Head-quarters at Grenalda—Don Julian Sanchez, the celebrated Guerilla
Chief—Weakness of our numbers—Incorporation of Spaniards into our
regiments—A thief—Punishment of, and opinion of the men—General orders
for a collection among the men and officers to relieve Russian
losses—A ball, in which thousands were present—Campaign of 1813
commenced—The Life Guards and the Blues join us—The French retreat to
Burgos—Secret expedition for bread—Our surprise—Retreat—General Sir
Lowry Cole—His temple spectacles made use of to reconnoitre—Our
escape—A few remarks—Three alternatives—A cavalry affair on the 18th
June—German brotherhood again.
TOWARDS the end of November our battalion again became stationed at its
old quarters, in the little village of Allamada. We obtained here fresh
clothing, certainly not before it was wanted; green having become by far
the least conspicuous colour in the regiment, while so various had been
the expedients resorted to for obtaining a substitute for shoes, that
the fresh supply from England was welcomed with no common joy. It was
quite amusing to see how our fellows enjoyed their clothing, strutting
about as proud as peacocks among the Spanish peasant girls, in whose
estimation they doubtless conceived they should be considerably
advanced.
Head-quarters were at Grenalda, some miles distant from where we lay,
and a company of our regiment occasionally did duty over the Duke, whose
quarters were in the house of the Alcalde. We had strict orders to admit
no one inside the gates leading to the house, unless some particular
despatch from the front, or from Don Julian Sanchez, the Guerilla
chieftain. Indeed, a report had arisen amongst us, at the time, that his
Grace was not altogether right in his head; but this was mere fiction. I
used to observe him walking through the market-place, leading by the
hand a little Spanish girl, some five or six years old, and humming a
short tune or dry whistle, and occasionally purchasing little sweets, at
the child’s request, from the paysannes of the stalls.
Here, for the first time, I saw Don Julian Sanchez, the noted Guerilla
leader, linked arm in arm with the Duke—an instance peculiar to the
time, of obscure merit rising of its own impulse to an equality with the
greatest man of the age.
My readers may well suppose I did not slightly notice the square
well-set figure, dark scowl, and flashing eyes of the Guerilla, whose
humble birth-place I afterwards visited, in a small village between
Rodrigo and Salamanca. I had been informed that he first began his
career as a pig-boy, but owing to some cruelties exercised on a branch
of his family by the French, he took an inveterate hatred to them, which
he exemplified by surprising and slaughtering two or three of their
soldiers, whom he found asleep in a wood. Accompanied by one or two
others, he continued and increased his sanguinary feats, and gradually
collected a small band, then a body, and eventually commanded upwards of
twenty thousand Guerillas, well-armed, and equipped with British arms
and accoutrements, and who rendered more assistance to the cause of the
British than all the Spanish troops beside.
Our regiments, by constant collision with the French, were getting
exceedingly thinned, and recruits from England came but very slowly,
until we found it necessary at last to incorporate some of the
Spaniards; for this purpose several non-commissioned officers and men
were sent into the adjacent villages recruiting. In the course of a
short time, and to our surprise, we were joined by a sufficient number
of Spaniards to give ten or twelve men to each company in the battalion.
But the mystery was soon unravelled, and by the recruits themselves,
who, on joining, gave us to understand, by a significant twist of the
neck, and a “Carago” (much like the very breaking of one), that they had
but three alternatives to choose from, to enter either the British, or
Don Julian’s service, or be hanged! The despotic sway of Sanchez, and
his threat in the bargain, so disjointed their inclination for the
Guerillas, that they hastily fled their native “woods” and “threshold,”
for fear of really finding themselves noosed up to them, and gladly
joined the British regiments. Many of them were even made corporals,
and, indeed, proved themselves worthy of their new comrades, whom they
rivalled in every undertaking of courage and determination.[14]
While lying here I will give a short description of our regiment’s
opinion of flogging, not indeed by words, but by signs, as the following
anecdote will show, although the sound of cats was seldom heard in our
battalion; for I can safely say, that for the six years I served in
Spain not more than six men, to my recollection, were punished in our
battalion, and yet withal I cannot brag of our fellows being the
honestest branch in the British army. At the time I speak of we had a
man in our regiment of the name of Stratton, who, after robbing several
of his comrades of trifling articles, took it into his head to desert to
the enemy, and was detected in the act, in a wood that leads from
Rodrigo to Salamanca, by the vigilant Guerillas, and brought back
prisoner to our cantonments. He was tried by a regimental court-martial,
and sentenced to receive four hundred lashes.
After the proceedings of the court-martial were read by the Adjutant, in
a wood near the village where the regiment was formed for punishment,
Major Cameron, who commanded us at the time, devised the following plan
to find out the true character of the prisoner, for the Major was not
only a brave and gallant soldier, but a shrewd man, and knew well that
the men were better judges of the good or bad qualities of each other
than the officers could possibly be. He addressed the prisoner as
follows:—“Stratton, I ought to have had you tried by a general
court-martial; in that case you would have been shot; but the high
character the regiment has borne in the army prevents me from having it
mentioned in general orders, that a man of the Rifles could be guilty of
the heinous crime of desertion to the enemy. I am yet willing to show
you kindness. Now, Sir, if the men of the battalion will be answerable
for your future good conduct, I shall pardon you.” Turning round at the
same time, Major Cameron looked the men in the face while he stood in
the square, as if waiting for an answer.
A pause took place, no answer being given. The Major said: “Strip, Sir.”
He was tied to a tree, and received twenty-five lashes; the second
bugler was preparing to commence, when the Major again said, “Will you
not be answerable, men, for Stratton’s conduct? Well, then, if his own
company will be answerable for his good behaviour I shall forgive him.”
The prisoner, at these words, looked round with an imploring eye, as far
as his position would allow him, looking towards his own company,
saying, “Do, men, speak for me, I will not act so in future.” I
recollect it well, each man leaning on the muzzle of his rifle with his
left hand, while his right covered his face, and all silent; not a man
spoke. “Go on,” said the Major; the culprit received twenty-five lashes
more, when the Major again said, “Now, Sir, if only one man in the
regiment will speak in your behalf, I shall take you down.” Still
silent, while the third bugler commenced: when the prisoner had received
about sixteen lashes, a voice from the square called out, “Forgive him,
Sir!”—“Stop, bugler, stop!” said the Major; “who was the man that
spoke?” “I did, Sir!” was the answer. “Step into the square;” when a man
of the prisoner’s own company came forward. “Oh! is it you, Robinson?”
said Major Cameron; “I thought as much; as little-good-for-nothing a
fellow as himself; but take him down.”
When the prisoner was conducted out of the square, the Major addressed
the men, saying: “Your conduct in the field is well known by the British
army; but,” added the Major, “your moral worth I have not known before;
not a man would speak in that fellow’s behalf, except the man who did,
whom you know as well as I do.” This may serve to show, that however
soldiers dislike this mode of punishment, they still like to see a
rascal punished; and nothing tends to destroy all feeling of pity for
his sufferings more than his having been guilty of an act of cowardice,
or robbing his comrade.
Some months before our present sojourn at Allamada, Napoleon had made
his disastrous campaign in Russia, when Moscow was burnt. The
circumstance was now brought to our notice by the general order,
soliciting a day’s pay from the officers and men of the army towards
defraying the losses sustained by the Russians. This was most cheerfully
bestowed by every man in our battalion except two, the above-mentioned
Stratton and another man of the name of Frost; and to crown the
occurrence the day was made one of jollity and fun. Country dances were
struck up by the band, and it was most laughable to behold, one and all,
officers as well as private soldiers kicking about their heels to the
tune of “The Downfall of Paris.”
Our division had been cantoned in and about Allamada during the winter,
when, soldier-like, ever sighing after a change of scene, the men of our
battalion generally began to grow tired of their monotonous and inactive
life: however, we received orders for marching. This occurred about the
middle of May, when we commenced the campaign of 1813, and a spirit of
enterprize, notwithstanding past sufferings, extended itself throughout
the light division. We left Allamada in high spirits. On the third day’s
march our battalion encamped near Salamanca, in a wood, where we were
joined by the Life Guards and Oxford Blues, that had just come out from
England, and whom we beheld drawn up at the side of the road. Their
fresh and well-fed appearance gave rise to many jests at the expense of
the “householders.” They in fact, as I learnt, took us at first, from
our dark clothing and embrowned visages, for a foreign regiment.
The first peep we got of the enemy was at a place called Toro, on the
road towards Burgos. There our hussars had a sharp skirmish, in which
they took some prisoners. Continuing our advance, we overtook their
rear-guard the following day. After a little skirmishing and cannonading
they continued their retreat to Burgos. The next morning we were
startled by a tremendous explosion, that at first induced many of our
men to think it an earthquake, until we ascertained the fact that it
arose from the explosion of a mine, with which the French had destroyed
the castle and some of the works of the town of Burgos.
On the 16th of June we passed through the pretty little town of Medina
del Pomar, and encamped on the other side of it close to the banks of a
large river. On this march we suffered much from a deficiency of
supplies from the commissariat, as anything like rations we seldom
received. Myself and one or two others, having some few pence,
determined to start off on the sly, as we were not allowed to move from
our camp ground, and purchase bread at a little village we beheld at the
other side of the river, which we forded unobserved and entered the
village. There, however, the alarm of the people became very great upon
our appearance, and not wishing apparently to have any dealings with us,
they asked an immense price for the bread. Irritated at this conduct,
and urged by hunger, every man seized a loaf and threw down the usual
price in the country. Seeing that we were all totally unarmed, for we
had not even our side-arms, an immediate outcry was raised against us by
the people, and we had to run for safety. This we did, carrying the
loaves with us, until we were overtaken by some of the swift-footed
peasantry, who came up to us with knives and clubs. Our lives being thus
in jeopardy for the dearly-obtained bread, our party instantly had
recourse to stones for defence. “Muerte a los peros Ingleses.” “Kill the
English dogs,” was the general cry of the Spaniards, as they brandished
their long knives. They were evidently about to make a rush in among us,
by which my own personal adventures, and those of my comrades, would, in
all probability, have been finished on the spot, when several men of the
43rd and 52nd regiments, belonging to our division, came running up,
like ourselves, foraging. It was the turn of the Spaniards now to
retreat—which they did in a hurry.
We had scarcely escaped the attack of the Spaniards and arrived at the
bank of the river, when General Sir Lowry Cole came galloping up to us
with some of the mounted staff, which indeed might be termed the police
of the army. “Hallo! you plundering rascals of the light division—halt!”
was the General’s command, as he pulled up his temple spectacles, which
he generally wore. One only resource was left us, and that was to plunge
into the river, which at that part was very deep, and swim across,
holding the bread in our teeth. This we immediately adopted, when Sir
Lowry, in an agitated tone, that did honour to his heart, called
out—“Come back, men, for God’s sake—you’ll be drowned! Come back, and
I’ll not punish you.” But the General’s fears were needless; we soon
landed on the other side.
On arriving at our camp we found that the roll had been called over
several times, and that we had been set down “absent without leave;” but
we were lucky enough to escape with a slight reprimand.
I cannot here forbear making a few remarks with reference to the men who
composed our battalion in the Peninsula. The reader will be apt to
imagine, that those men who were in the habit of foraging after a day’s
march, were but indifferent soldiers. Allow me, with some pretensions to
the name of a veteran, to correct this error, and inform the reader,
that these were the very men whose bravery and daring in the field far
exceeded the merits of their more quiet comrades in quarters.
Our men, during the war, might be said to have been composed of three
classes. One was zealous and brave to absolute devotion, but who, apart
from their “fighting duties,” considered some little indulgence as a
right; the other class barely did their duty when under the eye of their
superior; while the third, and I am happy to say, by far the smallest in
number, were skulkers and poltroons—their excuse was weakness from want
of rations; they would crawl to the rear, and were seldom seen until
after a battle had been fought, when they might be observed in the ranks
until the Commissary again placed them on short allowance, when off they
started; in this manner they swelled the muster-rolls.
But the first of these were the men who placed the Duke on his present
pinnacle as one of the great captains of the age. During the whole of
our advance from the frontiers of Portugal, until we entered the
Pyrenees, not more (on the average) than one biscuit per day was served
out to each man—and it consequently could not be expected that a
soldier, weighed down by a heavy knapsack, and from sixty to eighty
rounds of ammunition (such as we Riflemen carried at the time), could
march from twenty to thirty miles a day on so short an allowance.
It was not unfrequent, therefore, after a day’s march to observe groups
of our regiment, and, indeed, of the division, rooting up the fields
with their swords and bayonets, in search of potatoes, &c., and these
were the men who were able to undergo the fatigue of the next day.
The French, also, in their hurried retreat stocked themselves with
several days’ provisions in advance; these were hung very temptingly
from their knapsacks,[15] and as it were, in defiance of our hungry
jaws; as a consequence, this gave rise to the well-known remark, or
alternatives of the Light Division: “Damme, boys, if the Commissary
don’t show his front we must either find a potato field, or have a
killing day!”
Indeed, but for these resources, so dependent on our individual
energies, his Grace, from our being always in front, might have
occasionally found half his Light Division “stiff,” and the other half
tucked under the blankets as “Belem Rangers.”
On the 18th of June (a very memorable day to our army afterwards) we
passed along the banks of a fine river. Our company, along with but half
a troop of German Hussars, formed the advance. On turning a winding of
the road, we suddenly came within sight of a party of the enemy’s
cavalry who formed the tail of their rear-guard. Our Germans, who were
commanded by a very smart young fellow, immediately charged them. The
French, perceiving the number of our cavalry only equal to their own,
instantly wheeled about and calmly awaited the attack. A very smart
combat soon took place, and was supported by great resolution for some
time on both sides, but terminated in the flight or capture of the
enemy. Several prisoners were brought in, all of whom were badly
wounded; and scarcely one of our gallant Germans had escaped without
some sabre-wound. Another singular circumstance occurred at this
skirmish. One of the German cavalry, as he came in with a prisoner and
his horse, exclaimed in broken English, as he came up to us—“Mine Got!
mine Got! he is mine own broder!” It appeared he had brought in his own
brother prisoner, wounded, who was in the French service. The officers
of both parties had been killed in the preceding charge; and Lord
Wellington, who came up at the time, was so pleased with our cavalry,
that he promised the sergeant a commission, which a few days after, I
was told, he obtained.
The whole of our battalion, which soon came up, was ordered to push
forward. We found the French rear-guard in possession of a little town
called San Milan, in front of which they had drawn themselves up,
apparently with the intention of defending. As we continued to advance
in extended order, they changed their minds and turned tail. This day I
noticed a novel system many of the enemy had adopted, of firing their
muskets over their shoulders in their retreat, without turning round to
face us. This resulted, in all probability, from the excessive heat and
fatigue they had endured.