Personal courage.—Heroism.—A life-guardsman.—A corporal.—Private in
Bland’s dragoons.—Lewis de Crillon.—Wolfe.—Abercrombie.—Colonel
Gardiner.—Major André.—General Picton.—Sir John Moore.—Marquess of
Anglesey.—Sir John Elley.—Colonel Colborne.—Colonel Ponsonby.—
General Baird.—Sir Thomas Picton.—Sir James Macdonnel.—Lord Edward
Somerset.—Sir Henry Hardinge.—Sir Colin Campbell.—General Evans.—
Lord Hill.—The regimental surgeon and Sir William Carr Beresford.
“I have already explained to you, boys, that though personal courage is
an excellent quality, it never becomes a virtue till it is joined with
an honourable or benevolent motive.
‘Be firm, my boys, when ills abound,
And dangers round you lower:
A steady heart spreads hope around
In peril’s darkest hour.’
Heroism is the union of high motives and high actions; when, therefore,
I describe instances of bravery, they may, or they may not, be examples
of heroism. Certain it is, that common sailors, and men in the ranks,
among soldiers, have manifested as much courage as the most
distinguished officers. A life-guardsman, usually called the Marquess of
Granby, on account of his being bald, had his horse shot under him, and
lost his helmet. The moment he arose from the ground, though on foot, he
attacked a cuirassier, whom he killed, mounted his horse, and rode
forward, while his companions cheered him with the cry, ‘Well done,
Marquess of Granby!’ Shaw, also a corporal, at the battle of Waterloo,
was attacked by six of the French imperial-guard; four of these he
killed, though he was afterwards slain by the remaining two. But I have
another instance of courage, still more extraordinary.”
“Please to relate it to us.”
“At the battle of Dettingen, on the 16th of June 1743, a private in
Bland’s dragoons, of the name of Thomas Brown, who had not been more
than a year in the service, singularly distinguished himself by his
intrepidity. After having had two horses killed under him, and lost two
fingers of his left hand, seeing the regimental standard borne off by
some of the enemy, in consequence of a wound received by the cornet, he
galloped into the midst of the enemy, shot the soldier who was carrying
off the standard, and, having seized it, and thrust it between his thigh
and the saddle, gallantly fought his way back through the hostile ranks;
and though covered with wounds, bore the prize in triumph to his
comrades, who greeted him with three cheers. In this valiant exploit
Brown received eight wounds in his face, head, and neck; three balls
went through his hat, and two lodged in his back, whence they could
never be extracted.”
“There never could be a more determined man than Brown.”
“It is not always in the heat of action that presence of mind, and true
courage is most conspicuous. In cases of sudden alarm and emergency a
man is tried to the utmost. It is said that the Duke of Guise, having a
mind to try the courage of Lewis de Crillon, or Grillon, a gentleman of
Avignon, agreed with some gentlemen to give a sudden alarm before
Crillon’s quarters, as if the enemy had been masters of the town; at the
same time he ordered two horses to the door; and rushing into Crillon’s
room, cried out that all was lost; that the enemy were masters of the
port and town, and had put to flight all that opposed them; that two
horses were at the door, and that he must haste and fly. Crillon was
asleep when the alarm was given, and hardly awake whilst the Duke of
Guise was speaking. However, without being at all disconcerted by so hot
an alarm, he called for his clothes and his arms, saying, They ought
not, on too slight grounds, to give credit to all that was said of the
enemy; and even if the account was correct, it was more becoming men of
honour to die with their arms in their hands than to survive with the
loss of the place. The Duke of Guise, being unable to prevail on him to
change his resolution, followed him out of the room; but when they were
got half-way down stairs, not being able to contain himself any longer,
he burst out a laughing, by which Crillon discovered the trick that had
been played him. He assumed a look much sterner than when he only
thought of going to fight, and squeezing the Duke of Guise’s hand, said,
swearing at the same time, ‘Young man, never make it a jest to try the
courage of a man of honour, for hadst thou made me betray any weakness,
I would have plunged my dagger in thy heart,’ and then left him, without
saying a word more.”
“That was a dangerous joke.”
“No soldiers in the world have surpassed British officers in coolness,
determination, and daring intrepidity.”
“When General Wolfe received his death-wound on the heights of Quebec,
his principal care was that he should not be seen to fall. ‘Support me,’
said he to such as were near him; ‘let not my brave soldiers see me
drop; the day is ours! Oh! keep it!’ And with these words he expired.”
“Poor Wolfe! He did not live, then, to enjoy the victory he had
obtained.”
“No. Too often the conqueror falls in the same hour with those he has
overcome. It was so with Sir Ralph Abercrombie, who received his death-
wound in the moment of achieving a great victory at Alexandria, in
Egypt. You have heard the name of Colonel Gardiner, no doubt. I will
tell you of his latter end.”
“What a number of brave men must have fallen on the field of battle! Now
for Colonel Gardiner.”
“The day before the battle of Preston Pans he rode through the ranks of
his regiment, and addressed his men in the most respectful and animating
manner. Perceiving a timidity in part of his troops, he determined to
set them a spirited example. ‘I cannot,’ said he, ‘influence the conduct
of others as I could wish, but I have one life to sacrifice to my
country’s safety, and I shall not spare it.’ They continued under arms
all night, and in the morning, by break of day, perceived the approach
of the rebel army, under Prince Charles. The highlanders, though half-
armed, charged with such impetuosity, that in less than ten minutes
after the battle began the King’s troops were broken and totally routed.
After Colonel Gardiner’s own regiment of dragoons had forsaken him,
perceiving a party of the foot continuing to oppose the enemy, without
an officer, he immediately headed them, though already twice wounded,
exclaiming, ‘Fight on, my lads, and fear nothing.’ At the instant he was
cut down by the scythe of a highlander, fastened to a long pole, and
fell, covered with wounds.”
When the engagement was over Colonel Gardiner was pointed out to
Charles, among those who had fallen in the field. The Pretender stooping
over him, gently raised his head from the ground, and exclaimed, “Poor
Gardiner, would to God I could restore thy life!”
“That is a sad account, however. Please to tell us about Major André; we
have been told that he was hung as a spy, many years ago.”
“He was; and this happened in America. It was a dangerous service that
he entered on, and it cost him his life. Major André has the credit of
having been an able officer, and an amiable man. In the American war
Arnold, a general officer, offered to turn traitor to his party, and
give up the strong fortress of West-Point to the English. Major André
landed to arrange the affair with him, but the Vulture Sloop, in which
he intended to return, was removed further along the Hudson River, being
threatened by a battery, so the Major was compelled to venture by land
to New York. He had a passport from Arnold, and set off on horseback,
but when he had almost reached the English lines an American militiaman,
who was patroling between the two armies, rushed from a thicket and
seized his horse by the bridle.”
“Poor fellow! Then there was no hope for him.”
“Had the Major presented his passport, he might, perhaps, have been
permitted to pass unquestioned; but, instead of that, he asked the
patrol to which party he belonged. The man replied, ‘_To the party down
below._’ The Major, mistaking him for an Englishman, said, ‘_And I
also._’ This was a sad error, for two other patrols came up, and he was
taken. In vain he offered them his watch and purse to let him escape,
but they would not. He was tried by a court-martial, and sentenced to
die.”
“It was a sad thing that he did not show them his passport.”
“It was; but we must look at the thing fairly. Had an American officer
acted the same part towards the English, we should hardly have liked him
to escape. The Major was a noble-minded man, for though taken himself,
he did all in his power to save the life of the traitor, Arnold. The
moment he knew that Arnold was safe he acknowledged himself to be a
British officer.”
“Ay! he was a courageous officer.”
“When in prison he never complained; though he spoke tenderly of his
mother and sisters, and recommended them to the kindness of Sir Henry
Clinton, the British general. He had requested to be shot, that death
being in accordance with military habits, but this was not granted. When
at the place of execution he bandaged his eyes with a white pocket-
handkerchief himself, and with his own hands placed the fatal cord round
his neck. ‘I beg you not to forget,’ said he, ‘that I submit myself to
my fate like a man of courage.’”
“There are very terrible things in war. We wish Major André had not been
hung.”
“Almost everybody has heard of the bravery of Sir Thomas Picton, who
used to call the troops under his command, his ‘fighting rascals.’
General Picton, uncle to Sir Thomas, was Captain of the 12th grenadiers
at the battle of Minden, in America, and when Sir Henry Clinton left the
regiment for the 7th dragoons, in 1779, Picton was appointed in his
place, by the express command of His Majesty George III. On the first
levee held afterwards, the general attended to return thanks and kiss
hands on the occasion, when the King said to him, ‘It is Captain Picton,
of the 12th grenadiers, at the battle of Minden, that you have to thank
for your regiment.’”
“Oh! oh! It was for his own bravery, then, that he was promoted.”
“Among the names of intrepid British officers, that of General Sir John
Moore must not be passed by. He is remembered by many with a melancholy
interest. When he was a colonel he commanded the party that stormed and
took Fort Mozello, in the Isle of Corsica.”
“Corsica! That is the very place where Buonaparte was born!”
“It is. Well, daybreak was the time fixed upon for the attack, and as no
alarm might be given to the garrison, the soldiers were ordered not to
load: the place was, in short, to be taken at the point of the bayonet.
Colonel Moore, with his intrepid companions, had not proceeded more than
half-way when the enemy discovered their danger, and discharged a volley
of grape-shot. On pressed the colonel at the head of his men, passing by
the wounded, dying, and dead, and was entering the walls, when a
bombshell bursting, struck him to the ground. Bleeding as he was
profusely, he recovered himself, pressed on, and, in spite of the most
obstinate resistance, compelled the enemy to surrender. Nothing but
consummate skill and determined bravery could have successfully stormed
such a fortress, well-provided as it was with stores, garrisoned by some
of the best troops of France, and commanded by an able general. When
General Stewart, who had dismounted from his horse to mount the breach,
found the place in possession of the troops, he flung himself into the
arms of Colonel Moore, the soldiers shouting at the time, and throwing
up their hats for joy.”
“It was a wonder that bombshell did not kill him! But he was made a
general, you say, after that. He lived to be made a general?”
“He did; but he died of the wounds he received afterwards, in Spain. You
may have heard the following lines, written to his memory, but they will
bear repeating, for they are very beautiful.
‘Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried!
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O’er the grave where our hero we buried.
‘We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
‘No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him,
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
‘Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
‘We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow;
That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head,
And we far away on the billow.
‘Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone,
And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him,
But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
‘But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
‘Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.’”
“They are beautiful lines indeed.”
“Lord Paget, now Marquess of Anglesey, must ever rank as one of the most
intrepid of British officers. One or two instances of his bravery I must
give you; but I might go on for an hour to describe the various actions,
in which from time to time he distinguished himself. He seems to have
thought nothing of danger, for he entered on the most daring enterprizes
with confidence of success.”
“Now then, for the bravery of Lord Paget!”
“In the narrative of Sir John Moore’s campaign is given the following
account of a charge made on the French imperial guards, who were thought
to be almost invincible, by Lord Paget and the 10th hussars. At nine
o’clock A. M. five hundred or six hundred of the imperial guard plunged
into the river and crossed over; they were immediately opposed by the
pickets under Colonel Otway, which, when united, amounted only to two
hundred and twenty men. They retired slowly before the enemy, bravely
disputing every inch of ground; and upon the pickets being reinforced by
a small body of the 3rd dragoons, they charged with so much fury that
the first squadron broke through, and was for a time surrounded by the
enemy; wheeling up, they extricated themselves by charging back through
the enemy. Lord Paget soon reached the field with the 10th hussars; and
having drawn the French from the river, he charged the whole body; but
before the British could close the chasseurs wheeled about, and fled to
the ford, leaving on the field fifty-five killed and wounded, and
seventy prisoners; among whom was General Lefebre. The imperial guards
showed themselves much superior to any cavalry which the British had
before engaged; they fought gallantly, and killed or wounded near fifty
of our dragoons. It has been said, that, next to the Duke of Wellington,
no man contributed more to the success of the battle of Waterloo than
the Marquess of Anglesey, who has been styled the ‘first cavalry officer
in the world.’ By his gallantry and dash, he excited the admiration and
kindled the spirit of his troops! Twice had the marquess, then Earl of
Uxbridge, led the guards to the charge, cheering them with the cry of,
‘Now for the honour of the household troops,’ when three heavy masses of
the enemy’s infantry advanced, supported by artillery and a numerous
body of cuirassiers. The Belgians fled; the Highland brigade received
the shock. The moment was critical; the Earl of Uxbridge galloped up to
the second brigade, which received him with a cheer. The three regiments
presented a front of about thirteen hundred men; he placed himself at
their head, and made one of the most rapid and destructive charges ever
witnessed. The division they attacked consisted of more than nine
thousand men; only about a thousand of these escaped, under cover of the
cuirassiers; for of the remainder three thousand were made prisoners,
and five thousand slain. One of the last shots that were fired struck
him on the knee, and thereby occasioned the loss of his leg.”
“The first cavalry officer in the world! That is saying a great deal
indeed for him.”
“Sir John Elley led on the life-guards, the Blues, and the Scotch-greys,
with tremendous effect. When surrounded by cuirassiers, he cut his way
through them, leaving many of his assailants on the ground.”
“It would be a hard matter to decide which was the bravest among so many
brave.”
“I should have told you before of Colonel Colborne, afterwards Sir John
Colborne, commander-in-chief in Canada. When he commanded the second
brigade of rifles at the storming the heights of Beira in Portugal in
1813, he charged the enemy, who fled to the mountains. It was an odd
circumstance, but so it occurred, that pushing on round a hill, with
only his brigade-major and a few riflemen—for he had shot ahead of the
rest of the troops—to his great surprise, he found that he had got
before three hundred retreating Frenchmen.”
“Poor Colonel Colborne! Then, he was taken prisoner by the enemy he had
beaten?”
“Not exactly so. Many a brave man would in such a case have surrendered,
and without dishonour too, but the colonel was too gallant an officer to
think for a moment of such a course—whispering to his brigade-major to
get as many men together as he could directly, he boldly rode up to the
French commander and demanded his sword. The commander, not doubting but
he was outnumbered, surrendered; and thus some half-dozen gallant
Englishmen captured three hundred Frenchmen!”
“Well! that was as brave an action as we have heard of yet.”
“I might go on to speak of Colonel Ponsonby, General Baird, Sir Thomas
Picton, Sir James Macdonnel, Lord Edward Somerset, Sir Henry Hardinge,
Sir Colin Campbell, Colonel (general in Spain) Evans, and fifty others;
but the longest story must have an end. Let me, therefore, hasten on to
speak a word or two on the military exploits of the present commander-
in-chief of the British army, who can scarcely be second to any in the
extent and success of his military services. The manner in which, as a
general of division, he received and repulsed the enemy at Talavera
stamped his reputation as a soldier. His surprise of Girard at Arrayo de
Molinas was a splendid affair. General Brune, and the Duke d’Aremberg, a
colonel of chasseurs, and chief of the staff, with fifteen hundred
prisoners, fell into the hands of the British. The destruction of the
bridge of boats at Almanez, by which Marshal Marmont had secured the
passage of the Tagus, was equally remarkable for judgment in the plan,
and promptitude and bravery in its execution; while his repulse of
Marshal Soult, who fell upon him with double the number of his troops,
upon the Nive, in the battle of the 13th of December 1813, was the
crowning enterprise of his military service. ‘Hill, the day’s your own,’
said the Duke of Wellington frankly and generously, when he came up
after the battle. Coolness, promptitude, courage, good tactics, and
success have marked the brilliant career of Lord Hill.”
“General Lord Hill has not been made commander-in-chief for nothing.”
“No! He has seen as much service as most men. I will read you, from the
‘United Service Journal,’ a most extraordinary anecdote, and one that
will much interest you.
“In that brilliant scene of the great Peninsular drama, enacted on the
hills of the Arrepiles, now nineteen years ago, I performed the humble
part of assistant-surgeon in the —— regiment of foot. Like all military
men, I was anxious for promotion, and had been long trying, through
every interest I could move, to obtain a staff-surgeoncy in the
Portuguese army,—an appointment then open to officers of my rank. My
exertions, however, had proved fruitless, and I had almost given up the
pursuit.
“It was near sunset. The opposing armies were in fierce collision; and
as detached masses from either side rushed forward to occupy the various
vantage-grounds of the position, the two lines seemed to mingle, yet for
a moment, to repel each other, like meeting torrents. A long and twisted
stream of grey curling smoke marked the indentations of the combat,
whilst the sharp continuous tearing of the musketry, and the deep
interrupted roar of the cannon, formed an awful concert.
“The surgeon of my regiment and myself had held a little council-of-war
in the rear of our division, then moving into the fight; and it was
settled, by mutual consent, that he should remain where he then was,
with the main body, and reserve of our Æsculapian stores, to receive the
more serious cases from the front, whilst I was to keep close in with
the regiment, to afford the _premiers secours_ to our wounded comrades
before they passed to the rear. I happened to be tolerably well mounted.
_En croupe_, I carried a pair of capacious _alforges_, or Spanish
saddle-bags, containing, on one side a plentiful supply of the minor
apparatus of surgery, and on the other such ‘provent’ as Captain Dougald
Dalgetty would have laid in for a like occasion. Suspended to my saddle-
bow was a _borachio_, or leathern bag, of country wine. Thus accoutred,
I rode on with my regiment.
“We had just turned a rising ground, and had come into near view of the
lesser Arrepiles, which was still crowned by a strong body of French
infantry. A Portuguese brigade was in the act of storming the hill as we
came up, and were gallantly mounting its side; but that most commanding
point of the adverse position was quite as gallantly defended by the
enemy, who as yet maintained their ground on its crest. A division of
the Portuguese army, led on by Sir William Carr Beresford in person, was
closely engaged at its base, nobly rivalling the feats in arms of their
British allies.
“As we pressed on towards this interesting scene, a mounted officer, in
Portuguese staff-uniform, galloped towards us from the front, shouting
at the top of his voice, ‘A surgeon! a surgeon! a British surgeon!’ In
an instant I was at his side, and recognised him to be Colonel Warre,
one of the marshal’s aides-de-camp. ‘Follow me,’ were the only words
pronounced by him, as he wheeled round his charger, and again spurred
him towards the line of fire.
“After a few minutes’ gallop we drew up at a covered waggon, to which
the colonel pointed with eagerness as he dismounted. I had already drawn
the curtains of the vehicle aside, and perceived that it contained two
persons; one in the uniform of a sergeant, the other I immediately
recognised as the marshal himself. He was lying on his back, dressed in
a blue frock-coat and white waistcoat. Just below the left breast was a
star of blood, bright and defined as a star of knighthood. It was about
the size of that chivalrous decoration, and occupied the exact spot
where it is usually fixed. There was a small rent in its centre, black
and round. The eyes were half closed; the countenance in perfect repose,
perhaps a little paler than when I had last seen it.
“The situation of the wound, just over the fountain of life; the
stillness of the wounded general; the appearance of his companion, whose
lower limbs were literally mashed; the commander-in-chief and the non-
commissioned officer laid side by side, silent, motionless, and bloody—
all struck me at the moment as a prelude to the equality of the grave. I
asked no questions, for I had come to the conclusion that there might be
no tongue to move in answer. In an instant the marshal’s dress was torn
open, and my forefinger, that best of probes, was deep in his side. Not
a muscle moved, not a sound was uttered. I felt the rib, smooth and
resisting below, whilst the track of the bullet led downwards and
backwards, round the convexity of his ample chest. I now spoke for the
first time since I had entered the waggon, and said, ‘General, your
wound is not mortal.’ This observation of mine, which I made quite sure
could not fail to be particularly interesting to my patient, seemed to
have been heard with perfect indifference, for without taking the
slightest notice of the very agreeable intelligence I had just
communicated, he looked up and asked, ‘How does the day go?’ ‘Well,’
said I: ‘the enemy has begun to give way.’ ‘Hah!’ rejoined the marshal,
‘it has been a bloody day!’
“During this brief conversation I had traced the course of the ball by a
reddish wheal, which marked its _trajet_, and I felt the missile itself
deeply lodged in the flesh of the left loin. The preliminaries for
cutting out were arranged in a moment, and the marshal had turned on his
right side, when the wounded sergeant, having by this time, as I
suppose, discovered my trade, began most lustily to call upon ‘_Nossa
senhora_,’ and the doctor, in the same breath. I requested of him, in
his own language, to be silent, telling him at the same time, that his
general was lying wounded by his side. Upon this the marshal turned
round his head, and with a reproving look said to me, ‘Sir, if that poor
fellow’s wounds require dressing more than mine, dress him first.’ Both
the words and the manner in which they were spoken made a strong
impression on me at the time,—and impressions stamped on the field of
battle are not easily erased. I assured his Excellency that nothing but
amputation could be of any service to the sergeant, and that I had not
the necessary instruments by me for such an operation.
“All parties were again silent, and I proceeded to cut out the bullet.
My knife was already buried in the flesh, its point grating against the
lead, when the marshal, feeling that I had ceased to cut, and
calculating, perhaps that my steadiness as an operator might be
influenced by the rank of my patient, again turned round, and with as
much _sangfroid_ as if he had been merely a spectator, said, in an
encouraging tone, ‘Cut boldly, doctor; I never fainted in my life.’
Almost at the same instant I placed the bullet in his hand.
“When the wounds had been bound up, the patient demanded what steps he
should next adopt. To this I replied, that it would be prudent to have
himself bled after some hours. ‘But who is to bleed me?’ quickly
rejoined the marshal. I was in some measure prepared for this question,
and had already determined on the course I should follow.
“From the moment I had recognised the commander-in-chief of the
Portuguese army lying wounded in a waggon, close in with the enemy, and
had ascertained that his wound was not necessarily mortal, I saw that my
being on the spot at such a moment might lead to my promotion. A fair,
unimpeachable opportunity of tendering fresh services to him on whom the
accomplishment of my ambition seemed to depend, was now afforded me. But
such is the influence of an unflinching, unaffected firmness of
character in a chief over those below him, and such the impression left
on my mind by what I had just witnessed, that I felt convinced I should
establish a higher place in the marshal’s good opinion by remaining in
the fight than by volunteering to leave it, even for the purpose of
attending to his wound. I therefore respectfully submitted to his
Excellency, that my regiment was then probably in action; that I should
be sorry to be out of the way when my friends and comrades might need my
assistance, and that I hoped he would be kind enough to permit me to
join them. ‘Most certainly,’ was the reply.
“I saw no more of the marshal for many weeks; and when I had the honour
of being again presented, I found him very ill, suffering much from
inflammation in his side, and a profuse discharge from his wounds, kept
up, as was afterwards discovered, by some portions of woollen cloth,
which the bullet had carried forward from the breast of his coat through
the loose folds of which the missile had passed before it entered the
flesh.
“In quitting the marshal on the field, under the circumstances, and with
impressions I have just described, I followed the course most consonant
to my feelings, my sense of duty, and even my views of my own interest
at the time. Whether I judged rightly upon the latter point or not,
certain it is, that when I appeared in the next great battle-scene at
Vittoria, the following year, I had already, for some months, filled the
station of staff-surgeon in the Portuguese army.”
[Illustration]