We encamp on the banks of the Bidassoa—Scenes on the water-edge—A narrow
escape with a lady in question, “Ah, there’s the rub”—Tom Crawley and
the biscuits—Our third battalion carry the heights of Vera—The French
camp, “the last of the French”—The Pyrenees—The mountain father—Up
hill and down dale—The battle of the Nivelle—Manly and Spanish
affection—Blanco again—His gallantry—Tom Crawley—A hug from a granny
dear—The last struggle—Crawley’s departure—A tear for Tom—A reel—St.
Jean de Luz—The French endeavour to make a stand—Colonel Sir Andrew
Barnard wounded—Death messengers fly fast.
WE remained encamped, for several weeks, close to the river Bidassoa,
Lesaca in our rear, and Vera in our front. We used to amuse ourselves
while here, bathing. This river which divides the French and Spanish
territories, we were on the eve of crossing to go into France. It was
heart-stirring to witness our men, as it were, unconsciously exposing to
liberated Spain the evidence of the dangers they had endured for her
liberation, stripped on its banks, and prepared to dash into the clear
water, the perforated and wounded exteriors of the Rifles proved what
they had seen and suffered. But the veterans, not thinking thus,
generally amused themselves on these occasions by remarking and jesting
to each other on the peculiar situation of the different bullet holes,
and the direction the shot had taken in passing through them.
One day I remember nearly losing my life by my own folly. It was as
follows:—We had a very handsome little Spanish girl attached to one of
our sergeants, named Dillon: she by some means got to the other side of
the river, which was generally occupied by the enemy, crying bitterly,
and begging of the men, that were on our side, to get her over, as she
was afraid to go to a bridge lower down lest she should be taken by the
French. Having a respect for her, I instantly stripped off all except my
trowsers, and swam across—for here the river was not wide but deep—and,
without a moment’s hesitation, placed pretty Louisa, for so she was
called, on my back, with the intention, as I thought, of bringing her to
our side. Placing her arms round my neck, I waded as far as I was able,
and then commenced swimming; but I no sooner got into the deep water
than she squeezed me so tight round the neck that I lost all power,
although a good swimmer, and down I went. At first our fellows thought I
was playing tricks; but on rising and bellowing out for assistance, they
became alarmed, for she stuck to me all the time like a leech. Several
of the men upon seeing me go down a second time, stripped and jumped in
to my assistance; one of the name of Kelly, of my own company, diving
down, for the place was twelve feet deep, seized her by her long hair,
and brought both to the surface of the water; and, by the assistance of
the rest, dragged us to land insensible. When I came to myself, I found
our head surgeon, Dr. Burke, with some of our fellows, rubbing me to
life again; and, with the assistance of a little brandy they had poured
down our throats, both recovered. For myself, I was able to walk to my
tent in the course of some time: but not so with the pretty Louisa, as
she was kept wrapped in blankets the whole day. Poor thing! she remained
with the regiment while in Spain, and afterwards followed us to England;
but what ultimately became of her, I know not.
Here my old friend, Tom Crawley, got the whole of our regiment out of a
precious scrape. It was as follows:—Our division was served out with
linen bags, made exactly to fit across our knapsacks, and, at the same
time, three days’ biscuit (3 lbs.) in each bag. This biscuit was to be
kept strapped on the top of each man’s knapsack, well tied, with brigade
orders for no man to taste a morsel of it, unless given out in written
orders to that effect, as our brigadier expected we should be on short
commons while on the Pyrenees, and this was to be, in case of scarcity,
our last resource. These bags were examined regularly every morning by
officers commanding companies, but, while seen strapped snugly on the
knapsacks, were considered by them all right. However, our fellows, who
were never at a loss for a subterfuge, devised the following plan to
evade the officers’ vigilance: they eat their biscuits except one whole
one, which they kept at top to be seen, and in their place substituted
chips. This passed on very well for some time, as the sight of the top
biscuit satisfied the officers, until one day Captain Johnson of our
regiment took it into his head to see his company’s biscuit shaken out,
and whilst on private parade ordered them to untie their bags to see
their biscuit. The first man on the right of his company was the
unfortunate Tom Crawley.
“Untie your bag, Crawley,” says the Captain. Tom instantly did as he was
ordered, and showed the Captain a very good-looking biscuit a-top.
“Shake the whole out,” said the Captain, “until I see if they are
getting mouldy.”
“Oh, faith, there is no fear of that,” said the astonished Crawley,
looking the Captain hard in the face, at the same time casting a woeful
eye on his bag. However, the Captain was not to be baulked, and taking
the bag by both ends, emptied out its contents, which turned out to be
nothing more nor less than a few dry chips. Poor Tom, as upright as a
dart, stood scratching his head, with a countenance that would make a
saint laugh.
“What have you done with your biscuit? have you eaten it, Sir?” said the
Captain. Tom, motionless, made no answer. “Do you know it is against
orders?”
“To be sure I do,” says Tom; “but, for God’s sake, Sir, do you take me
for a South American jackass, that carries gold and eats straw?”[20]
This answer not only set the Captain, but the whole company, in roars of
laughter. On further inspection, the Captain found his whole company,
indeed the regiment, had adopted the same plan. Through this our bags
were taken away, and we relieved from carrying chips.
About the beginning of October we had an opportunity of witnessing the
gallantry of our third battalion. Although they had not seen our service
in the country, yet on this occasion they showed themselves “old hands,”
and worthy of their green jackets. They had to dislodge the enemy, then
holding possession of a high hill behind Vera. This they did in most
excellent style, in the sight of our division and the fourth. Our
battalion was not suffered to remain idle, and we soon joined in pursuit
of the enemy, who took refuge in the valleys of France. On taking
possession of their camp ground we found a whole range of huts,
constructed in the most ingenious manner, of turf and stone. One of our
men came in for rather a novel prize: this was a large monkey, which we
kept in the regiment for some time. One strange antipathy this animal
was remarkable for, was his utter dislike to the sight of a woman.
On the morning of the 9th, the day after the preceding skirmish of Vera
heights, we took ground considerably to the right, marching along the
summit of the Pyrenees until we came to a very high hill, on the top of
which stood the remains of an ancient castle. Our men styled the hill
the “father of the Pyrenees,” as it was by far the highest mountain we
had ever seen, and was called La Rhune by the French, who had possession
of it. On our arrival we had the satisfaction of compelling them, after
a smart skirmish, to evacuate their lofty tenement. Of the difficulty of
this enterprize some notion may be entertained when it is known that our
men had, in most instances, to crawl up the mountain on their hands and
knees, in consequence of its steepness. The French, fortunately for
them, had a less precipitous side to retreat down, or they must all have
been destroyed.
My curiosity, after this, led me to explore the old building, in company
with one or two comrades. It was originally the ruin of a very strong
fortress or castle, in which, I subsequently heard, the Spaniards used
formerly to keep state prisoners. After searching about for some time we
discovered a narrow pathway that conducted us to a cellar or cavern,
which, to our surprise, we found tenanted by an old gentleman with a
venerable beard, and who received us very courteously. He seemed a
hermit from his appearance, but how he managed to maintain his residence
against the dominion of eagles, vultures, and owls, as well as the
occasional jar of contending parties, was a wonder he did not condescend
to explain. The only gift we could obtain was a little spring water,
which, after our scramble, was refreshing. The splendid view from our
elevated position, however, made ample amends for our work.
Our battalion at this time was stationed about a mile below La Rhune,
and greatly exposed to the storms of wind and rain that we experienced
at this period, together with scarcity of provisions. Few of the country
people visited us, so that even those in possession of money found
little or no benefit from it. Meanwhile the French army, who were
encamped about three-quarters of a mile in our front, we had reason to
believe, were more fortunate, as they were plentifully supplied with
provisions. Occasionally, too, some of our officers were visited by a
supply that was smuggled past the French lines.
A general attack upon the enemy was now daily expected, as Lord
Wellington with his staff had been observed inspecting the enemy’s
position with more than ordinary care for the last two or three
mornings. On the 9th of November every disposition having been made for
attack, the following morning ushered in the battle of the Nivelle. The
company I belonged to being this night on picquet, we had orders on the
first dawn of light to attack and drive in the enemy’s picquet opposed
to us; and as we were preparing for the task, to our surprise we beheld
the whole of our division about a hundred yards in our rear waiting to
support us. As soon as our attack commenced we could hear the alarm
given by at least a hundred drums and bugles; and as the light dawned
more clearly, we could see the French columns all in motion. The
remainder of our battalion and division coming up, we were soon hotly
engaged, a valley only partially separating us from the main body of the
enemy.
After we had routed them from their first line, and were getting close
to their second, an incident occurred that fell under my observation,
and I may say, of the greater part of our company. There was a man of
the name of Mauley, a shoemaker, who fell shot through the head. This
man, nearly the whole time we had been in Spain, lived with a Spanish
woman, who was tenderly attached to him. She always got as near to her
lover as possible during action, generally on a donkey. On this occasion
some of our wounded men passing, informed her Mauley was killed. The
poor girl was almost distracted; leaving her donkey and stores behind
her (for she acted in some degree as one of the suttlers to our
regiment), she rushed down to the spot where Mauley had fallen. We were
then in the thick of the fight, and our only safety was cover, as the
balls came as thick as hail, so that every moment I expected to see the
poor woman shot. She, however, seemed callous to every danger: throwing
herself on the blood-stained body of her lover, she commenced giving way
to the most appalling ebullition of grief, tearing her hair and wringing
her hands.
The gallantry of Blanco, the revengeful Spaniard, whom I have previously
mentioned at Vittoria, was conspicuous on this occasion. He had been an
intimate friend of Mauley. Seeing the danger his countrywoman was
exposed to, he rushed boldly from his cover, and placing himself in
front of her, continued loading and firing at the enemy, loudly swearing
all the time such oaths only as a Spaniard can do justice to.
Notwithstanding the real horrors of the scene, it was impossible to
resist the impulse of laughter at the fierce grimaces and oaths of
Blanco, who escaped as it were almost by a miracle.
A part of our division at this time were endeavouring to enter the
French lines on our right. But the enemy seemed determined to defend
their huts, which they had doubtless been at considerable trouble to
construct, and the action there was close and sanguinary; part of our
battalion taking them on the right flank, they were eventually obliged
to yield. As soon as we had arrived at the huts, which they had arranged
in most excellent order, and from which they had reluctantly been
compelled to retreat, in passing along a row of them I heard a scuffle
going on in one, and on entering it I beheld a huge French grenadier,
with red wings, and my old acquaintance Tom Crawley struggling together
on the ground. The Frenchman had been surprised, but was getting the
better of Tom, when my appearance at once determined the matter, and the
grenadier surrendered.
It appeared from what I could make out that the Frenchman in his hasty
retreat from the hut had forgotten some of his needfuls, and on his
return for them, was met at the doorway by Tom, who, according to his
old custom, was preparing to explore its interior. Crawley was
immediately attacked by the grenadier with fixed bayonet. Poor Tom, in
his attempt to parry off a thrust, received the blade through his right
hand, and bled profusely. We did not kill the Frenchman but left him to
the mercy of the Caçadores, who were following close behind us. Tom went
to the rear, and I never saw him afterwards, nor can I say I have since
heard of him. Many an anxious inquiry was made, many an old scene was
revived, and passed current amongst us, and Tom Crawley will live in our
recollections as long as we can enjoy the good company of a comrade.
The enemy, although retreating, did so in an orderly manner, keeping up
a tolerably brisk fire. I had no sooner regained the line of skirmishers
than I received a severe hit just about the centre of my waist, that
nearly knocked me down, and for the moment I imagined myself mortally
wounded through the body; however, on my examining, I found myself only
slightly bruised. A ball had actually stuck in the serpent[21] of my
waistbelt, from whence it was afterwards taken out with difficulty.
After I had recovered from the shock, I joined in the pursuit of the
enemy, who once or twice attempted to make a stand, but we were close at
their heels, so they thought it better to pursue their way at an
accelerated pace, covered, however, by some battalions of light troops,
who displayed considerable coolness. The French descended the heights,
at the foot of which stands the pretty little town of St. Jean de Luz,
with its white houses. Our battalion was hotly following, engaged in
sharp skirmishing, when our gallant Colonel, Sir Andrew Barnard, who was
very conspicuous during the day, on a brown long-tailed horse, received
a shot in the breast. On running up to him, which I did with several
other men, we perceived him spit blood, but he would not dismount. One
of our buglers supported him on his horse, while another led it to the
rear.
Immediately after this occurrence, my attention was attracted by seeing
the 52nd regiment charge up the side of a hill on our right, and take a
fort. Shots are very strange things, and fly fast: a Sergeant Watts, of
the Rifles, at this moment, received a ball in the head, being next to
him, he laid hold of me with both hands, at the same time calling
out—“Am I dead? Am I dead?” Poor fellow! he was mortally wounded, and it
was with difficulty I could extricate myself from his deadly grasp.
The French, after a severe loss, made good their retreat across the
river that leads to St. Jean de Luz. With our usual luck we took up our
camp on the side of a bleak and barren hill for the night. After this we
got into better quarters on the other side of the river. This was at a
château called Arcangues. We were as usual in the immediate front of the
enemy, and our outlying sentinels and theirs were little more than
thirty yards apart. While here, such a good feeling reigned among the
French and our men, that they frequently went into each other’s picquet
houses—terms of intimacy which they extended to neither the Spanish nor
Portuguese troops, for whom they expressed an unmeasured contempt. But
this state of things at our outposts was too subversive of discipline to
be tolerated by those in command, and of course was only done upon a
reliance of mutual honour on the sly; still it exhibits a pleasing
picture of the absence of all revenge and prejudice on either side among
men of opposing interests. This feeling, however, could not stay the
effusion of blood that was still to be shed.