the enemy; the stores of provision and clothing which we had

previously taken were also burned, and every preparation made for

evacuating the place. The staff-officers were galloping about giving

directions to the different divisions concerning their route; the

inhabitants whom we met on the road were in evident consternation,

and every thing indicated an unexpected and hurried retreat: instead,

therefore, of entering the city, we passed to the left of it. The

enemy’s cavalry by this time being close on our rear, and before ours

had evacuated the town on the one side, the French had entered it on

the other. We marched about a league past Madrid, when we encamped

for the night; but next morning we proceeded on our retreat, nor

halted until we reached Salamanca, having the enemy encamped close on

our rear every night.

The French having taken up nearly the same position they had occupied

on the 22d of July, on the afternoon of the 15th November we turned

out of the town, and forming on nearly our old ground, expected an

immediate engagement. We had been so much harassed in retreating from

Madrid in the severe weather, that we felt much more inclination

to fight than to go farther, but we were disappointed; and after

performing some evolutions, we filed off on the road leading to

Roderigo, and commenced retreating as night was setting in. I never

saw the troops in such a bad humour.

Retreating before the enemy at any time was a grievous business,

but in such weather it was doubly so; the rain, now pouring down in

torrents, drenched us to the skin, and the road, composed of a clay

soil, stuck to our shoes so fast, that they were torn off our feet.

The night was dismally dark, the cold wind blew in heavy gusts, and

the roads became gradually worse. After marching in this state for

several hours, we halted in a field on the road side, and having

piled our arms, were allowed to dispose ourselves to rest as we best

could. The moon was now up, and wading through the dense masses of

clouds, she sometimes threw a momentary gleam on the miserable beings

who were huddled together in every variety of posture, endeavouring

to rest or screen themselves from the cold. Some were lying stretched

on the wet ground rolled in still wetter blankets, more having placed

their knapsack on a stone, or their wooden canteen, had seated

themselves on it with their blankets wrapped about them, their head

reclining on their knees, and their teeth chattering with cold;

while others more resolute and wise, were walking briskly about. Few

words were spoken, and as if ashamed to complain of the hardships we

suffered, execrating the retreat, and blaming Lord Wellington for not

having sufficient confidence in us to hazard a battle with the enemy,

under any circumstances, were the only topics discussed.

A considerable time before daylight we were again ordered to fall

in, and proceeded on our retreat. The rain still continued to fall,

and the roads were knee deep. Many men got fatigued and unable to

proceed. Some spring waggons were kept in the rear to bring them up,

but the number increased so fast that there was soon no conveyance

for them; and as we formed the rear guard, they soon fell into the

hands of the French cavalry, who hung on our rear during the whole

retreat. When we came to our halting ground, the same accommodation

awaited us as on the preceding evening. By some mismanagement the

commissary stores had been sent on with the rest of the baggage to

Roderigo, and we were without food. The feeling of hunger was very

severe. Some beef that had remained with the division was served

out to us, but our attempts to kindle fires with wet wood was quite

abortive. Sometimes, indeed, we managed to raise a smoke, and numbers

gathered round, in the vain hope of getting themselves warmed,

but the fire would extinguish in spite of all their efforts. Our

situation was truly distressing; tormented by hunger, wet to the

skin, and fatigued in the extreme, our reflections were bitter; the

comfortable homes and firesides which we had left were now recalled

to mind, and contrasted with our present miserable situation; and

during that night many a tear of repentance and regret fell from

eyes, ‘unused to the melting mood.’

About the same hour as on the preceding morning, we again fell in

and marched off, but the effects of hunger and fatigue were now

more visible. A savage sort of desperation had taken possession

of our minds, and those who had lived on the most friendly terms

in happier times, now quarrelled with each other, using the most

frightful imprecations on the slightest offence. All former feeling

of friendship was stifled, and a misanthropic spirit took possession

of every bosom. The streams which fell from the hills were swelled

into rivers, which we had to wade, and vast numbers fell out, among

whom were officers, who, having been subject to the same privation,

were reduced to the most abject misery.

It was piteous to see some of the men, who had dragged their limbs

after them with determined spirit until their strength failed, fall

down amongst the mud, unable to proceed farther; and as they were

sure of being taken prisoners, if they escaped being trampled to

death by the enemy’s cavalry, the despairing farewell look that the

poor fellows gave us when they saw us pass on, would have pierced

our hearts at any other time; but our feelings were steeled, and

so helpless had we become, that we had no power to assist, even

had we felt the inclination to do so. Among the rest, one instance

was so distressing, that no one could behold it unmoved. The wife

of a young man, who had endeavoured to be present with her husband

on every occasion, if possible, having kept up with us amidst all

our sufferings from Salamanca, was at length so overcome by fatigue

and want, that she could go no farther. For some distance, with the

assistance of her husband’s arm, she had managed to drag her weary

limbs along, but at length she became so exhausted, that she stood

still unable to move. Her husband was allowed to fall out with her,

for the purpose of getting her into one of the spring waggons, but

when they came up, they were already loaded in such a manner that

she could not be admitted, and numbers in the same predicament were

left lying on the road side. The poor fellow was now in a dreadful

dilemma, being necessitated either to leave her to the mercy of the

French soldiers, or by remaining with her to be taken prisoner, and

even then perhaps be unable to protect her. The alternative either

way was heart-rending; but there was no time to lose,—the French

cavalry were close upon them. In despairing accents she begged him

not to leave her, and at one time he had taken the resolution to

remain; but the fear of being considered as a deserter urged him to

proceed, and with feelings easier imagined than described, he left

her to her fate, and never saw her again; but many a time afterwards

did he deprecate his conduct on that occasion, and the recollection

of it embittered his life.

On this night the rain had somewhat abated, but the cold was

excessive, and numbers who had resisted the effects of the hunger

and fatigue with a hardy spirit, were now obliged to give way to its

overpowering influence, and sunk to the ground praying for death to

relieve them from their misery; and some prayed not in vain, for

next morning before daylight, in passing from our halting ground to

the road, we stumbled over several who had died during the night.

Inadvertently I set my foot on one of them, and stooped down to

ascertain whether the individual was really dead, and I shall never

forget the sickening thrill that went to my heart, when my hand came

in contact with his cold and clammy face. On this day our hearts

seemed to have wholly failed us: to speak was a burden, and the most

helpless weakness pervaded every individual; we had now arrived

at that pitch of misery which levels all distinction of rank, and

I believe no order would have been obeyed unless that which was

prompted by regard to the common safety.

Dennis, round whom there used to be gathered a host of his comrades,

listening to his witticisms or quaint remarks, and whose spirits I

had never known to fail, was now crest-fallen, and moved along with

the greatest difficulty. Nothing but death, however, could altogether

keep down his buoyant spirits; for if we got a minute’s halt

during the march, he made such ludicrous remarks on the wo-begone

countenances of himself or his companions, that, although the effort

was distressing, they were obliged to smile in spite of their misery.

This day we halted sooner than usual, and the weather being clearer,

we got fires kindled,—still no rations; but we were encamped among

oak trees, and greedily devoured the acorns which grew upon them,

although nauseous in the extreme, the officer commanding the brigade

and our colonel joining in the repast. In many respects the officers

were in a worse situation than the men, not having anything to change

themselves, as their baggage had been sent on before us.

If anything could have given us comfort in our miserable situation,

it was having a kind and sympathising commanding officer: he made

many of the weakly men throw away their knapsacks, and by every means

in his power he endeavoured to infuse comfort and courage into their

sinking hearts, braving every difficulty in common with the meanest

individual, and even rejected the superior accommodation which his

rank afforded, while he saw the men suffering. It was in a situation

like this where true greatness of mind could be displayed; and there

must have been something innately great and noble in the mind which

could thus rise superior even to nature. In my opinion, a much

greater degree of real courage was necessary to brave the horrors of

this retreat, than to face the fire of a battery.

During the night our situation was worse than in the day, for

there was then nothing to divert our attention from our wretched

state; and although we despaired of ever seeing it, we felt that

indescribable longing after home, which every one must have felt in

the same situation. It will be needless to detail our next day’s

sufferings—they were of the same nature as the preceding, only more

aggravated.

We were now drawing near Roderigo, where our baggage had been

ordered; each day our hopes had been kept alive in the expectation

that we would find provision at our halting place, but we were

deceived. Now, however, these expectations were more likely to be

realised. About dusk we took up our ground on the face of a hill near

Roderigo, and the weather changing to a severe frost, was intensely

cold. We had not been long halted when the well known summons of

‘Turn out for biscuit,’ rung in our ears. The whole camp was soon in

a bustle, and some of the strongest having gone for it, they received

two days’ rations for each man. It was customary to divide it, but

on this night it was dispensed with, and each eagerly seizing on

what he could get, endeavoured to allay the dreadful gnawing which

had tormented us during four days of unexampled cold and fatigue. In

a short time, two rations more were delivered, and the inordinate

eating that ensued threatened to do more mischief than the former

want. We went into quarters next day, and many who had borne up

during the retreat now fell sick, and were sent to the hospital.

From this place we removed in a few days some way into Portugal,

where we took up our winter quarters in a small village, called Fonte

Arcada.

CHAPTER VII.

Fonte Arcada, in which our regiment was quartered, (the remainder

of the division being distributed in the surrounding villages,) was

situated on the face of a hill, which formed one of an extensive

range; at its foot ran one of the tributary streams of the Douro,

meandering through a fertile and tolerably well cultivated valley.

The village itself was built on a bare and rugged mass of rock,

and the frowning ledge that hung over the town gave it a wild and

romantic air. The place had not escaped the ravages of war, but being

more out of the common route, it had suffered little in comparison to

others. The houses had rather a mean appearance, with the exception

of three or four belonging to fidalgos, who resided in the village;

but the situation was healthy. And after we had cleaned it, (which

we had to do with every Portuguese village before we could inhabit

them,) we felt ourselves very comfortable, and soon forgot our former

fatigue, which we did the readier, that we had now a commanding

officer who interested himself warmly in our welfare.

Lieutenant-Colonel Lloyd had joined us from the 43d regiment. I have

already had occasion to mention him, in describing the retreat from

Salamanca. No eulogium, however, of mine can convey an idea of his

merits as a man and soldier; but it is deeply engraven on the hearts

of those who served under him.

So harmoniously did he blend the qualities of a brave, active,

intelligent officer with those of the gentleman and the scholar, that

the combination fascinated all ranks. His exterior corresponded with

his mind; he was somewhat above the middle size—and to a face and

head cast in the true Roman mould, was joined an elegant and manly

body. His system of discipline was not coercive; he endeavoured

to encourage, not to terrify—if there was a single spark of pride

or honour in the bosom, he would fan it to a flame. His aim was to

prevent crime rather than to punish it, and he rarely resorted to

corporal punishment. When he did so, it was only in the case of

hardened ill-doers, with whom no lenient measures would succeed; even

then, he never punished to the tenth part of the sentence awarded;

and if the culprit sued for pardon, promising not to be guilty again,

he would say, ‘I take you at your word, and forgive you, but remember

your promise.’

The men’s interests formed his chief study, and the complaint of the

meanest individual was heard and investigated with the strictest

impartiality, without respect to persons. By the measures he took, he

made every individual interested in his own honour and that of the

regiment; and I believe that every man in it loved and honoured him.

So successful were his efforts, that he brought the regiment into a

state of order, cleanliness, and discipline, which could never have

been attained by any other means. He was always the first in danger

and the last out of it; and in camp, he went later to rest, and was

sooner up than the meanest individual composing his corps.

He was a native of Ireland, (Limerick, I believe,) and a striking

corroboration of the general remark, that where an Irishman is a

gentleman, he is one in the most extensive meaning of the word;

unfettered by cold, calculating selfishness, his noble heart and soul

is seen in every thing he does—such was Colonel Lloyd.

The inhabitants here were similar to those we had met with in other

villages in Portugal,—sunk in ignorance, dirt, and superstition; and

although some of the fidalgos boasted that the blood of Braganza

flowed in their veins, they did not seem to be a whit more refined

or better informed than the plebeians. They were rigid attendants on

all the religious ceremonies of their church, but religion with them

appeared to be a mere habit,—it played on the surface, but did not

reach the heart. When the bell rang at stated periods for prayers,

each rosary was put in requisition; but this did not interrupt the

conversation—they managed to pray and converse at the same time.

As bigotry is always the attendant of ignorance, they were no way

liberal in their opinions concerning us; and so contaminated did they

consider us by heresy, that they would not drink out of the same

vessel. But, to tell the truth, I believe they did not understand the

principles of the religion they professed, and the ‘Padre Cura’ of

the village (a gross and unspiritual looking piece of furniture) did

not seem much qualified to inform them.

We remained here near six months, during which vigorous preparations

were made for the ensuing campaign, but little occurred interesting

or worth recording while quartered in the village, with the exception

of a love affair in which my friend Henry was engaged, which is so

tinged with romance that I could scarcely expect credence to the

detail, were it not that all who were then present with the regiment

can vouch for its truth. Henry, whose warm heart and romantic

imagination often produced him remarkable adventures, here fell

deeply in love. In fact, his head was so stuffed with the machinery

and plots of novels and romances, that his heart, as Burns expresses

it, ‘was like a piece of tinder ready to burst forth into a flame,

from the first casual spark that might fall upon it.’ Fortune,

however, had as yet guarded it from any such accident, and reserved

for winter quarters and quieter times, the shaft which was to destroy

his peace.

He had by dint of application to the principles of the language,

and a talent for acquiring it, gained a tolerable knowledge of the

Portuguese, and at this time he held a situation which exempted him

in a degree from military duty, and left him time to associate with

some of the inhabitants who were fond of his conversation, and felt

friendly towards him. It was by this means he became acquainted with

a female whose charms had captivated him. She was niece to one

of the principal inhabitants, and about fifteen or sixteen years

of age. In her he imagined he had found the long cherished ideal

mistress of his soul, on whom he had lavished more accomplishments

and perfections than would have made an angel in our degenerate

days. I was, of course, his confidant, and certainly, of all I had

ever heard or read of love’s extravagance, I witnessed it in him.

He could neither eat nor sleep; every spare moment that he had was

spent on a small eminence opposite the house where she lived, gazing

at the windows, in hopes to catch a glance at her; here he would

sit luxuriating in all the wild uncertainty of hope, anticipation,

and despair, which lovers commonly indulge in, and although his

familiarity with the family might have gained him access to her

company any time he pleased, he grew diffident of visiting them, and

even shrunk from the idea of speaking to herself on the subject. He

poured all his doubts and hopes in my ear, and he could not have

found one to whom they were more interesting. Of the same romantic

temperament, I shared in all his sensations. Seeing the state of mind

in which he was placed by his violent attachment, I recommended him

strongly that he should endeavour to gain an interview, and speak

to her on the subject; but he considered this impracticable, as the

sight of her never failed to agitate him in such a manner, that it

robbed him of all power of utterance. Thus situated, and willing

to render my friend a service, through my interest with a family

whom she was in the habit of visiting, I brought about an interview

between the parties; and here, for the first time, I saw Maria. She

was certainly a very pretty, good-humoured, lively girl, but in my

opinion very far indeed from the paragon of perfection which Henry

was inclined to think her; but I felt not the magic influence of

that power, which, like the philosopher’s stone, can transmute the

baser metals into gold. Little satisfaction accrued to Henry from

this meeting, but it subsequently led to others in which the parties

came to a mutual explanation, and he had reason to hope that he

was not regarded by her with indifference. From this time their

interviews were more frequent and less guarded; and visiting her aunt

frequently, although he could not converse freely with Maria, still

their eyes, which ‘looked unutterable things,’ were not sufficiently

restrained, and the old lady began to suspect the truth; the tattle

of the village confirmed her suspicions, and she forbade Henry the

house. They had a few stolen meetings at her friend’s in the village,

but this also was discovered, and Maria was prohibited from leaving

the house unattended.

I am almost persuaded that had affairs gone on smoothly, Henry

would have come to his senses, and the attachment would have died a

natural death. But these obstacles only served to increase his ardour

and perseverance; for so well was Maria now guarded, that there

was no possibility of seeing her. In this dilemma, he determined

on applying to Donna Anna, the girl’s aunt; from this application

he had but little to hope, yet still he could lose nothing. Having

thus resolved, he went boldly into the house, and without speaking

to any one, lest they might frustrate his purpose, he traversed the

passages, until he perceived Donna Anna in one of the apartments

alone, employed at her distaff. He entered, his heart fluttering with

suspense; and after apologizing for his rudeness in thus intruding

upon her, he proceeded to declare his love to Maria, and to beg her

acquiescence to their union. The old lady seemed thunderstruck at

his presumption, yet still Henry had so qualified his address to

her, that she had no good reason to be angry, and after taking a few

minutes to recollect herself, she replied, ‘that Maria was already

betrothed to a very deserving young man, a cousin of her own; but

independent of this engagement, she could not give her consent. What

had Maria to expect if she married a soldier of a foreign regiment?

In the midst of war, the soldiers themselves suffered much, but those

hardships and sufferings must fall heavier on a delicate female who

had never known anything but comfort. No,’ continued she, ‘Maria

has superior expectations. But supposing I considered you a fit

match for her in every other respect, still your religion would be

an insurmountable barrier—to enter into the bonds of matrimony with

a heretic, she might as well ally herself to the devil! I have no

objection to your character, and feel a friendship for you, but I can

never encourage you in your present designs, nor give my consent to a

marriage, that would be productive of misery to at least one, if not

to both parties.’

The calm and decided tone in which she spoke, convinced Henry that

he had nothing to hope for from her, and his heart grew too big for

utterance. He tried to suppress his feelings, but they were too

strong for him, and he was only relieved from their suffocating

effect by a flood of tears. The Donna’s heart softened to see his

distress, yet she still remained inflexible to her purpose. Maria,

who had seen Henry enter the house, having followed him to the door

of her aunt’s apartment, had overheard the conversation, and now,

seeing her aunt’s back turned towards the door, she watched him

until he raised his eyes, when giving him a sign which infused new

hope into his mind, she retired. Henry now took his leave without

enforcing his suit any farther. I had been waiting his return, and

when he told me the result of his visit, I encouraged him to hope

that all might yet be well.

During the day he received a message by a Portuguese boy, who was

servant with one of our officers, informing him that she was so

closely watched, that there was no hope of her being able to see

him, unless he could manage to get over the garden wall, which was

exceedingly high; if so, that she would meet him that night. Having

returned an answer that she might expect him, he called upon me; we

reconnoitred the garden wall, and having noted where there was a

ladder, and procured a rope which was intended for our descent, after

waiting anxiously until within half an hour of the appointed time, we

proceeded to the place where we intended to effect our escalade. The

inhabitants having retired to rest, and the village silent, we got

over without difficulty. We had waited for some time at the head of

one of the side walks (the place appointed) concealed by the bushes,

when we heard the gentle sound of footsteps. We did not move from

our hiding place until the appointed signal was given, when in an

instant, they were in each other’s arms.

Where the heart is pure, I am led to believe, that the zest of love

is the higher, the lower the station of the lovers. No fictitious

refinement interferes to check the cup of joy: so it was in the

present instance. Still, however, our situation was perilous, and I

urged the necessity of forming some plan to bring about the desired

purpose; but their hearts were too much fluttered with joy and hope,

uncertainty and fear, to make the necessary arrangements, and they

parted hurriedly without doing more than appointing a second meeting.

The appointed time again arrived, and we reached the garden as easily

as before, but Maria did not come for nearly an hour after the time

agreed on, and we were beginning to think some accident had befallen

her, when we heard her steps coming up the walk. She seemed much

disturbed; ‘You would wonder at my delay,’ said she, ‘but I am afraid

they suspect me. My aunt did not retire to rest at the usual hour,

and before she did, she came into my apartment, and held the candle

close to my face, but I pretended to sleep soundly; she then retired,

and I embraced the opportunity of slipping out—but I cannot stay—she

may return to my apartment, and if she does I am undone.’

‘But can we come to no conclusion with regard to what should be

done?’ said I. ‘You have no reason to hope that your aunt will ever

consent to your marriage; therefore your only plan is to escape with

Henry, and get married by the chaplain of the division, before your

friends can prevent it; then, when they find that no better can be

done, there is every reason to believe they will be reconciled to

you.’

‘O it is impossible!’ said she; ‘I know them too well.’

‘Certainly,’ said I, ‘the sacrifice is great, but the alternative

is to bid each other adieu for ever. You must now decide, or we may

never have another opportunity.’

‘I cannot make up my mind to-night,’ said she: ‘I will meet you here

to-morrow night at this hour, determined and ready prepared either to

remain, or make my escape. Now farewell, for I am afraid that I am

discovered.’

So saying, she parted hastily from us, and returned into the house,

leaving poor Henry in no enviable state; his fate hung upon her

decision, she had spoken with uncertainty, and he looked forward to

the next meeting as the die that would determine his future happiness

or misery.

During next day, Henry’s mind was in such a state of uneasiness and

suspense, that I could, with great difficulty, bring him to make

the necessary arrangements in the event of her escaping with him.

It was necessary that he should apply to his commanding officer for

permission to marry; and I advised him to disclose the whole matter

to him, well knowing that such a character as he was would take an

interest in his fate. Henry took my advice, and having called on

Colonel L., disclosed every circumstance connected with the affair.

Colonel L. listened with attention, and seemed much interested.

The story in part was not new to him; he had heard it from some

of the principal inhabitants. He reasoned the matter with Henry

like a father; represented the difficulty which would lie in his

path—marrying a foreigner of a different religion—the hardships she

would have to endure—and the many difficulties which two people,

marrying so young, would have to encounter. ‘But,’ said he, ‘I

suppose all these things appear as trifles to you at present.’

Henry owned that his affection was too deeply rooted to be moved by

these considerations.

‘Well,’ said Colonel L., ‘if you are determined on trying the

experiment, and that she is agreeable, I have no objection to giving

you permission to marry, but I cannot say you have my approbation.’

Henry, however, it may be easily imagined, was not to be moved by

sober reasoning.

The time of meeting arrived, and Henry, trembling with suspense and

apprehension, accompanied me to the garden. We were not long there,

when Maria arrived with a few articles of wearing apparel, which she

had hurriedly collected.

‘Well, Maria,’ said I, ‘have you decided—are you ready to accompany

us?’

‘I don’t know,’ said she, ‘I am so filled with apprehension, that I

cannot think or speak.’

‘Say the word,’ said I, ‘all is ready.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said she. ‘Either let me return into the house,

or let us leave this, or I shall die with fear: I am sure I have been

observed. O Jesu, Maria! there they come—I am lost.’

So saying, she fled down the opposite path, where she was immediately

seized by some of the domestics, who had been mustered for the

purpose of surprising us. There was no time to lose, for resistance

would have been useless; and we too well knew the nature of the

Portuguese, to depend much on their mercy. Hurrying, therefore,

towards the wall, and having assisted Henry, who was rendered nearly

powerless by the effect of his feelings, I made a spring and seized

the top of the wall; Henry was ready to lend me assistance, but

before I could get myself raised to the summit, a sword aimed for my

body, struck the wall so close to my side, that it cut out a piece

of my jacket and shirt. Ere the blow could be repeated, I had fallen

over on the opposite side, carrying Henry with me in my fall. I was

severely hurt—but there was no time to lose, and we knew the alarm

would soon be raised; therefore, having conveyed the ladder to where

we had found it, we hurried to our quarters.

Next day the Portuguese boy brought information to Henry that early

that morning two mules had been brought into the court yard; that

Maria was brought out weeping, and mounted on one, her aunt on the

other, and that two servants, armed, had accompanied them; he

was not allowed to follow them, and therefore could not tell what

direction they had taken, but Maria had whispered to him, to give

Henry her last farewell, for she never expected to see him again, as

she was ignorant of where they were taking her. When Henry received

this information, distracted with a thousand contending emotions,

among which despair was predominant, he seized a bayonet, and rushed

bare-headed from his quarters, traversed one road after another in

search of her, making inquiry of every person whom he met, if they

had seen her,—but she had been some hours gone. After travelling

about from one place to another in this distracted state, and being

taken for a madman by all who met him, worn out by the violence of

his feelings, he became calm, and returned home in the dusk of the

evening; but it was a calm produced by one master feeling having

swallowed up the rest; despair had now taken possession of his

mind—‘The stricken bosom that can sigh, no mortal arrow bears.’ He

walked into his apartment, and having taken up a musket, and loaded

it, he placed the muzzle against his head, and was in the act of

putting his foot on the trigger, when a soldier happened to enter,

and seizing him, arrested the rash deed.

I had been placed on guard that morning, nor did I know anything of

what had occurred, until Henry was brought to the guard-house, where

he was ordered to be particularly watched. I went over to speak

to him, but he looked at me with a vacant stare, nor did he seem

conscious of what I said. Sitting down in a corner, he remained with

his eyes fixed on the floor for some time, then rising, he walked

about with a hurried pace, while his countenance showed the burning

fever of his mind; a fit of tenderness succeeded, and he raved of all

that had happened, which I only could understand. To me it was a most

affecting scene, for I had no hope that his reason would return, and

I contemplated the wreck of his mind, as one would do the destruction

of all that was dear to him. I watched him attentively during the

night, and towards morning nature became so far exhausted, that he

fell into a confused slumber. When he awoke, the naked reality of his

situation struck him intensely. He perceived me, and stretching out

his hand, he burst into tears. In broken accents he informed me of

the death of all his hopes; but his mind was unstrung—he could not

think connectedly.

At this time he was sent for to attend at the colonel’s lodgings.

The noble character of our commanding officer was particularly shown

in the sympathy and concern which he evinced for the unfortunate

Henry; he entered into all his feelings, and alternately soothed and

reasoned with him, until he had brought him to a calmer state of

mind; then after expressing the kindest solicitude for his welfare,

he dismissed him to his quarters, telling him at the same time, that

he would use his interest to gain the consent of her relations to

the match, and that nothing should be wanting on his part to bring

the affair to a happy conclusion. This, in some measure, restored

the balm of hope to Henry’s mind; but, alas! it was only a temporary

relief, for although Colonel L. faithfully kept his promise, and

several of the officers who were on good terms with the family used

their utmost endeavours in his behalf, it was all to no purpose,—the

more they pressed, the more obstinate they became.

Things were in this state when he unexpectedly received a message

from Maria, informing him that she was closely confined in the house

of a gentleman (who was a relative of her aunt,) about nine miles

from the town; from the manner in which she was guarded, she had no

hope of being able to make her escape, for there were people employed

to watch the avenues to the house, with orders if he approached it

to show him no mercy; that she saw little use in giving him this

information, but she could not resist the opportunity which had

presented itself, of letting him know where she was. Henry gave way

to the most entrancing anticipations on receiving this information;

but when he communicated it to me, I considered the subject in a

different light. I saw that it was more likely to keep alive the

commotion of a passion which there was little hope of ever arriving

at its object; I knew the attempt to go to the house would be

pregnant with danger, still I felt inclined to assist him in another

determinate effort to carry off the prize.

Henry called on Colonel L. for the purpose of procuring a pass. When

he communicated his intention, he not only gave him the pass, but

also a letter to the gentleman of the house where Maria was, (with

whom he was well acquainted,) to serve as an introduction. Thus

prepared, Henry and I, in company with the boy already mentioned,

set forward after it was dark towards the place, taking a by-road.

When we reached the house, we left the boy outside, as he was known

to the family, and entering, presented the letter from Colonel L. We

were kindly received; and as it was late, the gentleman insisted on

us stopping all night—so far all was well. We had been about an hour

in the house when Maria happened to come down stairs: she knew us

immediately, but concealed her emotions, and coming near the fire,

she watched an opportunity until the servants were engaged about the

house, and then whispering to us, asked our motive in coming there.

‘If they know you,’ said she, ‘your lives are not safe.’

I told her that our motive was by some means to endeavour to effect

her escape; she replied, it was utterly impossible, she was too well

guarded. ‘Farewell, Henry,’ said she, ‘farewell for ever, for I

believe I will never see you again; it would have been happy for us

both if we had never seen each other.’

At this moment a female servant of Donna Anna’s, who had accompanied

Maria, came to speak to her, and recognizing Henry, she flew

up stairs. Maria saw that we were discovered, and she cried to

us, ‘Fly for your lives!’ The whole family collected, were now

descending the stairs, and Maria was hurried up to her room. The

old lady of the house assailed us with the most abusive epithets,

the men-servants gathered in, and every thing wore a hostile

appearance. The gentleman, however, to whom the letter was directed,

commanded silence, and addressing us, ‘I do not presume to say what

your intentions may be towards my ward, but being convinced of the

identity of the individual who has already caused us so much trouble,

I am forced, even against the laws of hospitality, to retract my

request of you to remain here to-night, and for the safety of those

committed to my charge, I must insist on you returning immediately

to your quarters. If you have come here for the purpose of decoying

Maria from this house, I can tell you that whatever inclination she

once might have felt for this foolish young man, she is now better

advised, and does not wish to be troubled with him any more.’

‘Let me hear that from her own lips,’ cried Henry in a frenzied tone,

‘and I will give my word that I shall never trouble her again.’

A short consultation was held by the family, and after some minutes

delay, Maria was brought down stairs trembling and weeping. But all

their endeavours could not force her to repeat the words which they

wished her to say. At length, Henry, as if inspired with more than

his natural energy, exclaimed, ‘I find that every fresh effort of

mine only causes you additional restraint and mortification. I must

now cease to hope—they have cruelly parted us in this world, Maria,

but we may yet meet. Suffer me,’ said he, ‘to take a last farewell,

and I will trouble you no more.’

This was spoken with such an impassioned voice and gesture, that it

had a visible effect on those around. Maria, who had been restrained

by the lady of the house, now broke from her, and fell into Henry’s

arms. While he pressed her to his bosom, a new spirit seemed to

animate him—his eyes brightened—and putting his hand into his breast,

where he had a pistol concealed, ‘Let us carry her off, Joseph,’ said

he to me in English, ‘or die in the attempt.’

‘Then you will die before you reach the door,’ said I; for the house

was now filled with the retainers of the family; and as if they

suspected his purpose, Maria was torn shrieking from his arms.

Afraid that he might be induced to commit some rash act, I hurried

him out of the house, and we returned home. I endeavoured to lead him

into conversation, but he appeared not to hear me, nor did he speak a

word during the journey; he evinced no feeling of any kind—his mind

seemed to be in a state of the utmost confusion.

Next morning the Portuguese boy brought him intelligence that Maria

had passed through the village very early, escorted by her relations,

on her way to a nunnery, about three leagues distant, where she was

destined to remain until our army advanced.

This took place in a few days after, and they never met again.

Henry’s mind had been strained far beyond its pitch—it was now

unnerved—and he fell into a state of listless melancholy from which

he did not recover for many months.

CHAPTER VIII.

During the time the army were in winter quarters, great preparations

were made for the campaign which was about to open, and we could

now muster an army of about one hundred and thirty thousand men,

namely, forty thousand British, twenty thousand Portuguese, and

seventy thousand Spaniards,—the two former in the highest state

of discipline, well clothed, and provided with stores of every

description. The old camp-kettles, that were formerly carried on

mules, were exchanged for lighter ones, which the men could carry on

the top of their knapsacks; and the mules now carried tents, which we

had not been provided with prior to this period. In fact, the whole

arrangements made reflected the highest honour on Lord Wellington.

The army commenced its advance on the 13th May, 1813, in three

columns. The second division, commanded by General Hill, formed the

right, which was destined to advance along the line of the Tagus.

The centre column, consisting of the fourth, sixth, seventh, and

light divisions, under the immediate command of Lord Wellington, to

advance by Salamanca. The left, consisting of the first, third, and

fifth divisions, under the command of General Graham, to advance

direct through Portugal, taking the line of Benevente for Burgos, and

to be supported on the left by the Gallician army. The centre column

came up with the French on the 26th May, and in a skirmish with their

rear guard, took two hundred prisoners. A junction was here formed

with General Hill, extending the line from the Tormes to the Douro.

The left, to which our division belonged, passed the Elsa at Miranda

de Douro on the 31st May, Lord Wellington being present, and advanced

upon Zamora, when the French fell back upon Toro. Passing Valladolid,

we continued our march upon Burgos, which the enemy evacuated on

the 13th of June, having first blown up the works; thirty of the

garrison perished by the explosion. The retreat of the French had

been so rapid during this time, that our marches were often very

severe, which, together with the heat of the weather, and occasional

scarcity of water, caused many to get fatigued, and unable to keep

up with their regiment. Here again the conduct of Colonel Lloyd was

remarkable. By every means in his power he encouraged and assisted

those who were weakly, taking their knapsacks from them and carrying

them on his own horse; sometimes having half a dozen on it, and a

man sitting above all, while he walked on foot at the head of his

regiment, in the most difficult parts of the road—at the same time,

inducing the other officers to follow his example. Often when he saw

an individual failing, through want of strength, he has taken off his

liquor flask and given it to the poor fellow to drink, saying, ‘Don’t

let your spirits down, my man; you will soon get strength, and be

able to keep up with the best of them; none of them shall have to say

that you fell to the rear.’

He had a most extensive and thorough knowledge of his profession,

added to an acquaintance with most of the European languages. When

he came into camp he was never a moment idle, either reconnoitreing

the enemy’s position, or drawing charts of the roads, &c. He scarcely

allowed himself to rest, and was always up an hour or two before

the bugle sounded; but he would never allow the men to be disturbed

before the proper time. ‘No,’ said he, ‘let the poor fellows get all

the rest they can.’ _But then_ he expected them to be alert; officers

and men, without distinction, were obliged to be in their respective

places at once without delay—all his motions were double-quick—and he

detested nothing so much as laziness.

General Picton, who had joined from England a considerable time

before, again commanded the division. To judge from appearance, no

one would have suspected him of humour; yet he often indulged in

it: his wit was generally, however, of the satirical kind. On this

advance, a man belonging to one of the regiments of the brigade who

was remarkable for his mean, pilfering disposition, had on some

pretence lingered behind his regiment when they marched out to the

assembling ground, and was prowling about from one house to another

in search of plunder. General Picton, who was passing through,

happened to cast his eye upon him, and called out, ‘What are you

doing there, sir? Why are you behind your regiment?’ The man, who

did not expect to see the general in the village, had not an answer

very ready, but he stammered out an excuse, saying, ‘I came back to

the house where I was quartered to look for my gallowses,’ (braces.)

‘Ay, I see how it is,’ replied the general; ‘get along, sir, to your

division, and take my advice—always keep the word _gallows_ in your

mind.’

Having crossed the Ebro on the 16th, Lord Wellington took up his

quarters a few leagues from Vittoria; and on the 19th we came up with

the French, who had taken a position in front of that town, their

left posted on a range of heights. Our army having closed up on the

20th, on the morning of the 21st, General Hill’s division commenced

the battle, by attacking their left on the heights of Puebla, and

succeeded, after a most desperate and sanguinary contest, in gaining

possession of them. When we descended the hill towards the river,

the second division was warmly engaged, and the French commenced

cannonading us from a small white village in front of Vittoria, where

they had part of their army stationed. There was a brigade of our

guns directing their fire towards this place when we were crossing

the river along with the seventh division. Our attention was drawn

to a young artillery officer who was with them, and who seemed to

be very much frightened; for every time that either our own or the

French guns fired, he ducked to the ground. Some of the men felt

inclined to make game of him; but it only showed that fighting needs

practice before people can take things easy. It is likely that it

was the first time he had been engaged, and I have no doubt but he

would eventually get the better of that custom. Those who have not

known it by experience, can form no idea of the indifference with

which our soldiers entered a battle after being some time in the

Peninsula. As an instance of this, we were at one time lying opposite

to the enemy, in daily expectation of being engaged. One of our men,

(a Highlandman,) having lost the small piece of ornamented leather

which is worn in front of the uniform cap, on taking off his hat for

some purpose, the deficiency caught his eye, and, looking at it for a

few moments, he said, very seriously, ‘I wish to God there may be an

engagement to-day, till I get a rosette for my cap.’

After crossing the river, our division advanced in two lines upon the

village where their artillery were posted under a tremendous fire,

and succeeded, after an obstinate resistance, in dislodging them. The

fourth and light divisions having also crossed the river, advanced

upon the enemy’s centre. The French had made sure of defeating us

at this point; and it was said that Joseph Buonaparte had erected

a buttress on one of the spires, for the purpose of seeing them

drive us back. But he was doomed to a severe disappointment; for

the second division having succeeded in driving the French off the

heights, they commenced their retreat on the Burgos road, but were

intercepted by General Graham, with the left of our army; and after

losing several villages in succession, which they warmly contested,

they were at length compelled to abandon the main road to France,

(Joseph himself narrowly escaping,) and take the road to Pampeluna,

followed in pursuit by the whole army; and such was their haste,

that they were obliged to abandon all their baggage and guns, with

the exception of one gun and one howitzer. One hundred and fifty-one

cannon, four hundred and fifteen ammunition waggons, one hundred

other waggons, fourteen thousand rounds of ammunition, two million

ball cartridges, and forty thousand pounds of powder, with the

baggage and treasury waggons, said to be worth £630,000, fell into

our hands.

The enemy lost ten thousand killed and wounded, and one thousand

nine hundred prisoners. The loss on our side amounted to about three

thousand killed and wounded.

When we reached the town, passing to the left of it, we found their

baggage to the right of the road, lying in the greatest confusion.

The columns passed on, but some of the stragglers who fell out got

immense sums of money out of the treasury waggons. Few of them

were much the better of it, however. I knew one man who got to the

amount of £2000 here, who was going without shoes before we left the

country. We passed on some distance beyond Vittoria, and encamped;

but many of the men returned that night to the baggage, and got money

and valuables of every description. The camp that night and next day

was like a fair; and the dollars and doubloons were flying about in

every direction.

The wounded were left in Vittoria, among whom was a Captain G—— of

ours, who subsequently lost his life in a melancholy manner. During

his stay in Vittoria, while recovering from his wounds, he had

become acquainted with a young lady, and, it was said, had seduced

her. Her brother who was an officer in the Spanish army, having

learned the circumstance, vowed revenge; and one night, when on

guard, he took some of his men with him armed, and forced his way

into Captain G——’s quarters, who was undressing himself to go to

bed. Hearing a noise, he seized his sword, and coming out into the

passage, he was attacked by the Spaniards; but so well did he defend

himself, that they were fairly beaten out of the house, and the door

shut upon them. They had not been long gone, however, when they

returned, and endeavoured to gain entrance. Captain G—— had again

left his apartment to see what was the matter, and was standing in

the passage with his sword in his hand, when they burst open the

door, fired a volley at him, and made their escape. One of the shots

took effect, and he fell, mortally wounded. We were very sorry for

him, for he was an excellent officer; and however he might have been

to blame otherwise, the base manner in which he was assassinated

excited the indignation of the whole army. I never learned whether

any investigation took place, or any justice was rendered by the

Spanish government.

The rear of the French army entered Pampeluna on the 24th, having

previously lost their gun; and out of their whole artillery, they

had now only left one solitary howitzer. Never was an army so

discomfited. They were so confident of success, that they had made no

provision for a retreat.

Having left a garrison in Pampeluna, they proceeded to retreat by the

road of Roncesvalles, and we invested Pampeluna on the 26th. We were

in camp for a day or two here; and during that time, a party of our

regiment relieved a Spanish picquet on a hill above our encampment.

It had rained during the night, and the picquet’s arms, which were

piled in front of the tent, had got a little rusty. Being fatigued,

they had neglected to clean them. Colonel Lloyd, who was ever on the

alert, particularly when near the enemy, having paid them a visit

very early in the morning, took notice of their arms; but, without

passing any remark, he called the sergeant, who, thinking that he

wished to inspect the picquet, ordered them to turn out. ‘Never mind

falling in,’ said the colonel; ‘I only called to ask why you did

not make those Spaniards whom you relieved last night take their

arms with them.’ The sergeant who did not see through the sarcasm,

replied, that the Spaniards did take their arms with them.

‘And pray, whose arms are these?’

‘The picquet’s arms,’ replied the sergeant.

‘Poh! nonsense! you don’t intend to make me believe these arms belong

to British soldiers. Send for the Spaniards, and make them take away

their arms.’ So saying, he walked down the hill. Each man felt his

honour implicated, and the colonel had not gone many paces when they

were all busy cleaning their muskets. It was in this manner that he

could convey severe reproof, and endear himself to his men at the

same time.

From this place we marched across the country to Sanguessa, and on

the march I was left on duty, which detained me behind the regiment.

In my route to join them I had halted for the day with my party at

a house a short distance off the road. There was a wood to the rear

of the house, and we had not long taken up our quarters, when I

perceived a lady galloping from it with great speed down a by-path

towards us. As she approached I observed that her dress was in great

disorder, her face stained with blood, and she held a pistol in her

hand, with which she urged on her horse. I was struck with surprise

on seeing a lady in such trim, and did not know well what to think

of her, when she reined up her horse at the door, and before I had

time to assist her, sprung to the ground, and replacing the pistol in

the holster, removed the saddle from her horse, and turned him loose

to graze; then sitting down, she drew forth a small pocket mirror,

and began to arrange her dishevelled tresses. As a favour she asked

me to procure her a little water, and when I had brought it—‘Thank

you,’ said she, ‘I believe I stand in need of this, for I have had a

severe scuffle and a brisk gallop. I am on my way to join the Spanish

army, and although eager to get forward, I could not persuade my lazy

servants to dispense with their usual _siesta_, and when the fellows

went to sleep I left them and pushed forward myself; but I had not

travelled far when I was stopped by three brigands, who, seizing my

horse’s bridle, demanded my money. Powder and shot are more plentiful

with me than money in these times, and I drew out a pistol and sent

a ball through the fellow’s head who asked it—he fell, and I urged

forward my horse; but one of the villains still held by the bridle,

and I was near unhorsed. Having another pistol left, I lost no time

in making him relax his hold. My horse was now free, and sprung

forward with me; but a bullet from the surviving robber nearly

stopped my flight, for it grazed my cheek here,’ said she, pointing

to a slight wound which she was bathing with the cold water: ‘it was

a narrow escape, certainly.’ I was not a little surprised at the

_sang froid_ with which she described the imminent danger she had

been in, and could not sufficiently admire her courage and presence

of mind; but I ceased to wonder, when her servants coming up a short

time after, told me that I had been conversing with the _heroine of

Saragossa_.

In half an hour after they arrived, she again set forward. I had seen

her before at Cadiz; but I did not recollect her features. Every one

has read or heard of her conduct at Saragossa; it will, therefore, be

needless for me to recapitulate it here.

Having remained in camp at Sanguessa a few days, we returned, and

were quartered in a small village, called Olaz, about three miles

from Pampeluna, sending out working parties to the batteries which

were forming against the town.

General Graham having pushed on by the sea side as far as Passages,

and General Hill having dislodged the enemy on the right—the whole

had now retired into France.

We remained in this place until the 25th of August, when Soult

having hastily collected an army of forty thousand men, made a

furious attack on the fourth division. Our division advanced to

their support, but not being able to keep our ground against such

a force as they had brought up, the whole were obliged to retreat

precipitately that night upon Huarte, where a position was taken up

by the army. On the 27th they made a desperate attack on the left of

our line, where we had possession of a hill, which they made repeated

attempts to gain possession of, but without success—for whenever

they drove in our skirmishers, so as to reach the top, the regiments

stationed to defend it came forward, and having poured a volley into

them, charged them down the hill with dreadful slaughter.

On the 28th they again attempted it, but with like success. A

desperate attack was then made on the fourth division, but they

charged with the bayonet, and repulsed the enemy with immense loss.

On the 29th Soult manœuvred to turn our left; but on the 30th, our

army in turn attacked—the seventh division their right, our division

their left, and the other divisions their centre—when they were

defeated and fled in all directions, losing in their retreat many

prisoners, among whom were a number of raw conscripts, who had not

been four months enlisted.

During the time we lay in position, the French occupied a hill on

one side, while our division were posted on a rise opposite, a small

valley being between; in this valley there was a sort of entrenchment

formed, where our picquets lay. It could be of little use to either

side, as it was exposed to the fire of both armies; but the French,

out of bravado, determined on taking it, and selected a party for

that purpose. A brave fellow of an officer headed them, and came

cheering down the hill; our men did not incommode themselves in the

least, until they were so near that they could take a sure aim, when

those in the rear of the entrenchment starting up, saluted them with

a volley of musketry that brought down an immense number, among

others the officer, who was some way in front: whenever they saw him

fall, they turned to the right-about, and ascended the hill, leaving

him on the ground. We felt sorry for the fate of the brave fellow who

had led them, and reprehended the cowardly scoundrels who had left

him.

It is a peculiar feature of the British soldier, that his bravery

does not depend on that of his officers, although, no doubt, it may

be stimulated by the presence and example of a good one—I never knew

it to fail through their bad conduct.

From this we followed the French by the road of Roncesvalles, and

took up our encampment on one of the Pyrenees, above that village

so much renowned in Spanish poetry. In our ascent we found a number

of half-burnt bodies lying on the mountain side, being those of the

enemy who had been killed in the preceding engagement, and whom they

thus disposed of. When we reached the top of the hill, we found

ourselves enveloped in mist; and during the few days we remained on

it, it was so thick that we durst not move from the camp for water,

without forming a chain of men to guide us back. From this place we

removed, and were posted on the heights above the village of Maya,

occupying the ground from which part of our advanced posts were

driven back on the 25th; the scene of action being marked out by the

dead bodies lying about, and the ground strewed with the fragments

of clothing, particularly the tartan dress of one of our Highland

regiments.

Being relieved by other troops, we descended the mountain, and were

encamped near the village of Ariscune. While here, one of the 83d

regiment was shot for desertion; he had deserted when we formed

the advance at the Maya pass, and having come out with some of the

French generals to reconnoitre our position, they were attacked by a

picquet of our cavalry, when the French officers decamped, leaving

the deserter behind. He was then taken, and being subsequently tried

by a general court-martial, was sentenced to be shot. He blamed

the tyrannical conduct of the officer commanding his company, and

the pay-sergeant, for being the cause of his desertion,—that they

had taken ill-will at him on some account, and rendered his life so

miserable, that he was driven to the desperate step which ended in

his death. Whether his statement was true, I cannot say, but his

comrades were inclined to think it was.

During this time General Graham besieged and took St Sebastian.

While we were here, I was sent on command with a letter to General

Hill, whose division now occupied the heights above Roncesvalles.

In going from the one place to the other, I had to travel about six

miles through a by-path, on the ridge of one of the Pyrenees, and my

imagination was struck in a peculiar manner by the awful grandeur of

the scenery; yet I could not help feeling horror at the death-like

stillness that reigned around me. I felt myself as it were lifted

out of the world—I saw nor heard not any living thing but a huge

vulture, who stood upright on a rock by the road side, looking at me

as I passed, without seeming the least disturbed at my presence—he

rather seemed to eye me as an invader of his solitary domain. I

tried to startle him by making a noise, but he disdained to move;

at length, when it suited his own pleasure, he slowly expanded his

broad wings, and rising a few yards from the ground, hovered for

some time immediately above my head, and then soared out of sight.

Having ascended the mountain, I found the second division encamped on

nearly the same ground that we had formerly occupied, and enveloped

in mist as we had been. The place where General Hill and his staff

were encamped was surrounded by a small intrenchment, inside of which

the tents were pitched, and a kind of log-house built in the centre,

to serve as a mess room. Judging from the proud and haughty bearing

of some of our ensigns, in coming into the presence of the general

second in command of the British army, I expected to be annihilated

by his look, and I was ushered into the mess room to deliver my

message with a palpitating heart; but I no sooner saw the humane and

benevolent-looking countenance of the general, than my apprehensions

vanished. Having read the letter, he questioned me concerning the

health of the commanding officer, and asked me questions concerning

our regiment, (of which he was colonel,) in the kindliest and most

unaffected manner; then calling one of his servants, he ordered him

to provide me liberally in meat and drink. Some time after, seeing

me standing outside the tent, he called me, and asked whether the

servants had paid attention to me. Next morning, on giving me a

letter for my commanding officer, ‘I did not intend,’ said he, ‘that

you should have returned so soon, but we are going to remove down to

the valley, and as it would be only taking you out of your road, it

will be as well for you to proceed; but there is no necessity that

you should go farther than the small village two leagues from this.

I will give directions to my orderly dragoon to procure you a billet

there, and to-morrow you can join your regiment.’ He then ordered his

servant to fill my haversack with provision; and when I was going

away, he said, ‘Remember now what I have told you,—don’t go farther

than the village; and here is something for you to get yourself a

refreshment when you arrive there.’

These circumstances have no particular interest in themselves, to

render them worth reciting, only that they serve to show the amiable

disposition of a general, whose character for bravery and skill

is too well known to the public to need any eulogium of mine. It

was this feeling and humane disposition, and attention to their

interests, that caused him to be so much beloved by the troops under

his command, and gained for him the appellation of father,—‘Daddy

Hill’ being the name he was called by in his division.

CHAPTER IX.

From Ariscune we again moved, and occupied the heights above Maya,

from whence we advanced in the beginning of October, and drove the

French outposts back into the valley, at the same time burning their

huts. While engaged at this business, there fell a tremendous shower

of hailstones, some of them measuring five inches in circumference.

The regiment got partially under cover in a small chapel, but those

with the baggage were exposed, and many were hurt severely. On this

day the left of our army succeeded in crossing the Bidasoa.

On returning from this affair, we ascended the heights above the

village of Zaggaramurdi, where we encamped. From this part of the

Pyrenees we had a view of France, and the position of the French

army, which occupied a line, their right resting on the sea-port of

St Jean de Luz, and the left on St Jean Pied de Port: here they had

formed an intrenched camp, and had redoubts on each hill along the

whole line.

We remained on this ground until the 10th of November, during which

time the weather was severe—the wind often blowing with such violence

that the tents could not be kept pitched.

From a precipice above our encampment, we could view the sea, and the

towns along the coast. It was now three years since we beheld it,

during which time our hopes and wishes had often fondly turned to our

native homes; each fresh campaign and each battle was reckoned the

precursor of our return, but ‘by expectation every day beguiled,’

we had almost begun to despair of ever beholding it again, when

our recent successes, and the sight of the ocean which encircled

the land of our birth, produced the most lively hopes and pleasing

anticipations. A more than common friendly feeling was displayed

amongst us; each saw in his comrade’s face the reflection of the joy

that animated his own heart. The mountain air braced our nerves, and

gave us a bounding elasticity of spirit, which rose superior to every

thing.

A few of us who were drawn together by congeniality of sentiment and

disposition, used to assemble and wander up among the giant cliffs

with which we were surrounded, and perching ourselves in a cranny,

would sit gazing on the ocean and ships passing, with emotions which

I have felt, but cannot describe. Its expansive bosom seemed a magic

mirror, wherein we could read our future fortune,—a happy return

from all our dangers; smiling friends, with all the early loved

associations of childhood and youth, swam before our hope-dazzled

imaginations, and we sat and sung the songs of Scotland while the

tears trickled down our cheeks. He who has never heard the melodies

of his native land sung in a foreign country, is ignorant of a

pleasure that nothing can surpass. But we were not all doomed to

realise those pleasing anticipations: many found their graves in the

valleys which we then overlooked.

Lord Wellington having prepared every thing for an attack on the

French position in the valley, on the 10th of November, about two

o’clock in the morning, we assembled, and having marched down to

the foot of the hill, on a signal given by a gun firing, the attack

commenced; that on the enemy’s left was made under the direction

of General Hill, by the second and sixth divisions, supported by a

division of Portuguese and Spaniards. Marshal Beresford commanded the

centre, consisting of our division, the fourth and seventh, supported

by a division of Spaniards.

The enemy having been driven from the redoubts in front of Sarre,

we advanced upon the village. Our regiment being selected to charge

a strong column that protected the bridge, Colonel Lloyd filed us

off from the division, and led us on to the attack in the most

heroic manner. Having succeeded in carrying it with considerable

loss on our part, we returned and took up our place in the column.

In a short time after, having passed through the village, the

whole army co-operating, we advanced to the attack of the enemy’s

main position on the heights behind it, on which a line of strong

redoubts were formed, with abattis in front, formed by trees cut down

and placed with their branches towards us, serving as a cover for

their infantry. Having extended our line at the foot of the hill,

our division proceeded to the attack: Colonel Lloyd having pushed

his horse forward before the regiment, advanced cheering on his men

with the most undaunted bravery—but before he reached its summit,

he received a mortal wound in the breast, and was only saved from

falling off his horse by some of the men springing forward to his

assistance. When this was perceived by the regiment, a pause of a

moment was made in the midst of their career, and the tears started

into each eye as they saw him borne down the hill; but the next was

devoted to revenge, and regardless of every thing, they broke through

all obstacles, and driving the enemy from their position, they

charged them through their burning huts without mercy. The troops to

our right and left having carried the other redoubts, the enemy were

obliged to surrender the strong position which they had taken; and in

the principal redoubt on the right, they left the first battalion of

their 88th regiment, which surrendered.

The troops under General Hill having succeeded in forcing them from

their positions on the right of our army, our division and the

seventh moved by the left of the Nivelle, on St Pe, covered by the

second and sixth divisions. A part of the enemy’s troops had crossed,

and advancing, gained possession of the height above it. Our centre

and right columns were now established behind the enemy’s right; but

night came on, and we were obliged to cease firing. Having encamped,

intelligence was brought up of the death of Colonel Lloyd: he had

been carried to a house at the foot of the hill, where he expired in

a few minutes.

Thus fell the brave and noble Lloyd, in the vigour of manhood and the

height of his fame, for his worth and services were well known, and

duly appreciated by Lord Wellington. Though young, his extraordinary

abilities had caused him to rise rapidly in the service, and had

attracted the admiration of the army in which he served; while his

humanity and wise system of discipline endeared him to those he

commanded. Humble though thy grave be, gallant Lloyd, and though no

sculptured marble rises o’er thy tomb, thine is a nobler meed: thy

virtues are engraven on many a heart, which nothing but the rude

hand of death can e’er efface; and though no pageantry followed thy

remains to the grave, honest heart-felt tears were shed upon it.

I never witnessed sorrow so general as that produced by the

intelligence of his death; our hearts were full—we felt as if we had

lost a father—all his good qualities were recapitulated, and tears

were shed in abundance during the recital.

Had any of those overbearing officers who carry all with a high hand

and by dint of severity, witnessed the feeling displayed that night

among the men of our regiment, they would have forsworn tyranny for

ever. One individual only exulted in his death, and that was the

captain of yellow and black badge celebrity, whom I have already had

occasion to mention; he considered that Colonel Lloyd’s promotion

into our regiment had hindered his own, and as the goodness which

some men cannot imitate causes their hate, so it was with him. When

he received intelligence of Colonel Lloyd’s death, snapping his

fingers in a manner peculiar to himself, he exclaimed, ‘They have

been licking the butter off my bread for some time, but I think I

have them now.’

This unfeeling expression becoming known in the regiment, caused him

more detestation even than his former cruelty.

The enemy retired from the position on their right that night, and

quitting also their position and works in front of St Jean de Luz,

retired upon Bidart, destroying the bridges on the lower Nivelle.

In the course of the preceding day we had taken fifty-one piece

of cannon, six ammunition tumbrils, and one thousand four hundred

prisoners.

In consequence of the rapid movements of the division, the

baggage had not come up, and as it rained heavy, we were rather

uncomfortably situated. Next day we moved forward a short distance,

through dreadfully dirty roads, but the enemy having retired into

an intrenched camp before Bayonne, we halted and again encamped,

when the baggage joined us. Some of them had been nearly taken by

the French during the preceding night; our division being farther

advanced than the enemy’s right, they were uncertain where to direct

their march. The corporal of our band, (a Glasgow lad,) coming up

that evening with the baggage, observed a poor woman of the 88th

regiment endeavouring to raise the ass that carried her necessaries,

out of a hole it had fallen into. As it was getting dark, and the

baggage had all passed, the poor woman was in a miserable plight,

and begged of him to assist her. She could not have applied to one

more willing to succour a person in distress, and setting to work,

after a good deal of trouble, he got the ‘borico’ on its feet, but

so much time had elapsed that the baggage was now out of hearing,

and they were uncertain which way to proceed. After travelling some

distance, they heard bugles sounding to their left, and they kept

on in that direction, until they found themselves in the midst of

some regiments of Spaniards, but who could give them no information

respecting the position of our division. Pointing, however, to where

they suspected them to be, our travellers continued their route in

that direction; but the poor ass was so fatigued, that it lay down

every now and then under its burden. Assisting it on in the best

way they could, the road they had taken brought them between two

hills, on which they perceived the fires of different encampments.

When they arrived opposite them, they suspected from their relative

position, that one must be the enemy, but which of them they knew

not; they were now in a dilemma, and to add to it, the poor ass

tumbled headlong into a stream that ran through the valley, and their

united efforts could not raise it. P——’s spirit of knight-errantry

was now fast evaporating, and he was almost tempted to swear that

he would never again be caught succouring distressed damsels, when

the woman, whose invention was sharpened by the exigency of her

situation, proposed that she would creep softly up the hill, until

she came within hearing of the soldiers in the camp, and from their

language she would be able to learn whether they were our troops or

the enemy. She then ascended the hill that she considered the most

likely to be the encampment of our troops, leaving poor P—— sitting

beside the half-drowned animal, to whose name he was inclined to

think the transactions of that night gave him some claim. After

waiting a considerable time in anxious suspense, he was beginning

to forget his selfish considerations, in concern for the safety of

the poor woman who had thus ventured on a forlorn hope, when his

attention was attracted by some one descending the hill waving a

light backwards and forwards, and shouting at the same time; having

answered the signal, the woman soon made her appearance, with a

Portuguese soldier, whose division was encamped on the hill which she

ascended, and they now learned that those on the opposite hill were

the French. Having succeeded in raising the half-perished ‘buro,’

the Portuguese lifted the baggage on his back, and the others half

dragging, half carrying the animal, they reached the top of the hill,

but still no information could be got of the division. Considering

it of no use to proceed farther, they seated themselves by a fire,

but they had scarcely done so, when it came on a heavy shower of rain

which drenched them to the skin—there was no remedy, however, but

patience. Next morning at daylight they again took the road, but they

were now more fortunate, for falling in with some of the baggage they

had parted with the preceding night, they reached the division by the

time we had encamped.

During our campaigns in the Peninsula, it is almost incredible what

the poor women who followed us had to endure, marching often in a

state of pregnancy, and frequently bearing their children in the

open air, in some instances, on the line of march, by the roadside;

suffering at the same time, all the privation to which the army is

liable. In quarters, on the other hand, they were assailed by every

temptation which could be thrown in their way, and every scheme laid

by those who had rank and money, to rob them of that virtue which

was all they had left to congratulate themselves upon. Was it to be

wondered at, then, if many of them were led astray, particularly

when it is considered that their starving condition was often taken

advantage of by those who had it in their power to supply them, but

who were villains enough to make their chastity the price?

From this encampment we advanced to Ustaritz, where we remained

until the 9th of December, when we crossed the Nive. At the point we

passed, we met with little or no opposition, but some of the army

were warmly engaged. We then took up our quarters in Hasparin. The

day that we entered this village, one of our men cut off his right

hand, under circumstances that may be worth relating.

For some time previous to this he had been low in spirits, troubled

with what some people call _religious melancholy_, but which, at

that time, was no very prevalent disease in the army. He scarcely

ever spoke to any one, and was in the habit of wandering out from

the encampment, with his Bible in his pocket, and seating himself in

some place where he was not likely to be disturbed, he would sit for

hours poring over it. While in Ustaritz, he conceived some ill will

against the landlord of the house where he was quartered, and very

unceremoniously knocked him down. Being confined for this offence,

he remained a prisoner when we entered Hasparin. On the guard being

placed in a house, he sat down, and having taken out his Bible, he

commenced reading it. But suddenly rising, he laid down the book, and

going over to a man who was breaking wood with a hatchet, he asked

the loan of it for a few minutes. When the man gave it to him, he

walked very deliberately into an inner apartment, and placing his

right hand on the sill of the window, he severed it at the wrist. The

first two strokes that he made did not finish the business, and he

had nerve enough not only to repeat it a third time, but afterwards

to wrench the lacerated integuments asunder, and throw the hand into

the court below. He had been observed by some of the men in a window

opposite, but too late to prevent the deed.

I assisted in leading him to the assistant-surgeon’s quarters, where

the stump was dressed in a manner which I shall describe, and leave

to the profession either to praise or censure, as they may feel

inclined. The bone had been rather splintered than cut, and its sharp

point protruded about two inches beyond the mangled integuments.

Having prepared his apparatus, he placed the patient on a seat, and

after half-an-hour’s poking with a tenacalum, he succeeded in taking

up and tying the two principal arteries. He then nipt off the rough

angles at the point of the bone, and forcing down the retracted

integuments by straps of adhesive plaster, under which he had

introduced some dry lint, he rolled the whole up with a bandage, and

left him, congratulating himself, no doubt, on his dexterity.

The man, on being questioned as to his motive in thus mutilating

himself, replied, ‘that he had only done what the Lord commanded,

in a passage he had been reading,—If thy right hand offend thee,

cut it off, and cast it from thee,’ &c., which injunction he had

literally fulfilled, as his right hand offended him by knocking down

his landlord. This was the only reason he ever assigned. As he went

to the rear some time after, and did not join the regiment again, I

had never an opportunity of learning whether the operation proved

successful.

From the village of Hasparin we were removed about a mile, to the

deserted palace of some Gascon nobleman, where we were quartered

until the 6th of January, when we advanced, and drove in the enemy’s

outposts; but returning on the 7th, we did not again move until the

middle of February.

While in Hasparin the weather was bad, and we were much harassed,

marching a distance of two or three miles every morning to the

alarm-post two hours before daylight, and remaining there until

it appeared. The inhabitants of the province we were now in were

different in dress and manners from both Spaniards and French, but

their language (Patois) seemed to our ears harsh and discordant.

The round bonnets of the men, and the dress and healthy look of the

women, was much similar to the Scottish peasantry.

I am not certain whether it was here or in Ustaritz,—the latter, I

believe,—that we had two men of our division executed; one hanged for

robbing an officer’s portmanteau, and another shot for presenting his

empty piece at a sergeant of the mounted police corps, which acted as

assistants to the provost marshal, and had been attached to the army

since the commencement of the last campaign. Every one thought he

would be pardoned, or at least his sentence commuted, as it was said

there was some unnecessary provocation given by the sergeant; but

mercy was not extended to him. We were often inclined to think that

the provosts marshal were possessed of more power than they ought to

have had, particularly as they were generally men of a description

who abused it, and were guided more by caprice and personal pique

than any regard to justice. In fact, they seemed to be above all

control, doing what they pleased, without being brought to any

account, and were often greater robbers than the men they punished.

After leaving this place, we came up with the French on the 23d of

February, near the village of Sauveterre. A river ran between us

and the town, over which there was a bridge that they had placed in

a state of defence, their army occupying the opposite bank. On the

morning of the 24th, our brigade were ordered some way down from the

bridge, for the purpose of crossing a ford near a mill. Our light

companies, covered by a party of the seventh hussars, first took the

river, in a particular part of which there was a strong current,

caused by the mill stream. This, together with the large round stones

that formed the bottom, caused some difficulty in getting across; but

they effected it, and advancing up the bank through a narrow lane,

lined a wall on the top of the height. The cavalry then returned,

and the right of the brigade had crossed the river, when the enemy,

having detached a strong force to oppose our progress, drove in the

light troops so precipitately, that in retreating through the lane

already mentioned, they were wedged in so closely that they could not

move. A number then struck off to the right, and attempted to swim

the river, but being carried away with the current, many of them were

drowned. Of those who crossed at the ford many were wounded in the

river, and losing their footing sunk to rise no more, among whom was

a brave young officer of our regiment. The French had by this time

come close down on them, and none would have escaped being killed or

taken prisoners had not a brigade of guns been brought down to the

edge of the river, and by a heavy fire of grape covered the retreat.

On re-crossing, the brigade withdrew under cover of some houses, and

on the 25th the division crossed the river on a bridge of boats, the

enemy having blown up the stone bridge, and retreated.

In the affair on the 24th a great number of our men were taken

prisoners, exclusive of the killed and wounded. On the 27th, we

came up with the enemy again at Orthes, where their whole army had

taken up a position, their left resting on the village and heights

of Orthes, and right extending to that of St Boes. The right of our

line was composed of the third and sixth divisions, led on by General

Picton; the light division, under Baron Alten, formed the centre;

and Marshal Beresford, with the fourth and seventh, formed the left.

The battle commenced by the latter attacking St Boes and carrying

it; but by reason of the difficult nature of the ground, it was

found impracticable to carry the heights. Their whole line was then

attacked by the third, fourth, sixth, and light divisions, when the

enemy were dislodged from the heights; and Sir Rowland Hill, who, in

advancing to join the conflict, saw the French already routed, the

more effectually to prevent their escape, pushed forward the second

division and cavalry. Their retreat was well conducted at first, but

it gradually became disorderly, and in the end a complete flight,

many of the conscripts throwing down their arms and deserting.

The French had made a most obstinate resistance at the point which we

had to carry, and kept up a severe cannonade on us, by which many of

our men were decapitated, in consequence of their firing chain shot.

In one part of the road where they had been driven from the fields,

our cavalry had made a furious charge on them, and taken a number of

prisoners. The road was almost rendered impassable by the number of

arms lying on it. Near this place lay a sergeant belonging to our

light brigade, extended by the side of a French grenadier, their

bayonets transfixed in each other, and both dead. Passing Orthes, we

followed the retreat of the enemy until we passed through another

town, where part of their rear-guard lined the walls of a churchyard,

situated a little above the town, and had brought out tables and

chairs to stand on while they fired over upon us. In passing through

this village, a shot from one of their cannon shattered the leg of

an old midwife while she was crossing the street; the head doctor of

our regiment, a skilful and intelligent surgeon, being passing at the

time, having inspected the injury, found it necessary to amputate

the limb, and although she was far advanced in years, in three weeks

after, when we had occasion to pass near the village, she had almost

entirely recovered.

Beyond this village, about two miles, we encamped by the road side,

and had not been long encamped, when my friend, the corporal of the

band, whom I have already mentioned, arrived, bringing with him a

child which he had found in a field under peculiar circumstances.

As he and a musician of the 83d regiment were passing along the

road, they were attracted by the piteous cries of a French officer,

who lay severely wounded in a ditch a short distance from them; he

begged for God’s sake that they would give him a drink, and as I

have already hinted, P——, always ready to follow the dictates of a

benevolent heart, gave him some wine from his canteen. It was then

dusk, but while he stooped to give the officer the wine, he perceived

something moving beneath his cloak, and on drawing it a little aside,

he found a fine boy, about four years old, dressed in the English

fashion, nestled in beside him. Taking him up in his arms, he asked

him his name, when the child replied, ‘James.’ The officer entered

into an explanation of the matter, and P—— understood enough of the

language to learn that the child came up the road during a heavy

fire, while our army and the French were engaged. The officer, who

had been wounded a little before, seeing the poor child in imminent

danger, and in the midst of his own sufferings, feeling interested

for his fate, had enticed him off the road, and kept him amused until

he fell asleep, when he wrapped him in the corner of his cloak. The

officer expressed the utmost gratitude for P——’s kindness in giving

him the wine, but he seemed to feel in parting with the child, nor

did the child seem very willing to part with him. With the view,

however, of finding out his parents, the child was brought home to

the camp, and notice being sent to the different divisions of the

army, in a few days the child’s mother arrived. Her feelings on

again finding her child, may be better imagined than described. She

stated, that having come into the town in rear of where the army were

engaged, the child had wandered from her knee while she was suckling

a younger one, and that she had searched every part of the town for

him without being able to get the least trace of the direction he had

taken, or what had become of him.

Having children certainly increased the hardships that the poor women

were fated to endure; but excess of suffering, which tore asunder

every other tie, only rendered maternal love stronger, and it was

amazing what hardships were voluntarily endured for the sake of

their offspring. I remember one poor fellow of our brigade, whose

wife died, and left an infant with him of a few months old, and

although he might have got one of the women to take care of it, he

preferred taking charge of it himself, and for many a day he trudged

along with it sitting on the top of his knapsack. Sickness at length

overtook him, and he went to the rear to hospital, carrying the child

with him, but what was their fate afterwards I have never been able

to learn.

Next morning we left our encampment, and returning by the way we

had come, we passed a man of the division on the road side, who had

been hung up to the branch of a tree a few minutes before. According

to the current report in the division, he had entered a mill, and

asked the miller to sell him some flour, but the miller refusing to

sell it, he took it by force; and being caught in the act by some

one, who reported the affair to Lord Wellington, he was tried by

a general court martial, and sentenced to death. For a long time

after his trial, he was marched a prisoner with the provost guard,

and he entertained hopes of pardon; but on that morning, without

any previous warning, while he was sitting at the fire with some of

his fellow-prisoners, the provost came in and ordered him to rise,

when placing the rope round his neck, he marched him forward on the

road a short distance, and hung him up on the branch of a tree.

Examples, perhaps, were necessary, but we were inclined to think that

the time was often unfortunately chosen; it was rather an awkward

sort of spectacle to greet the eyes of an army the morning after a

hard-fought and successful battle: and the poor wretch’s fate excited

more commiseration that morning, than detestation of his crime.

Some of the men happened to make remarks on the subject,—‘Pshaw!’

said Dennis, who was listening to them, ‘I don’t believe my

countryman would do anything of the sort. Sure it’s only a dead man

he has ordered to be hung up to frighten yees.’

‘He is dead enough now,’ said another. ‘Do you remember,’ said a

third, ‘the tickler of a circular that was served out to us after the

dreadful retreat from Salamanca,—was _that_ your countryman’s doings?’

‘Troth, I don’t know,’ said Dennis; ‘but it didn’t go well down with

us; and if this is the sort of payment we get for beating the French,

the best way is to go down on our knees, and promise never to be

guilty of the like again.’

CHAPTER X.

In consequence of the wet weather, we were unable to proceed, and lay

in camp near this place about three weeks; and little of any moment

occurred during that time, except the capture of Aire on the 2d of

March, by General Hill’s division.

On the 18th March, the enemy having retired in the night upon Vic

Bigorre, we advanced on the 19th, and came up with their rear-guard,

which was posted in great force in the vineyards in front of that

town. Our division, under General Picton, advanced up the main road

to the attack, until the enemy’s artillery, which commanded it,

forced us to strike into the fields to the right and left, when we

drove them from one field to another, while they contested every

inch of the ground with the greatest obstinacy, at every hedge and

ditch giving us a volley as we came up, and then retreating to the

next fence. While advancing upon one of these temporary defences, a

French soldier through some cause, was rather tardy in retreating,

and our men were close upon him before he started out of the ditch.

His comrades had, by this time, lined the fence farther on, and being

a remarkable object, a number of our skirmishers directed their

fire against him; but he did not seem much incommoded, for after

running a few paces, he turned on his pursuers: and reloading his

piece, continued this running fire for some distance. His daring

conduct having attracted the attention of all, a great number joined

in trying to bring the poor fellow down, and the shot was flying

about him in every direction; but he seemed invulnerable. At length,

coming near to where his own party was under cover, he walked up to

the edge of the embankment, and after firing at the party who were

in his rear, he clapped his hand very contemptuously on his breech,

and jumped down into the ditch. Those to the left of the road, being

brought to a point by a river, were obliged to cross the main road,

where they suffered severely. A sergeant of our brigade received a

dreadful wound here—a cannon shot having struck him, carried away

the fleshy part of the thigh, leaving the bone perfectly bare, to

the extent of twelve or fourteen inches. A little farther on, a lad

belonging to the band of the eighty-third regiment lay killed. The

band in general accompanied the baggage, but he never would submit

to this; and when near the enemy, he always did duty with the light

company.

Having driven the enemy from the vineyards, in retreating through

the town they killed a number of our men, from various places they

had got under cover. One poor fellow of the fifth regiment received

a shot, which, passing through his temples, cut the strings of his

eyes, and we saw him sitting on a stone with them hanging out of

their sockets. The whole of our army having assembled that night

at Vic Bigorre and Rabastains, the enemy retired in the night upon

Tarbes, and we came up with their advanced posts in that town on the

20th; their centre and left had retired, and their right was attacked

by the sixth division under General Clinton, while General Hill

attacked the hill by the high road from Vic Bigorre.

The sixth division being successful, General Hill passed through the

town, and disposed his columns for attack, when the enemy retreated

in all directions, having suffered severely, while our loss was but

trifling. Following them up the Garonne as far as Grenada, on the

8th of April a pontoon bridge was thrown across, and the eighteenth

hussars, with a Portuguese and Spanish brigade, crossed, and drove in

a body of the enemy’s cavalry, taking about a hundred prisoners.

The town of Toulouse is surrounded on three sides by the canal of

Languedoc and the Garonne. They had fortified the suburbs on the left

of that river with strong field works; they had likewise formed works

at each bridge of the canal, defended by artillery and musketry.

Beyond the canal to the eastward, and between that and the river Ers,

there is a range of heights extending for some distance, over which

pass all the roads to the canal and town from the eastward, which it

defends; and the enemy, in addition to the outworks at the bridges

of the canal, had fortified the heights with five redoubts connected

by lines of intrenchments; they had also broken all the bridges over

the river Ers within our reach, by which the right of their position

could be approached. When the Spanish corps passed, the pontoon

bridge was moved higher up, in order to shorten the communication

with General Hill’s division, and this was done so late on the

evening of the 9th, that the attack was delayed till next day.

Our division crossed on the evening of the 9th, and next morning, the

troops under Marshal Beresford attacked the enemy’s right, while the

Spaniards under General Frere assailed the centre; but the latter

were soon repulsed, and being, with a heavy loss, driven from the

ground, were pursued to some distance. By the exertions of their

officers, however, they were formed anew, when our light division,

which was immediately on their right, took up their place. In the

meantime, Beresford, with the fourth and sixth divisions, attacked

and carried the heights on the enemy’s right, and the redoubt, which

covered and protected that flank, and lodged his troops in the

redoubt. The enemy, however, still occupied the others. As soon as

the Spaniards had re-formed, and were brought back to the attack,

General Beresford continued his march along the ridge, and carried,

with General Pack’s brigade, the two principal redoubts, and the

fortified houses in the enemy’s centre. The enemy made a desperate

effort from the canal to regain those redoubts, but were repulsed

with considerable loss; and the sixth division continuing their

movement along the ridge, and the Spanish troops on the front, the

enemy were driven from all their redoubts and intrenchments on the

left, and the whole range of heights were in our possession.

While these operations were going on on the left, General Hill drove

the enemy from their exterior works in the suburb on the left of the

Garonne, within the old wall. Our division charged the works at the

bridges, but, in consequence of their strength, were unable to carry

them, and suffered severely in the attempt.

During the 11th, not a shot was fired on either side, and the French

bands were playing the greater part of the day. Ours were also

brought down, and a sort of conversation was kept up by the different

tunes played. The French would listen attentively while ours played

the ‘Downfall of Paris,’ and in turn gave us a reply of the same

kind. Next morning, to our surprise, we found them gone. They had

retreated during the night, leaving in our hands three generals

and one thousand six hundred prisoners, with much stores of all

descriptions.

On the evening of the 12th an express arrived from Paris, to inform

Lord Wellington of the peace; Marshal Soult would not believe it,

but he agreed to a cessation of hostilities. We were now encamped

at the outside of the town, where we remained for a few days. When

advancing about three leagues, we met a messenger on his way to

Toulouse, on a mission from the government, and it was now that we

got full confirmation of the joyful news. Each heart beat light at

the intelligence, but we could scarcely dare to believe it; we had

been so often deceived, that we thought it too good news to be true.

Nothing, however, was now talked of but home.

We were quartered in Le Mas, a short distance from Toulouse, where

we remained until the order came for us to march to Blanchefort,

situated in one of the sandy plains of the Landes. The land was

incapable of cultivation, but they fed numerous flocks of sheep on

it, and the shepherds were mounted on huge stilts to enable them to

see for some distance around. The whole army being collected here,

the different individuals who had formerly been acquainted, had an

opportunity of seeing each other, and our meeting was the happier

that we could now congratulate each other on the return of peace.

In marching from Toulouse to this place, we parted with the

Portuguese army at Condom. They were then well-regulated and

well-disciplined troops. The English mode of discipline had been

introduced among them for some time, a number of English officers

were attached to them; and acting always in concert with us, they

were now little inferior to ourselves. A kind of friendship had thus

arisen, and caused us to feel sorry at parting. On the morning that

this happened, they were ranged upon the street, and saluted us as we

passed, and their hearty ‘Vivas!’ and exclamations of regret evinced

that they really felt; but a scene of a more affecting nature took

place in the Portuguese and Spanish women parting with the men of

our army, to whom they had attached themselves during the miserable

state of their country. The generality of them were not married, but

the steady affection and patient endurance of hardship which they

exhibited, in following those to whom they belonged, would have done

credit to a more legal tie. Being here ordered to return to their own

country with the Portuguese army, and strict orders given to prevent

any of them from proceeding farther, the scene which ensued was

distressing,—the poor creatures running about concealing themselves,

in the vain hope of being allowed to remain; but it was all to no

purpose: although they were willing to have sacrificed country and

relations to follow us, the sacrifice could not be accepted.

From Blanchefort camp we proceeded to Pauilhac, from whence, in a few

days, we embarked in small vessels, which took us down to the Corduan

light-house where we put on board the San Domingo, 74 gun ship,

and after a pleasant passage arrived at the Cove of Cork, where we

disembarked.

Our regiment was nearly nine hundred strong when we first went out

to the Peninsula. During the time we remained there, we received at

various times recruits to the amount of four hundred, and when we

left the country, our strength was about two hundred and fifty, out

of which number not more than one hundred and fifty remained who went

out with the regiment.

CONCLUSION.

I have thus endeavoured, as far as my recollection served me, to give

a simple and faithful description of those scenes in which I was

myself an actor, without partiality to any class. If occasionally I

have drawn an unseemly picture, the fault was in the original, for I

have no personal enmity to any individual in the service; and I beg

it may be distinctly understood, that many of the abuses which I have

narrated are only spoken of as things that have existed, rather than

as a picture of the present state of the army. Thanks to his Royal

Highness the commander-in-chief, little is now left the soldier to

complain of.

When we look back twenty or thirty years, and consider what the army

was then, and what it is now, the wonder will be, not that it is

not in a better state, but that so much has been done to ameliorate

the condition of the soldier. Then he was one of the veriest slaves

existing, obliged to rise two or three hours before day to commence

his cleaning operations. His hair required to be soaped, floured,

and frizzed, or tortured into some uncouth shape which gave him

acute pain, and robbed him of all power of moving his head unless

he brought his body round with it. He had his musket to burnish,

his cap and cartridge-box to polish with heel-ball, and his white

breeches to pipe-clay, so that it generally required three or four

hours hard labour to prepare him for parade; and when he turned out,

he was like something made of glass, which the slightest accident

might derange or break to pieces. He was then subjected to a rigid

inspection, in which, if a single hair stood out of its place, extra

guard, drill, or some other punishment, awaited him. When to this was

added the supercilious, tyrannical demeanour of his superiors, who

seemed to look upon him as a brute animal who had neither soul nor

feeling, and who caned or flogged him without mercy for the slightest

offence, we cannot wonder that he became the debased being, in body

and mind, which they already considered him, or that he possessed the

common vices of a slave—fawning servility, duplicity, and want of all

self-respect; to add to this, what was his reward when worn out and

unfit for farther service?—a pittance insufficient to support nature,

or a pass to beg.

When we consider that, in the face of long-established usages,

and coadjutors of unbending and contracted views of human nature,

the commander-in-chief by his persevering exertions has almost

entirely abolished those numerous vexations—when we see gentlemanly

feeling and attention to the soldier’s best interests encouraged

among the officers of the army, and the change wrought in the moral

and military character of the soldier by these means,—is it to be

wondered at that every individual in the service is attached to

the Duke of York, and looks up to him in the light of a father and

a friend. Few generals of whom I have ever either heard or read,

enjoyed the esteem and affection of the troops under their command,

more than His Royal Highness.

The failings alleged against him by his enemies were severely visited

upon him by many, who, had they examined their own conscience, could

not have said they were innocent of similar errors, and who could not

plead a kindly unsuspecting nature as an excuse. The country has long

consigned to oblivion all remembrance of them; but they have lately

been sacrilegiously drawn forth by men, whom every well-regulated

mind must blush to call countrymen—men who have not only made a jest

of his sufferings and probable death, but grinned with fiend-like

exultation at the prospect of a war which was to exterminate, and

render miserable thousands of their fellow-creatures.[13]

I hate that canting species of liberality which means free exercise

of opinion only to those of the same mode of thinking, and that

deals out unsparing censure on all those who (no matter how

conscientiously) differ from them; such, however, is the conduct

of some of our special pleaders for religious toleration. In his

opposition to the Catholic claims, who will say that His Royal

Highness did not act conscientiously? And if this is granted, however

firmly he may be attached to his principles, it is evident he does

not adhere to them with half the violence and pertinacity of those on

the opposite side who raise the cry against him.

His character, however, can never be affected by vapouring

declamation—the remembrance of his kindness, benevolence, and

accessibility, (if I may use the term,) will outlive party feeling

and animosity—all classes and sects will yet join in doing justice

to the character of a prince, who, if he possess failings, they are

those common to humanity, while his virtues raise him much above its

ordinary level.

* * * * *

Since the preceding portion of this volume was sent to press, the

melancholy event which was then feared has taken place, and the

narrow tomb now encloses that heart which, while it continued to

beat, embraced the interests and well-being of thousands. What I

anticipated has already taken place—all parties join in eulogizing

his worth and virtues. Rancour and fierce hatred have even been

disarmed of their venom; but words can but very inadequately convey

the feeling produced by his death throughout the army. They now

naturally look round with intense anxiety for the individual who is

to succeed him. The Duke of Wellington, in point of military ability,

seems the most likely; but, judging from the past, I would say,

he will not be to the army what the Duke of York has been. He may

concoct, arrange, and put in practice, plans for their discipline

and equipment—he may lead them to victory, as he has done before;

but his name will never be the key-note to the warm and grateful

feelings of the soldier, when it strikes on his ear, to send the

blood in tingling currents from the heart to the cheek. Yet I may

be mistaken: when the country at large is progressing rapidly in

just sentiment and liberality of thinking, and enlightened views in

the government of every department are taking the place of the more

severe and austere rules of the old school, it is doing injustice to

the Duke of Wellington, to believe that he will remain stationary. If

he should assume the command, he will have a glorious opportunity of

treading in the footsteps of his royal predecessor, and of adding to

his great military qualities all those minor (but not less important)

qualifications which excite men’s gratitude and esteem, and will

enable him to live in the hearts of those under his command. His

claims to the character of a hero will then be complete, and as such

his name will be handed down to posterity.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] That such men should possess the confidence of the people of

Ireland, that they should expect any assistance from them, or how

the bombastic declamation and frothy venom, which they spew forth at

public meetings, can have any other effect than to produce disgust,

is to me not a little wonderful. The emancipation of the Catholics

may be retarded, but it will never advance one step under the

direction of men possessed of so much zeal, and so little judgment.

THE EVENTFUL LIFE OF A SOLDIER.

CHAPTER I.

THE RETURN.

The regiment I belonged to had been serving in the Peninsula from the

early part of 1810, during that harassing and apparently interminable

war; for campaign after campaign succeeded each other, and although

we gained splendid victories in each, we generally found ourselves

taking up our winter quarters on the same ground from whence we had

set out.

At the close of 1812, after a weary and disastrous retreat from

Madrid, we were again quartered in Portugal; here we remained for

five months, during which the most active and energetic preparations

were made for the ensuing campaign, which commenced in May, 1813. A

series of successes almost unexampled enabled us to winter in France,

and the battle of Toulouse in April, 1814, concluded a war which had

drained the country of men and treasure. With feelings which none can

know but those who have toiled through fields of death, we received

the order to embark for Britain, and it was with little regret

that we lost sight of the fair shores of France, ‘with its bright

beaming summers exhaling perfume.’ Far dearer to our imaginations

were the ‘humble broom bowers’ of our native land, ‘where the

blue bell and gowan lurks lowly unseen.’ On the voyage homeward,

hope smiled triumphant, dreams of joy and bliss took the place of

disappointment and despair. Yet often in sleep did my imagination

return to those fields of strife and rapine that we had left; the

agony of disappointed hope again shed its chilling mildew on my soul,

and I awoke expecting to hear the sound of the bugle or the roar of

artillery; but the picture was reversed—‘sorrow did not now return

with the dawning of morn.’

Our voyage homeward was short and pleasant. Ireland was our

destination, and having anchored in the Cove of Cork, we proceeded to

disembark in lighters.

‘You are welcome to old Ireland,’ exclaimed my comrade Dennis,

holding out his hand to me as I stepped from the boat out of which he

had sprung an instant before, ‘welcome to the land of potatoes and

buttermilk. Didn’t I tell you that we would live to see this day? May

I never die if this isn’t the happiest, minute of my life! my heart’s

so light that I think I could jump over the moon. Come along, my gay

fellow, we have been long together, “and in spite of wind and weather

we will moisten well our clay”—I mean by and by, when we get to our

billets. Did you ever drink any potheen, Joseph? Och! there never was

drink like it in the universe, for if you wish to be in any mood at

all, it’ll do the job for ye. If you want to fight, potheen will make

you face the ould boy himself; if you have any notion of making love,

with a bumper or two of Inishone you might malvader the heart of

Diana; and if crying is your game, it will make your heart as soft as

prapeen. Go to the first wake you can in this country, and you’ll see

what wonders it works; it will do your heart good to see how it makes

the tears trickle down their cheeks, and sets them a counting their

pedigree back to the time when Adam was a little boy; ay, indeed,

(but I must whisper it,) I have seen it make a voteen of many an old

woman that said her Paternave dry enough at any other time. Och, pure

potheen’s the liquor for me,—it beats brandy, rum, and gin, out of

all razon.’

Whatever I might think of the extravagant praise which Dennis had

bestowed on his favourite whisky, I certainly participated in his

joyous feelings, and felt an affection at that moment for every thing

living, from the half naked urchins that ran about the cabin doors,

down to the pigs, cocks, and hens, that participated in their sports,

food, and lodging.

We were billeted that day in Cork, on a respectable tradesman,—a

kind, cheerful fellow, who exerted himself to make us comfortable;

and after a dinner such as we had been long strangers to, he insisted

upon us joining him in a tumbler of punch.

‘Come, my dear,’ said the landlord to his wife, who was present, ‘be

kind enough to sing us a song.’

‘With all my heart,’ said she, and she began the well-known song of

‘Erin-go-bragh.’ The air is uncommonly plaintive and beautiful, but

few who have not heard it can conceive the expression and pathos

which an enthusiastic Irishwoman can throw into it. Such was our

hostess, and she poured out her strains in a voice so delightfully

sweet that my heart thrilled to its core: no doubt association and

the state of our minds aided the effect, but I never felt so much

pleasure from music. Recollections of former scenes and feelings

crowded on my memory, and my eyes filled with tears. Dennis sat

entranced in his chair trying to swallow the emotion that he was

ashamed to show, while his eye was fixed on the singer as if on some

heavenly vision. She had herself caught the infection, and as she

repeated

‘Ah! where is the mother that watch’d o’er my childhood?’

her voice faltered, and the tear trembled in her eye. Dennis could

contain himself no longer; he covered his face with his hands

and wept aloud; a pause ensued, but it was a pause occasioned by

revealings of the soul, too purely intellectual for expression.

Silence was broken by our hostess.

‘Poor fellows!’ said she, ‘I see the dreadful scenes you have

witnessed have not hardened your hearts: they still beat true to

nature.’

‘Oh,’ said Dennis, ‘there’s more in that song than you have any

notion of; many’s the time I sung it when I was far from home,

and, when I little expected to see old Ireland or my poor mother

again—surely it was an Irishman that made that song.’

‘He has all the warm feeling of one,’ said I, ‘but I believe he is a

townsman of mine, Dennis.’

‘Never mind,’ replied he, ‘his heart is an Irish one—and that’s the

best part of him.’

From the various circumstances connected with it, I am sure I never

spent a happier evening, and next morning we parted with our kind

hosts with as much regret as if we had known each other for years.

From Cork the regiment marched to Fermoy; having been on duty, which

detained me some hours after the corps, I set out alone to perform

the journey. When half way, I overtook a countryman travelling the

same road, with whom I entered into conversation. We had not gone far

together when my attention was attracted by a wild cry, which seemed

to be borne on the wind from some distance; it burst on my ear like

the cry of a person in distress—then, gradually sinking to a low

moan, it ceased for a few moments, when again the despairing shriek

swelled to the utmost pitch of the human voice,—again it sank to the

plaintive murmur, and melted into air. There was something uncouth in

the notes, but they were expressively wild and melancholy, and I felt

myself powerfully affected without being able to account for it. I

stopped for a moment to listen, and asked my companion the meaning of

what I heard.

‘Oh, it’s some poor creature going to his long home,’ said he, ‘that

they are keening over.’

We had not gone far, when at a turning of the road, the melancholy

procession opened on our view,—a countryman driving a car, on which

was placed a coffin. One solitary mourner, (an old woman,) clung

to it with one hand, while the other was raised in a despairing

attitude; her gray hair hung in dishevelled tresses about her

face and shoulders, and intense grief was depicted in her haggard

countenance. My companion requested me to wait a moment, while he

turned back a short way with the corpse. ‘Well,’ said he to me when

he returned, ‘many’s the funeral I have seen; but never one like

that,’—they haven’t a single neighbour with them: when the poorest

creature would have half the parish, but that comes of the boy’s own

behaviour—God be merciful to his soul!’

‘Why, what harm did he do?’

‘So much that I believe his poor father and mother will never be able

to hold up their heads again: he was the means of bringing two of his

own relations to the gallows, that but for him might have been alive

and well to-day; they were all three laid up for taking arms from a

gentleman’s house near this, and there was no clear proof against

them, but they wheedled over this boy that’s dead now, to turn king’s

evidence, and save his own life; but he never did a day’s good after,

and he died the other day of fever, and not one of his neighbours

would attend his wake—God help his poor people!’

On reaching Fermoy, I found the regiment in barracks, where we

remained only a few days, when we received the route to march to

Wexford, a town on the west coast of Ireland. On reaching a village

that lay in our route, the place being small, and the inhabitants

poor, we were but indifferently supplied with billets. Poor Dennis

had been rather unwell for a day or two previous, and I hastened to

find out our quarters, that we might have an opportunity of lying

down. Having inquired for the person we were billeted on, we were

directed to a low-roofed cabin, where a tall, masculine-looking old

woman was standing in the door-way.

‘Come away, honies,’ said she, with an arch mischievous expression of

countenance, ‘you are welcome, I was just waiting for yees.’

‘Thank you,’ said I, stooping down to enter the cabin, which was so

filled with smoke that I could see nothing of the interior. By the

help of the crone, however, we got ourselves seated by the fire,

which was made in the centre of the apartment, the door of which

served for chimney, window, and all.

Dennis feeling himself very sick, expressed a wish to lie down, and

I asked the landlady to show him our bed, for although I saw none, I

thought she might have some other apartment.

‘That I will, I’ll be after making a fahl for the poor boy in a

minute. Get up out o’ that,’ said she, angrily, to some one who lay

on a bundle of straw, in a dark corner of the room, enveloped in

something resembling an old great coat.

‘O don’t disturb any body for us.’

‘Troth and it’s myself that will,’ and seized a stick that was lying

by the fire to chastise the object she had addressed.

Seeing the miserable appearance of the hovel, I had made up my mind

to seek other quarters, and was proceeding to remonstrate, but before

I could, the old woman had inflicted the blow; a grunt followed, and

presently an enormous pig, carrying the half of the straw, and the

ragged coat on his back, came running towards the door, and in his

struggle to pass me, threw me over. Ill as Dennis was, he could not

help laughing, and the old woman, instead of condoling with me on my

misfortune, exclaimed, ‘What a smashing sodger you are, to let the

pigs knock you down.’

‘Come away, Dennis,’ said I, ‘if this is a specimen of your country,

you have much reason to be proud of it.’

‘Och! is that the way you are going to leave me?’ said the old hag,

when she saw us moving off.

‘Troth is it,’ replied Dennis, ‘for I would be sorry to disturb any

of the decent family.’

We luckily procured a lodging in a public-house near the cabin, and

having mentioned our reason for changing our quarters—

‘Judy is too many for ye,’ said our host; ‘she’s no friend to the

sodgers any how: she lost two brave boys in the rebellion, and was a

right rebel herself. I have seen the day when she would have thought

no more of knocking down a man than of eating her breakfast. It’s not

many years since, when we had a fair here, the boys were seemingly

going to disperse without a bit of a _row_, and bad luck to me if she

didn’t take off her jock, and holding it by the one sleeve, trailed

it through the fair, crying out to her own party, that the blood of

the O’Briens had turned into buttermilk, or they would never let the

faction of the Murphies home, without a blow being struck. ‘Come, you

chicken-hearted rogues?’ said she, while she brandished a stick in

her hand, ‘let me see the thief’s breed of a Murphy that will dare to

put his foot on my jock.’ The boys only laughed at first, but some

one in the crowd, out of contempt, threw a dead rat which struck

her on the face; this enraged her so, that she knocked down the man

nearest her, and in a twinkling there was a fight that beat anything

ever was seen, and she was there to the last. But the devil himself’s

but a fool to ould Judy.’