THE SKIRMISH AT MORNE ROUGE.
We were already within cannon-shot of the outworks of Fort Royal, and
could see the British flag flying triumphantly above the captured
batteries of Mont Mathurine and the Pigeon Island, the guns of which
command all the bay, when Lieutenant Harry Smith of the Royals
arrived with orders for Sir Charles Gordon to fall back with his
brigade and attack the town of St. Pierre, in conjunction with the
corps of Major-General Dundas.
St. Pierre--the scene of the earlier sorrows of Eulalie and of her
father's murder! my heart beat more quickly, when I heard the order
given, about ten in the morning.
"What is the distance from this?" asked the general, glancing at his
watch.
"Ten miles," replied Smith.
"The ground--"
"Mountainous and difficult--woody and intersected by at least ten
streams."
"We shall be there by one o'clock, I hope. Who commands in St.
Pierre?"
"The Colonel de Rouvigny."
In ten minutes after this, we had folded our blankets, slung our
camp-kettles, quitted the bivouac where we had spent the night in
view of Fort Royal, and, with the 2nd battalion of Grenadiers, the
65th regiment, and the light companies of the 33rd and 40th,
commenced a retrograde march, and passing the Caise des Navires on
our left, proceeded over mountains and through dense forests, midway
between the sea and the base of the Pitons du Carbet, towards the
scene of our new operations.
The day was unusually hot for the season, even in the Antilles; and
we had hunger and thirst to encounter as well as heat and toil. To
allay the former--at the risk of fever--we partook of bananas,
oranges, and pomegranates with sangaree and rum, rich cordials and
the juices of citron, lime, and sugar-cane, which we found in plenty
in a French merchant's store. The fruit brought from gardens in our
vicinity, usually lay in heaps in our bivouacs--and its hues were
always brilliant, as its flavours were alluring.
After we had forded the river du Carbet, above the little town of St.
Jacques, the heat of the noon grew intolerable. Our noses, lips,
necks, and ears were scorched by the flaming rays of a sun that
seemed to shine vertically over our heads; there came no breeze from
the glassy sea, and no clouds hovered in the sultry heavens. The
languid sheep and cattle lolled out their dry tongues as they lay
panting in the shadow of the listless trees; and there was no sound
in the air, but the buzz of huge insects. The heat soon exhaled
clouds of vapour from the ocean--but in their bosom lurked agues,
fever, and death. A volcano grumbled in the distance, in proportion
as land and sea grew hot; yet manfully we struggled on, laden like
pack-horses with all our arms and camp equipage, to beat up the
quarters of M. de Rouvigny in St. Pierre.
We still formed the advanced guard, and on this occasion I was sent
forward with a reconnoitring party, in extended order, to prevent the
main body from falling into any ambuscade, and the difficulty of
forcing one's way in marching order through woods in these Indian
isles, where there were few roads, is beyond description. The trees
are woven up together by dense masses of dwarf mangroves and
underwood, and by wild creeping plants of a hundred kinds, which are
so juicy, tough, and tenacious, that they will neither break nor
tear; and under all is a species of grass, the serrated blades of
which cut the hands and face when we stumbled on them. These
primeval woods and jungles were everywhere intersected by ravines of
basalt and pumice-stone, where wild tobacco, vines, and gourds were
growing, and where streams from the Pitons brawled towards the sea.
The heat we encountered on this day of toil--heat suffocating as the
breath of a furnace--as if by very contrast, brought to memory the
cool breezes that fanned the green fern, the solemn pines, the purple
heather, and the golden corn-fields in our distant Scottish home--the
home of our hearts, and our forefathers' graves, by loch and lea, by
hill and strath and glen; and then we thought of the hearty old
winter days, and talked of them too, as if by doing so we would keep
ourselves _cool_--days when the hazel-nuts and acorns lay shrivelled
in the bare and leafless woods; when the _sough_ of the winter wind
was heard without, while its icy breath brightened the sea-coal fire
within; the snow-clad hills, the frozen lakes, the bearded waterfall,
the red leaves that whirled before the bitter Norlan blast--all these
I say, by very contrast, came before our fancy, as we marched on,
perspiring, gasping, and breathless, under the hot sky of the sultry
Indian isles.
I often remarked that when on the march in hot weather, when steam
arose from the column, when the water became putrid in our canteens,
when red coats and buff belts become alike blackened and rotten by
perspiration--unwashed, choked with dust, and blinded by musquito
bites, and while the sky was glowing like heated brass above us, we
spoke most of home and winter.
With the two light companies and the 65th, Colonel John Campbell, of
Blytheswood (commander of the 9th Foot), an officer of high military
reputation, forced a passage through the dense leafy wilderness of
Bois le Buc, the intricacies of which, might have puzzled its native
denizens the monkeys, towards a place named Montigné; while the
general with the Fusiliers and other forces, proceeded to the heights
of Capot and Calebasse.
We had just attained the crest of the latter about daybreak, when, we
heard the sound of heavy firing, and beheld a body of the enemy,
about six hundred in number, strongly posted, holding our 65th
completely in check and with considerable slaughter. Now the white
smoke started in huge puffs from the green wood; anon it rolled in
line along the slope of the hill; now bayonets were seen to flash in
the sunlight, and then we saw the white colours of the 65th, waving
as the red coats were mingled in wild _mêlée_ with the blue of the
Republicans.
Our company of the Scots Fusiliers, with sixty-three light infantry
men, under Captain Ramsey, of the Queen's Regiment, were detached
double-quick through the jungle of Bois le Buc to attack the French
in flank and support the 65th. Gaining the crest of an eminence
named Poste-au-Pin, at four hundred yards we opened a fire, which
enfiled their whole line; and closing up with all speed, effectually
silenced the fire of the French. They then fell back under the
orders of a tall officer, who was mounted on a black horse, and who
particularly distinguished himself, for he led the charge of bayonets
that ended in a hand-to-hand encounter with Colonel Campbell, whom he
slew by a pistol-shot, after that powerful Highlander had hewn down
two sides by his sword. Over ground strewn with the bloody _débris_
of this conflict, we drove the enemy back until we gained a position
on the ridge of Morne Rouge, while they took shelter under the guns
of a small redoubt, and maintained from thence a desultory skirmish
with our men, who lurked among the underwood, and picked them off on
every available opportunity.
Around the tall and stately Laird of Blytheswood, the dead lay thick
upon the green savannah, for the brave 65th fought desperately to
rescue his body. Many of the slain retained a portion of the
attitude in which death struck them. I saw a 65th man, who had been
shot while in the act of bayoneting a Frenchman. The former lay with
his musket still at the charge; his dark brows knit--his strong teeth
clenched as if by lock-jaw--the glazed eyes yet fierce and stern.
The latter, who had died of bleeding, with the bayonet in his body,
had his clasped hands and sightless eyes uplifted to heaven, for he
had died in the act of prayer. Beside them crouched a dog, which had
belonged to one or other, and seemed waiting for his master to rise
and whistle him on as usual.
On searching a dead Frenchman's havresack for food, I found, to my
disgust, a female finger, whereon were three valuable rings, which he
had been unable to remove in time, and so had hewed the member
off--for such acts were quite common in the French army in those days
of anarchy and cruelty.
With a dozen of my own company, I succeeded in luring the mounted
officer who slew poor Blytheswood, with a few of his men, into a
plantation of sugar-canes beyond range of the redoubt guns. We lay
flat on our faces, and only started up at times to have a shot at
each other, when our black bearskin caps on one side, or the huge
misshapen cocked hats and red plumes on the other, became visible
above the cane-tops. Here Tom Telfer shot the officer's horse, and
before he could free himself from the stirrups, with a shout of
exultation we were upon him. As we collared, disarmed, and dragged
him up, what were my emotions on finding myself face to face with my
quondam padre, the Colonel de Rouvigny, commandant at St. Pierre!