The loss of my company in the late action—Apprehensions about my
leg—Medal and pewter—A candidate for Knighthood—Captain Plunkett—His
death, &c.—A Rifleman assassinated—Fire eaters—Sketch of San
Sebastian—Lord John Hay’s battery—Ramble towards Passages—Something
serious—Awkward squads—Singular decline of Spanish Bigotry—A Sectarian
alarmed.
I HAD scarcely finished writing my letter, when word came that the
Legion had taken possession of the enemy’s works, and compelled the
Carlists to retire. The loss sustained by my company in the action, was
one sergeant, one corporal, and six privates wounded. As soon as the
news was made known, the bells were set ringing, and the guns fired from
the castle and walls in honour of the victory; at night the town was
illuminated, with other demonstrations of joy by the inhabitants.
For several days I felt great apprehension about my leg, as it had
swollen to almost double its natural size, and had changed to a livid
colour, while the nails of the toes fell off. I was now on the eve of
fifty, and although in excellent spirits, doubted my constitution being
strong enough to undergo amputation. But from evil we sometimes derive
good; it proved so in my case. This being my sixth confinement through
gun-shot wounds, I had acquired some skill in the art of healing. My
doctor, I found, knew but little in such cases: his theory was obliged
to give way to my experience; and as the knowledge of a disease is half
its cure, I practised on myself. By this means, and strict attention to
diet, &c., I was enabled, in the short space of two months, not only to
leave my bed, but move about on crutches.
The doctor, while dressing me one morning, told me to keep as quiet as
possible, as the nature of my wound required care, the ball passing near
the main artery; that if anything like a hemorrhage took place, I was
instantly to send to him. Some few nights after this, when turning to
reach a glass of water from the table near the bedside, I felt a gush
from the wound in that part where the ball had passed. At first I took
no notice, but feeling something warmer than usual in my bed, I gently
raised my head, and throwing the clothes aside, I saw by the lamp that I
was saturated with blood.
I knew from my former campaigns, as well as the hint given by the
doctor, that if the artery was not instantly tied, I must bleed to
death. It was now about two in the morning, not a creature near me, my
servant sleeping in the lower part of the house; to attempt to rise and
leave my room to call assistance, such exertion would cause the blood to
flow more copiously; to remain still, I must expect nothing but death in
a few minutes. What was I to do?—placing my thumb firmly on the hole to
stop the blood, while with the other hand I struck the table, and called
lustily for assistance, but to no purpose, as no one heard me; my fate
seemed inevitable if the hemorrhage continued. In this state of suspense
I remained for some time; by degrees a film came over my sight; I felt
the vital part of my system so low, and nature became so exhausted, that
my head fell on the pillow, and all sense left me. How long I remained
in this state I know not, but on coming round again, the morning dawn
had just appeared, that gave sufficient light to enable me to see my
situation. To my great joy the bleeding had ceased, except by drops.
Still afraid to use exertion I remained quiet, the thumb still pressed
on the wound; however, I did not remain long in this misery: hearing
some one moving along the passage, I called out, when the old patrone
made her appearance, and on seeing me covered with blood, rushed out
screaming that the Captain had cut his throat, which aroused the whole
house, among the rest my servant, whom I instantly sent for Dr.
Greenwood. This gentleman, on examining the wound, observed a piece of
cloth sticking out of the orifice, which he instantly drew out, and
found it to be a piece of my green trowsers which the ball had left
behind in passing through my knee. He begged me not to be alarmed, as it
was one of the smaller arteries whence the quantity of blood had flowed.
This trial gave me to understand that, although the soldier can
cheerfully meet death in the field beside his comrades, he is a coward
in the dark when alone.
For their conduct on the 5th of May the men were honoured with pewter
medals, in imitation of those of Waterloo. A despatch was also sent from
Madrid, conferring the order of St. Ferdinand on those officers who had
most distinguished themselves, amongst whom I was named as one. But the
honour of the thing was almost lost in the indiscriminate manner in
which it was distributed. Numbers procured the distinction without the
least claim to either skill or courage, and caused a deal of
dissatisfaction amongst the really deserving officers, as the following
humorous facts will sufficiently show.
There were three captains billeted in the same house as myself, and
amongst them a Captain ——, who, on the morning of the fight, left the
field and took to his bed. The doctor, on visiting him, under the idea
that he really was wounded, could discover, however, neither the least
scratch, nor even bruise. This got wind, and naturally enough caused a
stir amongst his brother officers, and the Captain was obliged to
resign. But he had formerly been in the service of Don Pedro, and found
a friend and powerful advocate in the person of his old chieftain,
through whose interest he regained his captaincy, and, to the surprise
and indignation of the chief part of the officers, actually in a few
days attained a majority, and had the order of San Fernando conferred on
him. Two officers of the Rifles also bought the same honour, at the
price of a dozen of champagne. But this last was through the then acting
Commander of the regiment.
The Spanish Government, with their profusion of honours and pewter, also
paid the officers their arrears up to the month of March, 1836, in bills
on Colonel Carbonel, in London, at the time payable on delivery; the
last and only payment ever made during the service—the officers having
been obliged to manage on their field-allowance.
About this time we were joined by a number of convalescents from
Vittoria, consisting of officers and men. My old friend, Captain
Plunkett, came with them. This veteran soldier, who had formerly served
in the 60th Rifles, and was now on half-pay, by an apathy generally
evinced to those of the British service, found himself spurned and
deserted by the chief part of the officers of our regiment, who were, as
before stated, almost entirely composed of Pedroites. He was, at this
period, very poor, and was constantly seen in the market-place, selling
his necessaries to procure the little requisites of an invalid. But
through want and neglect he at last got a relapse, and took to his bed.
In this extremity all he had was disposed of. But for my accidentally
noticing his servant selling his first, and now the last, resource of a
soldier, _his sword!_ he might have died unnoticed. I hobbled, however,
as well as I could, to his quarters, and was only in time to witness his
expiring agonies. Poor Plunkett, strange to say, was the creditor of the
Spanish Government to the amount of one hundred and fifty pounds though
he died actually through want.
The gloom consequent on this, however, was not permitted long to settle.
Our leisure moments in San Sebastian were ever pregnant with incident,
and one scarcely occurred ere some new event monopolised the attention.
I had proceeded but a short distance from my deceased friend’s quarters,
when my glance was directed to a crowd of the Rifles clustered in
confusion round a door-way. Another victim! A poor fellow named Graham,
through mistake, had entered an apartment where a woman lay in bed. On
perceiving him she screamed out, and before the man could retire, her
husband, alarmed by her cry, met him on the stairs, and without any
parley, the Spaniard plunged a knife into his body. The unfortunate
Rifleman lay weltering in his blood, and died a short time after. The
assassin was never sought after, nor any means, either civil or
military, taken to bring him to an account. He walked at large in the
sunlight, and plainly exhibited to us how little was to be expected from
the sympathies or vigilance of our officers.
There is little interesting at this period of my career, excepting the
casual scenes that came under my observation during my strolls. Full
opportunity was now presented me to remark on the changes that had
worked themselves on the manners, customs, and prejudices of the
inhabitants, and the ridiculous and extreme folly of the _fire-eaters_
of the Legion. I was now more a spectator than an actor, and claim, of
course, the proverbial superiority.
Sometimes at morn, or early towards the evening, I amused myself in
strolling about the walks of the neighbourhood. San Sebastian is rather
pleasantly situated. To the left, as you approach this fort-crowned
peninsula, the Urumea winds its course over some of the prettiest valley
scenes I ever beheld. Its banks now exposed to the view the different
positions and batteries of the conflicting parties. A little to the
extreme in the same direction, and separated by a rising ground, some
four miles across, is Passages, a town somewhat resembling Dartmouth,
with this difference, that its port is formed by an inlet of the sea,
and not by a river. To the right of the Urumea, and divided from it by a
natural and narrow neck of land, the Bay of San Sebastian forms its oval
basin, of navigable depth, with a point of land studded with a
light-house, forming one boundary to the entrance, which is protected
and completed by the steep, and castle on the other. A small island lies
between them both, and on this Lord John Hay had raised a battery of
cannon. My quarters were contiguous to the breech made by Wellington in
1813—now distinguished only by the new appearance of the rebuilt wall.
It was curious to notice, as I limped about, the little squads of
duellists scattered here and there, and particularly towards the
evening. “Twelve paces” were all the “go,” and they sometimes proved a
dangerous distance; for many of the combatants were seriously wounded.
These were lamentable proofs of the heterogeneous character of the
officers of the Legion; for during the whole of my career in our own
service, I never knew of but one duel, which proved fatal to one of the
principals.
These singularities in the Legion were never much to the taste or
approbation of the Spaniards; they naturally, however other changes
might have influenced them, still clung to their old dislike of
fighting, and rather looked upon us as so many powder-barrels, or rather
monkeys, than as partaking in their own peculiar imperfections. But that
spirit of bigotry which had formerly possessed the prejudices of the
Spanish people had almost entirely vanished before the stride of
improvement. This was most probably owing to the introduction of the
foreign disputants during the last thirty-five years! Scarcely a monk
was to be found at this time, though the monasteries held their old
situation. Even the lovely dark-eyed nuns had forsaken their cloisters,
and seemed to breathe a new life under the more enlightened state; as
regarded religious enthusiasm, I was astonished at its decrease. On one
occasion, among several others, I especially noticed it. This was
evident on the festival of Corpus Christi; the streets through which the
procession wound were certainly hung with what a zealot might call the
richest tapestry, but in which I could acknowledge scarcely anything but
old carpets, women’s dresses, and old bed counterpanes, &c. Triumphal
arches were also erected, and the procession was attended, as usual, by
the civil and military authorities, and by detachments from the
different regiments of the garrison with their bands preceding them: the
priests and canons also thickly followed after them. As they passed
where several British officers and myself stood gazing amid a crowd of
the inhabitants, I took off my hat, but except two or three old women,
who went on their knees, not one of the natives followed the example, or
even showed the slightest respect. This dereliction at one time, in
Spain, would not have escaped severe penance. Indeed, under the Duke of
Wellington, the guards always turned out, and British soldiers were
compelled to salute the Host as it passed.
But in my strictures on the old Spanish intolerance, let me not forget a
little circumstance reflecting a taint of the same nature, even from our
own toleration-loving countrymen. “Let me alone, and I will let you
alone,” is too quiet a doctrine for even sectarians: and the two great
contending parties on such weighty matters can scarcely allow themselves
breathing time, ere the bone of contention which they had laid aside, is
again seized on by these little ones. The truth of this was brought very
forcibly to my mind some few days after the festival, when on a visit to
the cathedral of San Sebastian. I was amusing myself with staring at the
paintings, &c., when my attention was diverted to a tall, gaunt-looking
British marine, (the marines were doing duty with the Legion at this
time), who entered one of the portals, as I thought, on the same errand
as myself; turning himself about two or three times, and casting sundry
contemptuous glances at the different images and embellishments, his eye
chanced to alight on the person of an old official in a kneeling posture
between two females, absorbed in prayer. The marine’s eye brightened
with indescribable expression. Taking off his cap, which till then he
had neglected to do, and wiping down his long carroty wiry hair, over a
low retiring forehead, which reminded me of Mawworm’s in the play, he
suddenly darted to the back of the priest:
“Hypocrite,” he shouted, suddenly interrupting them, while he pointed to
the crucifix before which they knelt; “What do you expect by praying to
those bits of timber? Hath not the Lord said, ‘Thou shalt not make to
thyself any graven image,’ &c.” He was continuing, when the trio, as if
electrified by the foreign accent, instantly started up, screaming out,
and crossing themselves, “Que, que quiere usted?” (What do you want?
what do you want?)
“Eh!” said he again, motioning them to the crucifix. “Don’t you know the
second commandment, ‘Thou shalt not bow down to them.’” The old man,
terrified, immediately appealed to me for protection. I ordered the
marine instantly to leave, and would have given him in charge of the
guard, had I not discovered it was his over zeal and not drunkenness, as
I at first imagined, agitated him so; luckily for the methodist, there
were only a few in the chapel, as had it been in the time of service,
the congregation would certainly have made a martyr of him.