The enemy retire upon Santarem—We retire upon Vallée—The bridge over the
Rio Mayor—The French out-lying sentries—Their camp ground—Comparative
quietude—The still—Escape from assassination—Tom Crawley’s ghost
story—The “Death and Glory men”—The charms of a Brunswickian
appetite—Their desertions—Sergeant Fleming—His court-martial—We meet
our enemies on the water and contend—A comment on both sides.
ABOUT the middle of November the enemy retired, and we made a movement
to follow them towards Santarem, which they immediately occupied and
strongly fortified. As soon as we came in sight of their works, our
battalion received orders to cross a river (the Rio Mayor), which
discharged itself into the Tagus, about half a mile lower down on our
right. While executing this movement, we met with rather a warm
reception, which became more intense as we attempted to get a peep into
their position; we however were obliged in turn to retreat, and finally
took up our cantonments at a place called Vallée. The regiment was
distributed in companies on the houses on both sides of the main road,
that to which I was attached being in an old wine-store near the bridge
crossing the Mayor.
On this bridge we had double sentries, and abbatis of fallen trees. But
the better to foil the incursions of the enemy, the arches had been
undermined, and the powder secured from the wet by bullocks’ hides,
trained ready for explosion.
About two hundred yards in front of this were the French outlying
sentries, and a little in their rear, on a slight eminence, their camp
ground, which they had very beautifully built over with ranges of huts.
About three or four miles to our left, and divided from us by the Rio
Mayor, rose the pretty town of Santarem; its towers and steeples peering
up from the summit of a hill, studded on all sides with groves of
olive-trees. The prospect from it must have been very “soul-stirring,”
as the two armies lay within shell range, although they never interfered
with each other for the whole of the four or five months that we were
there; during this time we were flanked on the left and right by the
43rd and 52nd regiments, and enjoyed the most uninterrupted repose,
almost our sole employment being to watch the French movements.
Some of the men, for want of better pastime, succeeded in constructing a
still, with which they managed to make spirits from a quantity of dried
grapes, found in the old wine-house; a discovery, however, soon took
place, much to our chagrin, and the still was destroyed by our old
Captain, Peter O’Hare.
The sanguinary nature of the Portuguese during the whole period of the
war was notorious. When crossed or excited, nothing but the shedding of
blood could allay their passion. It was always with the greatest
difficulty that we could preserve our French prisoners from being
butchered by them even in cold blood. They would hang upon the rear of a
detachment with prisoners like so many carrion birds, waiting every
opportunity to satiate their love of vengeance; and it required all the
firmness and vigilance of our troops to keep them in check. It was well
known that even our men fell in stepping between them and the French,
whom they had marked out as victims. Indeed it was not unfrequent for
our own men to suffer from the consequences of their ferocity, and I
myself, while at Vallée, had a narrow escape. I had crossed the hills to
purchase some necessaries at the quarters of the 52nd regiment, and on
my return fell in with several of the soldiers of the 3rd Caçadores; one
of them, a fierce-looking scoundrel, evinced a great inclination to
quarrel, the more particularly as he perceived that I was unarmed and
alone. Having replied rather sharply to some abuse they had cast upon
the English, by reflecting on their countrymen in return, he flew into a
rage, drew his bayonet, and made a rush at me, which I avoided by
stepping aside, and tripping him head foremost on the ground; I was in
the act of seizing his bayonet, when a number of his comrades came up,
to whom he related, in exaggerated terms, the cause of our disagreement.
Before he had half concluded, a general cry arose of “kill the English
dog,” and the whole drawing their bayonets, were advancing upon me when
a party of the 52nd came up, the tables were turned, and the Caçadores
fled in all directions.
Among other laughable circumstances that made the time pass gaily while
we remained here, was a ghost story, in which Tom Crawley cut rather a
conspicuous figure. We had accoutred ourselves, as was our custom before
laying down for the night’s repose, when in rushed Tom Crawley like a
distracted man.
“Bring me some salt and water for the love of God, boys!” he immediately
demanded; “I have seen a ghost.”
“What sort of ghost, Crawley?” sung out a dozen voices from the men, who
immediately became alive to the fun.
“Oh, a Portuguese ghost, as sure as the Lord,” replied Crawley. “Give me
a little water with some salt in it.”
This salt, I must explain to the uninitiated, according to a vulgar
superstition in Ireland, is absolutely necessary to be drunk by those
who have seen a phantom before seeing a light, as a neglect of the
precaution was sure to be followed by an evil influence. As soon,
therefore, as a tin measure was brought to the agitated Tom, (not
filled, indeed, with salt and water, but, I am sorry to say, a much more
objectionable liquid) Crawley drank it off with as much avidity as if
his future salvation depended on it: the men, meanwhile, nearly
convulsed with laughter at Tom’s credulity.
At length, something like silence being restored, Crawley took a seat,
at the same time making many wry faces (that were sufficiently accounted
for by the potion he had swallowed.) He then told us, in a very solemn
manner, that he had distinctly seen the semblance of a Caçadore in
Colonel Eldar’s regiment, the 3rd Caçadores, who used to sell our men
rum on the retreat from Almeida, and who was afterwards killed at the
battle of Busaco.
“But did you not speak to it?” inquired Jack Murphy.
“You know I can’t talk Portuguese,” replied Crawley.
“A ghost can talk any language; he would have spoken English to you if
you had talked to him,” observed another.
“But I was in too great a fright to talk at all to him till he vanished
away among the trees.”
Poor Tom Crawley! His ghost story afforded us ample amusement for many
weeks afterwards, although I remember it caused his grog to be stopped,
for having woke the Captain of our company in an adjoining room by the
noise he had occasioned by his spiritual narration.
There is nothing, not even flogging, damps the spirit of a
service-soldier more than stopping his grog, particularly a man of
Crawley’s temperament, for like his renowned prototype (Nautical Jack),
if he were allowed three wishes, the first would be all the rum in the
world, the second all the tobacco, and the third would be for more rum.
During our stay here, the commissary had ovens made, and a number of our
men employed baking bread, something after the fashion of our quartern
loaf, one of which was allowed each man every four days. One day while
the company was being served out with rations of salt beef and a hot
four-pound loaf, and the commissary was busy in serving out rum from a
barrel turned on the end, with the head knocked in, while the
quarter-master was calling over the name of each man, when Crawley’s
name was called—stopped by order of Captain O’Hare, was the answer. Had
sentence of death been pronounced, it could not have sounded more harsh;
but Tom had a little philosophy. This trial put it to the test, for
while he kept peeping over the men’s shoulders, anxiously watching each
man receive his portion of rum, I also observed him poking his thumb
into different parts of the hot loaf, while he gradually kept edging
himself through the men, until he got close to the rum barrel, and
quietly putting his loaf under his arm, remained stationary, until the
commissary turned round to speak to one of the men, when raising his arm
in flopped the loaf into the rum-barrel, while he lustily began damning
the awkward fellows who pushed, and caused the accident, no doubt
wishing the loaf to remain soaking in the barrel as long as possible;
but seeing the commissary about taking the bread out, he instantly dived
his arm into the barrel, shoving the loaf to the bottom, then drawing it
out dripping, as well as his coat-sleeve, and looking the commissary
seriously in the face, begun cursing his misfortune, saying: “Faith,
Sir, I’ll have a hot meal for the next four days, anyhow; if salt junk
and hot rum don’t blister a poor devil’s guts, I don’t know what will.”
The good-natured commissary, who looked on the whole as a pure accident,
handed Tom an extra half loaf, which he instantly squeezed against the
wet one, lest a drop of the precious liquor should fall to the ground,
and walked away, humming as he went:
“Oh, love is the soul of a neat Irishman,” &c.
About this period we had a regiment of Brunswickers sent to join our
division, and one of our least amusing duties soon consisted in watching
them, to prevent their deserting to the enemy. It was the prevalence of
this honourable propensity among them, I believe, that induced Lord
Wellington to distribute their force among the different divisions of
the army. These “death and glory men,” as we used to term them, from
their badge of the skull and cross-bones which was worn on their shakos
and accoutrements, were dressed in dark green, which but too frequently
enabled them to steal past our guards and join the French, with whom
many of their connexions were. Among other attributes with which these
allies were gifted, was a _canine_ appetite, that induced them to kill
and eat all the dogs they could privately lay hold of. By this means the
different dogs of the division disappeared before the Germans with a
celerity truly astonishing, and we were in ignorance of their fate until
the fact became openly proclaimed and acknowledged. Among other animals
thus “potted for consumption” was a dog which, from its having attached
itself to our regiment, we had christened “Rifle.” Rifle could never be
induced to leave us, and upon one or two occasions when we had lost it,
had always managed to rejoin us again. We used often to joke among
ourselves at Rifle’s antipathy to a red coat, and his decided preference
to green; but although, poor fellow! he had survived many of our
skirmishes, in which he used to run about barking and expressing his
delight as much as a dog could, it was only, after all, to be devoured
by the insatiable jaws of the Brunswickers.
We had in the company a sergeant of the name of Fleming, a tall athletic
brave fellow, from the Lake of Killarney. One night being posted in
picquet, he unluckily came in collision with one of the Brunswick
officers, and suspecting his intentions to bolt to the enemy, knocked
him down with his rifle and otherwise maltreated him. The result was,
that Fleming was tried by a brigade court-martial, convicted for the
assault, and sentenced to be reduced to the ranks, and to receive a
corporal punishment of five hundred lashes. This put us all on the
alert, and the officers also, by whom he was very much liked. The
division being formed, by order of General Crauford, the prisoner was
brought to the centre of the square, and the minutes of the
court-martial read aloud, Fleming proceeded to strip, while the men
stood attentively yet sullenly awaiting the result. The General now
addressed him, saying:
“Prisoner Fleming, the offence which you have been guilty of, is of so
heinous a nature, that could it be proved to be wilfully committed, it
would be most unpardonable; but the excellent character for gallantry
and honourable conduct, given of you by your officers, is such that I
take the responsibility on myself, relying on the plea made by you. I
shall not flog you, therefore, but your stripes will be cut off, and I
trust your future conduct will testify that the discretion I now use, is
not misplaced; and I here,” proceeded the General, turning round to the
division, “take the opportunity of declaring, that if any of those
gentlemen (meaning the Brunswickers,) have a wish to go over to the
enemy, let them express it, and I give my word of honour I will grant
them a pass to that effect instantly, for we are better without such.”
Fleming was shortly afterwards reinstated, but, poor fellow! he was
destined to an early though a more honourable fate, and fell leading on
the ladder party, in the forlorn hope at Badajoz.
All this time, and for a great part of that in which we were quartered
here, a very friendly intercourse was carried on between the French and
ourselves. We frequently met them bathing in the Rio Mayor, and would as
often have swimming and even jumping matches. In these games, however,
we mostly beat them, but that was attributed, perhaps, to their
half-starved, distressed condition. This our stolen intercourses soon
made us more awake to, until at length, touched with pity, our men went
so far as to share with them the ration biscuits, which we were
occasionally supplied with from England, by our shipping; indeed we
buried all national hostility in our anxiety to assist and relieve them.
Tobacco was in great request; we used to carry some of ours to them,
while they in return would bring us a little brandy. Their “réveille”
was our summons as well as theirs, and although our old captain seldom
troubled us to fall in at the “réveille,” it was not unusual to find the
rear of our army under arms, and, perhaps, expecting an attack. But the
captain knew his customers, for though playful as lambs, we were
watchful as leopards.
It will not be amiss, perhaps, if I give the reader an idea of the
resources and intrinsic position of the two armies, thus contending on a
soil to which both were aliens. It will be necessary to enter a little
into the holds either party had on the opinions of the inhabitants.
The French, it must be recollected, were fighting for the usurpation—if
it may be so termed—of the Spanish throne by Joseph Bonaparte, and had
to contend with all the elements that composed and monopolized the
prejudices of the Spanish and Portuguese people. The whole war was one
between innovation, and long and deeply rooted prejudice; and the French
troops, consequently, were on all occasions, nightly and daily, not only
open to attacks from the British, but in constant alarm from the
natives, whose animosity made them alive to the slightest opportunity
that presented itself for doing them mischief.
No Frenchman, however fatigued, dared to straggle or fall back: it was
instant death to him. The guerillas and peasantry watched with the
thirst of wolves, and slaughtered all who fell into their hands. These
dangers were, also, doubly increased by the absence of uniforms amongst
the Spaniards, who, up to this time, wore their own peasant dresses.
This disabled the French from recognizing either friends or foes. In
addition to these, they had another of greater magnitude than any, their
provision and ammunition resources depended entirely on their
communication with France—separated from them by the Pyrenees, and long
distances from the scene of contention itself; this made their supplies
exceedingly precarious, and but for the contributions levied by the
French generals on the inhabitants, would have kept them oft-times
pendant ’twixt hunger and the bayonets of their enemies.
The priesthood, also, numbers of whom were of the French church, had to
return many obligations to their revolutionary opponents, such as their
banishment, wholesale, from their “snuggeries” during the year of
terror; these, therefore, sided always with the Spaniards, and by their
influence, combined with the Spanish inquisitorial clergy, gave a colour
and energy to the cause we had engaged in.
Our case was, consequently, widely different as the quiet imprisonment
of our disorderly comrade before-mentioned fully proved; we were
received, also, everywhere with open arms, and were well backed, if not
by the courage, by their best provision resources. We could, with
safety, leave whole hospitals behind us, whilst the sick and wounded of
our opponents, the French, were, in many instances, slaughtered
wholesale by the citizens.
But with all these advantages in our favour, we yet, as it were, lay
between two stools. The natives were not to be relied on, and though
drawn up with us on most occasions, generally left the British to bear
the brunt of action. Thus often and too truly showing that a weak friend
is frequently more dangerous than a determined enemy.