Battle of Salamanca—My wounds break out afresh—I go into the Hospital at
Salamanca—The Germans and their prisoners—A recognition—Michael
Connelly—His death and burial—Josh Hetherington again—A new
acquaintance—His accounts of the Guerillas, &c.—A keepsake for a
sweetheart—The Guerilla—The army retrace their steps to
Salamanca—Proceed to Rodrigo—Heavy wet—Spanish payment;
acknowledgment—A dry coat—Lord Charles Spencer and his acorns—We
continue our march—The babes in the wood—Hard skirmishing with the
enemy’s advanced-guard—A woman in distress—Pepper—Hunger, cold, and
fatigue—Finish of the Burgos retreat.
THE night previous to the morn that ushered in the day of battle, viz.,
the 22nd of July, 1812, was the most stormy, I think, I ever witnessed.
The thunder, lightning, and rain seemed striving which should excel,
while their united effect was terrible. We lay, without covering, in an
open field close to the river Tormes. It is needless to say, not a man
that night had on a dry shred. It has, I believe, been previously
remarked, by military and other writers, that rain has been the
forerunner of almost all our general battles. From my own recollection,
the truth of this assertion is singularly supported by facts.
The battle of Salamanca commenced about ten or twelve o’clock, upon our
right, on a rising ground. Our position was first disturbed by some
cannon-shot of the enemy that fell very near, but fortunately without
doing any harm.
Although every moment expecting to be sent into the thick of it, we kept
undisturbed possession of our ground, from whence we could see the
column of the enemy on the heights engaged in attempting to repel the
advance of our troops. When the “glad sounds of victory” reached us, a
general feeling of pleasure pervaded our ranks, mixed perhaps with some
regret that we had not taken a more active share in the battle. But all
we could do we did, which was to pepper the French well in their hurried
retreat from the field. In fact, it seemed to me as if the whole French
army might have been cut off by a little promptitude.
We halted at Huerta. The following morning our division crossed the
river Tormes in pursuit of the enemy. We came up with their rear
strongly posted on the side of a hill on the left of the road. Here we
beheld one of those few charges that so seldom succeed against
well-trained infantry: this was the celebrated charge of Major-General
Bock, who, at the head of his heavy German cavalry, broke the French
squares, taking them prisoners almost to a man. It was the most gallant
dash of cavalry that ever was witnessed.
This day I began to feel the ill effects of the wound I had received at
Badajoz, which the fatigue of marching and the warmth of the weather had
again caused to break out. On inspecting the sore, our surgeon
immediately recommended me to go into hospital at Salamanca, for a few
days of medical treatment and rest. Accordingly I set out for Salamanca
with the guard appointed to escort the prisoners taken in the recent
cavalry affair by our Germans. I never before saw such severe-looking
sabre-cuts as many of them had received; several with both eyes cut out,
and numbers had lost both ears. Their wounded, who were carried in
waggons, were extremely numerous, and it was painful, even to an old
soldier, to hear their groans and incessant cries for water. The escort
consisted chiefly of the Germans that had taken them prisoners, and it
was pleasing to behold these gallant fellows, in the true spirit of
glory, paying the greatest attention to the wants of the wounded. Water,
as I have remarked, from the loss of blood that had taken place among
the wounded, was in particular request. One of the prisoners, who had
his arm hanging, probably in endeavouring to defend his head from a
sword-cut—for, indeed, there were very few gun-shot wounds among
them—was in particular very frequent in his demands for “eau” (water),
when none could be obtained. Perhaps imagining himself neglected, we
were not a little surprised to hear him suddenly change his language,
and call out in English, “For the love of Jesus, give me something to
quench my thirst; I am a fellow-countryman of your own.” On entering
into conversation with him I found he formerly belonged to the 9th
Regiment of Foot, and had been taken prisoner with a number of others of
his regiment, while on board a ship some time previous, since which
occurrence he had been prevailed upon to enter the French service in
preference to being kept in close confinement. At Salamanca a sentry was
placed over him; what became of him I know not.
On arriving at Salamanca our wounded prisoners, some other invalids, and
myself were immediately taken into hospital. There we were, French and
English, laid up together; and there, I must say, I saw sufficient
practice daily in the use of the surgeon’s knife to become perfectly
familiar with every form attendant upon amputation. While lying in
hospital, at all times a wretched place, from the groans of the numerous
sufferers, I was here placed under the immediate attendance of Sergeant
Michael Connelly, in charge of our ward, who being sufficiently
recovered from a slight wound, was appointed sergeant to the hospital.
He was one of the most singular characters I ever met with, and if an
awkward person and uncouth face had gained him the preferment, his match
certainly could not be found elsewhere. Mike was exceedingly attentive
to the sick, and particularly anxious that the British soldier when
dying, should hold out a pattern of firmness to the Frenchmen, who lay
intermixed with us in the same wards.
“Hould your tongue, ye blathering devil,” he would say, in a low tone,
“and don’t be after disgracing your country in the teeth of these ere
furriners, by dying hard. Ye’ll have the company at your burial, won’t
you? Ye’ll have the drums beating and the guns firing over ye, won’t
you? Marciful God! what more do you want? ye are not at Elvas, to be
thrown into a hole like a dog—ye’ll be buried in a shroud and coffin,
won’t you? For God’s sake, die like a man before these ere Frenchers.”
Mike, however, had one great failing, he drank like a whale, and did not
scruple to adopt as gifts or legacies, the wine rations of both the
dying and the dead, until he drank himself out of the world, and as his
patients remarked, after all, he died “like a beast.”
The news of Mike’s death spread like wildfire, and all his old friends
and the convalescents crowded to do honour to his remains.
The funeral of the Duke himself could not have made a greater stir, for
cavalier and foot soldier, from the drum-boy to the trumpeter, and all
the women, children and camp-followers in the locality, flocked to
follow his remains, the town became unusually alive, and the variegated
throng, headed by the deceased sergeant, borne by four bearers, and the
usual complement of soldiers with their arms reversed, slowly wound
their way through the city of Salamanca. Many a jest made the streets
ring with laughter, as the crowd followed the coffin, till they reached
the burial-ground (near the French battery taken by us some time
previously.) The bearers here proceeded to enter the gateway, when they
were suddenly aroused by a slight cry from within the coffin, with a
kind of scraping noise, like an effort to open it. They suddenly halted,
paused, and listened. It was surely Mike scraping. On they moved again
doubtfully. A second time the voice broke upon their ears. “Whist!”
ejaculated the bearers, their caps moving almost off their heads. “Oh
blood and ouns! where am I? Oh bad luck to yer souls, let me out, won’t
you? oh, merciful Jasus, I’m smoothered.” In a twinkling out bolted the
bearers from under the coffin, and a dozen bayonets in an instant were
sunk under and lifted the lid. The crowd crushed dreadfully to take a
look. But there lay Sergeant Michael Connelly, sure enough as stiff as a
fugleman but something colder, and my old friend, that blackguard Josh
Hetherington, the cockney ventriloquist, who had been one of the
bearers, as “innocent” as you please, joining in the astonishment of the
rest of us.
Josh winked at me and I at Josh. “Ned,” said he, “I’m blessed if I think
he’s dead. Why don’t some of them chaps go for a doctor.” “To be sure,”
cried the crowd, “send for the doctor.” Meanwhile a regular rush was
made to press him to swallow some of his favourite liquor, but his teeth
as obstinately opposed the draught, so that poor Mike was already
pronounced “not himself,” when the doctor arrived.
While here, I got acquainted with a pleasant and intelligent man who
belonged to the 13th Light Dragoons, and was fast recovering from a
wound he had received in the shoulder. We used frequently to alleviate
as much as we could the unpleasantness of our situation by a little
conversation. His history both amused and interested me.
He had been taken prisoner by the French near Badajoz while serving in
General Hill’s division, but managed shortly afterwards to make his
escape between Vittoria and Pampeluna. The following morning he fell in
with a party of General Mina’s Guerillas, who, as soon as they found him
to be an Englishman, wished him to enlist in their band until he could
regain his regiment. This offer he was glad to accept. After giving me a
very amusing account of the manners of the Guerillas, their rich
picturesque dresses and arms, and their wild military life in the
mountains, he proceeded to detail several anecdotes of their cruelty and
ferocity, among which I can well remember the following, from the
impression it then left upon my mind, and the simple manner in which he
related it:
Uniting suddenly several of his Guerilla bands in the neighbourhood of
Vittoria, Mina, whose information of the movements of the French seemed
unerring, one morning surprised and captured a number of waggons filled
with stores. They had been sent from Madrid for the army at Vittoria,
and were escorted by gendarmes, who were all either killed or taken. The
prisoners, about twenty in number, were immediately marched into the
mountains, but not before they had time to draw a dark augury of their
own fate by seeing all their wounded comrades brutally stabbed to death
on the ground where the skirmish had taken place. The prisoners, after
having been stripped of nearly every article of wearing apparel, even to
their boots, were confined in a space of ground encircled by pens or
hurdles, and used for keeping cattle, round which were planted many
sentries. In the evening the ferocious mountaineers, elated with their
day’s success, being joined by a number of females, their sweethearts
and wives made merry with drinking wine and dancing to the music of
several guitars. During this merriment both men and women frequently
taunted their wretched prisoners, recapitulated the wrongs the Spaniards
had suffered at the hands of the French, until they gradually had
excited their passions to a partial state of frenzy. In this state, the
signal having been given by one of their number, they rushed in among
their hapless prisoners, and commenced a general massacre, drowning the
cries and supplications for mercy of their victims, as they gave each
blow, by enumerating the different losses each had sustained in his
family during the war. “Take that for my father you shot,”—“that for my
son,”—“this for my brother,” &c., until the work of death was complete.
The most inhuman, and perhaps most revolting trait in this general
murder was some of the women having actively assisted in the slaughter.
A short time after I had heard the preceding sketch, I had an
opportunity of observing that sanguinary feeling of revenge that so
peculiarly characterized the Guerillas during the war. I rejoined my
regiment at a little village about three leagues from Madrid, called
Gataffe. In the farm-house, where the greater part of our company were
quartered, was a very pretty Spanish girl who had a brother serving with
the Guerillas. One hot summer evening, when several comrades and myself
were sitting on a bench outside the door, joking with the girl, a
swarthy, savage-looking Spaniard came up, and was welcomed with much joy
by the girl and her parents. The new-comer was armed to the teeth with
pistols, daggers, and a long gun, which, together with his crimson sash
and free bearing, at once proclaimed him the Guerilla. At first we
imagined him the girl’s brother, but soon perceived another, though
equally dear tie, cemented their affection: he was her lover or suitor.
While engaged in conversation with his sweetheart and her parents, we
observed him take rather ostentatiously from his side a long
heavy-looking silk purse, the contents of which he emptied into the lap
of his mistress. The Spaniard’s eyes sparkled with pleasure; but, for
the honour of a British soldier, a general disgust pervaded the minds of
my comrades and myself, when we beheld a number of human ears and
fingers, which glistened with the golden ornaments they still retained.
He then told us, with an air of bravado, that he had cut them from off
the bodies of the French whom he himself had slain in battle, each ear
and finger having on a gold ring.
“Napoleon,” he observed, in his native dialect, with a grim
smile—“Napoleon loves his soldiers, and so do the ravens;” as he pointed
to several of those carrion birds perched on the walls of an old convent
covered with ivy. “We find them plenty of food; they shall never want,
so long as a Frenchman remains in Spain.” Such are the men who were
considered the greatest patriots attached to the Spanish army during the
war.
The chief business of the British at this time was laying siege to
Burgos. The enemy having also assembled in great numbers betwixt it and
Vittoria, Lord Wellington, thinking he was not able to oppose their
force, ordered the whole of the divisions to retire on Salamanca. We of
the light division received orders to the same effect.
On the 22nd of October we left Madrid: the contempt with which the
inhabitants treated us for leaving them once more to the mercy of the
French, cannot easily be forgotten.
For what the men said gave us little concern; but to be taxed and
taunted for cowardice by the Spanish ladies was most galling. Even my
handsome dark-eyed Clementeria, sister to the Guerilla lover, who seemed
so much attached to me, and with whom I spent many a moonlight night
serenading to the Spanish guitar, and who first taught me to use the
castanets in the Spanish dance—even she, with all her pretended love,
refused me a buss at our last moment of parting, though I used all my
eloquence, welding the Spanish, French, and English together in pleading
my cause. All had no effect on the hard-hearted _Mosa_. Her last words
were: “Begone, you cowardly English, you have not the courage to fight
the enemy of our country: those who have butchered my dear father and
brother,” were her last words. After a harassing march through a
mountainous country we joined the remainder of our army at Salamanca.
There we took up our quarters for a few days in a convent, which
exhibited such a loathsome picture of filth as to be almost unendurable.
In consequence of our men having torn up a part of the balustrades for
firing, a young officer of the third battalion fell down a height of
fifty feet, and was killed on the spot.
On the second morning after our arrival we again proceeded towards
Rodrigo. The rain fell in torrents, and from the heaviness of the roads,
which were in many places a foot deep in mud, most of our men lost their
shoes, and were obliged to march barefooted. Among this number I was
unfortunately included. When we had reached our halting-ground for the
night, our prospect was most desolate. Wet to the skin—without fire or
shelter—and at the same time possessed of a ravenous appetite, with
nothing to satisfy it, formed one of the _disagreeables_ so often
attendant upon our life in the Peninsula—to say nothing of incessant
duty and fatigue. It was these sufferings, in fact, I am convinced, that
oftentimes rendered our men so callous about death, at different periods
during the war, as some men, from the privations they endured, wished to
be shot, and exposed themselves in action purposely.
On our halt on the above night, the first thing I did was to take off my
jacket and shirt, and after ringing about half a gallon of water out of
them, I replaced them upon my back to dry as they might. Most of our men
had employed themselves in cutting down boughs of trees to keep
themselves out of the mud; but it was some hours before we could obtain
that greatest of luxuries, under our present circumstances, a good fire.
Still we had not a morsel to eat after the day’s fatigue—no rations
having been issued—and our men suffered from all the pangs of cold and
hunger. Fortune, however, during the evening favoured a few of us.
Towards the middle of the night one or two of our men brought
intelligence that several cars laden with spirits and biscuit for the
Spanish army were stuck fast in the road, and could not proceed onwards.
The temptation to our hungry maws could not be resisted; leaving our
fires, and getting up to the cars, screened by the darkness of the
night, we managed to get a portion both of biscuit and aguardiente; but
the Spanish guard, discovering our fellows, commenced firing on them:
this was quickly returned, and several, I believe, were shot; indeed,
the firing continued all night, which alarmed the chief part of our
army. Had the offenders been discovered, it would not have been
difficult to have foretold their fate, as the Duke’s orders were
particularly strict against plunder, (if such this might be called, for
after all, the whole fell into the hands of the French next morning, as
the carts were then able to be moved). For my own part, such were my
feelings this night, that I believe I should have expired, but for the
liquor I had drank.
With all their hunger, however, there existed among the men a sympathy
for the officers, which, considering their distance, was rather
remarkable; several of the most haughty of the latter gladly received
little kindnesses from the soldiers; and if the noble lord be now
living, he may chance to recollect an instance connected with it. Lord
Charles Spencer, then a youth about eighteen years of age, suffered
dreadfully from the hunger and fatigue of this retreat; trembling with
cold and weakness, he stood perched upon some branches, that had been
cut down for fuel, the tears silently starting from his eyes through the
pain he experienced, while thus sharing in the common lot, anxiously
watching a few acorns, which to stay the pangs of hunger he had placed
in the embers to roast. I dare say his Lordship had never known till
then the joys of poverty—a good appetite! Nor will he, I expect, forget
how willingly the rough soldiers flew to offer him biscuits, which their
own sufferings could not withhold from one so tenderly and delicately
reared; but his Lordship was very much liked amongst us, and, no doubt,
it did many a veteran’s heart good to hear his thanks, and see the
eagerness with which he devoured the offering. These are times when
Lords find that they are men—and men, that they are comrades.
Before daylight we pursued our route, the rain continuing to fall in
torrents, while the state of our regiment was pitiable. To add to our
comfort, the enemy were close upon our heels: this night we spent
something like the last—wet, cold, and hungry. On the following morning
we were obliged to continue our retreat rather precipitately, as the
shots of the French, who were in great force, came rattling in among us.
During the morning the enemy’s cavalry succeeded in getting through a
wood, and managed to cut off the baggage of the seventh division, then
in front of ours. Among some captives the enemy made on this occasion
were several children in panniers carried by donkeys. One Irishwoman, in
particular, I remember seeing, whose grief seemed inconsolable for the
loss she had sustained in that of her child. In a few days, however, the
French, desiring to be as little encumbered as ourselves with children,
sent them back with a flag of truce. This was followed by a most
interesting scene, as the different mothers rushed forward to clasp
their darlings in their arms.
This day we were hard pressed by the enemy’s advanced-guard, and two of
our companies, the one in which I served being one, were ordered to
cover the retreat of our division. The French, confident in their
numbers, pressed us vigorously, and it was with difficulty we could
check their advance. While hotly engaged skirmishing, I was about taking
possession of a tree, when I beheld a poor woman at the foot of it, who,
being unable to keep up with the regiment, had sank down exhausted. Poor
soul! she seized my hands, and begged of me to assist her; at the same
moment the enemy’s balls came rapping into the tree that only partially
screened us. I was obliged, however, to leave her, as there seemed every
prospect of most of us being cut off; the “assembly” sounded, and away
we dashed, “devil take the hindmost,” in upon the battalion. Here our
illustrious chief, who was generally to be found where danger was most
apparent, seeing us come puffing and blowing up to our column, called
out to us, in a cheering voice: “Be cool, my lads; don’t be in a hurry!”
But, in faith, with all possible respect for his Lordship, we were not
in greater haste than the occasion demanded, as the French were upon us,
and we were obliged to dash down the sides of the hill, where we halted
for a moment, and his Lordship also, and then ford a river. While
engaged in crossing the stream, that was much swollen by the late rains,
a round-shot from the enemy, who were now peppering away at us, took off
the head of a Sergeant Fotheringham, of our battalion, and smashed the
thigh of another man. On gaining the other side of the stream we turned
to give a salute in return, but owing to the wet our rifles were
unserviceable.
We remained that night stationary on the banks of the river, exposed to
all the delights of cold, hunger, and fatigue. These feelings were not
improved by a course of shelling that the enemy did us the honour to
indulge in at our expense. But, as I have remarked, the sufferings of
our men were such at this period that many of them considered death a
happy relief. The morning at length dawned upon our half-famished
persons, but brought no alleviation to our miseries. The rain still
continued to come down in torrents. Pursuing our route, we arrived at
Ciudad Rodrigo, and took shelter under its walls, where we found some
sheds used as stables for the Spanish cavalry. The moment I entered, the
first thing that caught my eye was some Indian corn-leaves, which I
considered a lucky chance, and instantly throwing myself on them, wet as
I was, soon fell into a sound sleep, the only rest I had had since we
left Salamanca. However, in the morning when I awoke I found myself in a
glow of heat, and covered with perspiration, and on attempting to rise
found myself as if paralyzed, and could not move. Calling some of the
men to assist, they were astonished at the steam that emitted from under
me like smoke. I then found my bed had been hot horse-dung, slightly
covered by the Indian corn-leaves. The doctor being sent for, ordered me
instantly to be carried into the town, where with hot baths and a
salivation in a few weeks I was able to join my regiment.