THE WOUNDED CAPTAIN IN TALAVERA (1809)
Talavera between two fires--Captain Boothby wounded--Brought into
Talavera--The fear of the citizens--The surgeons’ delay--Operations
without chloroform--The English retire--French troops
arrive--Plunder--French officers kind, and protect Boothby--A
private bent on loot beats a hasty retreat.
Captain Boothby, of the Royal Engineers, left behind him a diary of his
experiences in Spain during part of the Peninsular War in 1809. It will
help us to understand how much suffering war inflicts, and how much
pain we have been saved by the inventions of modern science.
He tells us he had been provided with quarters in Talavera, at the
house of Donna Pollonia di Monton, a venerable dame. She was the only
person left in the house, the rest having fled to the mountains in fear
lest the French should come and sack the city; for in the streets those
who remained were shouting in their panic, “The French have taken the
suburbs!” or “The British General is in full retreat!” or “O Dios! los
Ingleses nos abandonan!” (“O God! the English are deserting us!”). The
fact was that Wellesley was not sure if he could hold his ground at
Talavera.
Captain Boothby went out one morning towards the enemy’s position;
he was brought back in the evening on a bier by four men, his leg
shattered by a musket-ball. The old lady threw up her hands when she
saw him return.
“What!” she exclaimed, while the tears ran down her cheeks. “Can this
be the same? This he whose cheeks in the morning were glowing with
health? Blessed Virgin, see how white they are now!”
She made haste to prepare a bed.
“Oh, what luxury to be laid upon it, after the hours of pain and
anxiety, almost hopeless, I had undergone! The surgeon, Mr. Bell, cut
off my boot, and having examined the wound, said:
“‘Sir, I fear there is no chance of saving your leg, and the amputation
must be above the knee.’
“He said the operation could not be performed until the morning, and
went back to the hospital.
“I passed a night of excruciating pain. My groans were faint, because
my body was exhausted with the three hours’ stumbling about in the
woods. Daylight was ushered in by a roar of cannon so loud, so
continuous, that I hardly conceived the wars of all the earth could
produce such a wild and illimitable din. Every shot seemed to shake
the house with increasing violence, and poor Donna Pollonia rushed in
crying:
“‘They are firing the town!’
“‘No, no,’ said I; ‘don’t be frightened. Why should they fire the town?
Don’t you perceive that the firing is becoming more distant?’”
So the poor lady became less distraught, and watched by him with
sympathizing sorrow. But at length, finding the day advancing, his
pains unabating, and no signs of any medical help coming, he tore a
leaf from his pocket-book, and with a pencil wrote a note to the chief
surgeon, Mr. Higgins, saying that, as he had been informed no time was
to be lost in the amputation, he was naturally anxious that his case
should be attended to. The messenger returned, saying that the surgeon
could not possibly leave the hospital. He sent a second note, and a
third, and towards ten o’clock a.m. the harrassed surgeon made his
appearance.
“Captain Boothby,” said he, “I am extremely sorry that I could not
possibly come here before, still more sorry that I only come now to
tell you I cannot serve you. There is but one case of instruments. This
I cannot bring from the hospital while crowds of wounded, both officers
and men, are pressing for assistance.”
“I did but wish to take my turn,” said the Captain.
“I hope,” he added, “that towards evening the crowd will decrease, and
that I shall be able to bring Mr. Gunning with me to consult upon your
case.”
“Will you examine my wound, sir,” said Boothby, “and tell me honestly
whether you apprehend any danger from the delay?”
He examined the leg, and said:
“No, I see nothing in this case from which the danger would be
increased by waiting five or six hours.”
There was nothing for it but patience.
“I taxed my mind to make an effort, but pain, far from loosening his
fangs at the suggestion of reason, clung fast, and taught me that, in
spite of mental pride, he is, and must be, dreadful to the human frame.”
Mr. Higgins came to him about three o’clock, bringing with him Mr.
Gunning and Mr. Bell, and such instruments as they might have occasion
for.
Mr. Gunning sat down by his bedside, and made a formal exhortation:
explained that to save the life it was necessary to part with the limb,
and he required of him an effort of mind and a manly resolution.
“Whatever is necessary, that I am ready to bear,” said the Captain.
Then the surgeons, having examined his wound, went to another part of
the room to consult, after which they withdrew--to bring the apparatus,
as he imagined. Hours passed, and they did not return. His servant,
Aaron, having sought Mr. Gunning, was told that he was too much
occupied. This after having warned him that there was no time to be
lost!
“Go, then,” said the Captain to Aaron--“go into the street, and bring
me the first medical officer you happen to fall in with.”
He returned, bringing with him Mr. Grasset, surgeon of the 48th
Regiment.
After examining the wound, Mr. Grasset declared that he was by no means
convinced of the necessity of the amputation, and would not undertake
the responsibility.
“But,” said the wounded man, “I suppose an attempt to save the leg will
be attended with great danger.”
“So will the amputation,” he replied. “But we must hope for the best,
and I see nothing to make your cure impossible. The bones, to be sure,
are much shattered, and the leg is much mangled and swollen; but have
you been bled, sir?”
“No,” said Captain Boothby.
Mr. Grasset conceived bleeding absolutely necessary, though he had
already lost much, and at his request he bled him in the arm.
He guessed that Mr. Gunning’s departure proceeded from his conviction
that a gangrene had already begun, and that it would be cruel to
disturb his dying moments by a painful and fruitless operation.
As he had taken nothing but vinegar and water since his misfortune, his
strength was exhausted, and the operation of bleeding was succeeded by
an interval of unconsciousness. From this state he was roused by some
one taking hold of his hand. It was his friend Dr. FitzPatrick.
“If I had you in London,” said he with a sigh, “I might attempt to save
your limb; but amid the present circumstances it would be hopeless. I
had been told that the amputation had been performed, else, ill as I
could have been spared, I would have left the field and come to you.”
“Do you think you are come too late?” asked the Captain.
He said “No”; but he dissembled. At that time Boothby was under strong
symptoms of lockjaw, which did not disappear until many hours after
the operation. The doctor took a towel, and soaking it in vinegar and
water, laid it on the wound, which gave much relief. He stayed with him
till late, changing the lotion as often as needed. The operation was
fixed for daylight on the morrow.
The patient passed another dismal night. At nine o’clock next morning
FitzPatrick and Miller, Higgins and Bell, staff-surgeons, came to his
bedside. They had put a table in the middle of the room, and placed on
it a mattress. Then one of the surgeons came and exhorted him to summon
his fortitude. Boothby told him he need not be afraid, and FitzPatrick
said he could answer for him. They then carried him to the table and
laid him on the mattress. Mr. Miller wished to place a handkerchief
over his eyes, but he assured him that it was unnecessary; he would
look another way.
“I saw that the knife was in FitzPatrick’s hand, which being as I
wished, I averted my head.
“I will not shock the reader by describing the operation in detail,
but as it is a common idea that the most painful part of an operation
lies in sundering the bone, I may rectify an error by declaring that
the only part of the process in which the pain comes up to the natural
anticipation is the first incision round the limb, by which the skin
is divided, the sensation of which is as if a prodigious weight were
impelling the severing edge. The sawing of the bone gives no uneasy
sensation; or, if any, it is overpowered by others more violent.
“‘Is it off?’ said I, as I felt it separate.
“‘Yes,’ said FitzPatrick, ‘your sufferings are over.’
“‘Ah no! you have yet to take up the arteries.’
“‘It will give you no pain,’ he said kindly; and that was true--at
least, after what I had undergone, the pain seemed nothing.
“I was carried back to my bed much exhausted. Soon hope returned to my
breast; it was something to have preserved the possibility of yet being
given back to happiness and friendship.”
For some time after the operation his stomach refused sustenance, and a
constant hiccough was recognized by the surgeons as a fatal prognostic.
His faithful friend, Edmund Mulcaster, hardly ever left his bedside.
General Sherbrooke came to see him often, and evinced the most earnest
anxiety for his welfare. They wrote to his friends for him, and to his
mother. This last he signed himself.
In the night of the 30th, by the perseverance of Mulcaster, he managed
to retain some mulled wine, strongly spiced, and in the morning
took two eggs from the same welcome hand. This was the “turn.” The
unfavourable symptoms began to subside, and the flowing stream of life
began to fill by degrees its almost deserted channels.
On the 2nd of August some officers, entering his room, said that
information had been received of Soult’s arrival at Placentia, and that
General Wellesley intended to head back and engage him.
“If the French come while we are away, Boothby,” said Goldfinch, “you
must cry out, ‘Capitaine anglais,’ and you will be treated well.”
On the 3rd of August his friends all came to take leave of him. It
was a blank, rugged moment. Mr. Higgins, the senior surgeon, was left
behind to tend the wounded.
The mass of the people of England is hasty, and often unjust, in its
judgment of military events. They will condemn a General as rash when
he advances, or revile him as a coward when he retreats. News of the
battle of Talavera had been announced by the trumpet of victory. The
people of England expected the emancipation of Spain. Now were they
cast down when told that the victors had been obliged to retire and
leave their wounded to the mercy of a vanquished enemy.
If Lord Wellington knew the strength and condition of the force under
Soult, it would be hard to justify his conduct in facing back. In
Spain, however, it was impossible to get correct information. The
Spaniards are deaf to bad news and idiotically credulous to all reports
that flatter their hopes. Thus the rashness of Lord Wellington in
placing himself between two armies, Soult and Ney, the least of whom
was equal to himself, may be palliated.
The repulse and flight of the French after the Battle of Talavera
restored confidence to the fugitive townsfolk. They left the mountains
and re-entered Talavera. The house was again filled with old and young,
who strove to wait on the Captain. But soon the evacuation of the town
by the British awoke their fears; but with thankfulness let us record
that a British officer, wounded and mutilated, was to the women of the
house too sacred an object to be abandoned.
The citizens of Talavera had clung to the hope that at least their
countrymen would stay and protect them; but on the 4th, seeing them
also file under their windows in a long, receding array, they came to
the Captain--those near his house--beating their breasts and tearing
their hair, and demanded of him if he knew what was to become of them.
Boothby sent Aaron to take a message to the Colonel left Commandant by
General Wellesley, but he came back saying that the Colonel was gone,
having given orders that those in the hospitals who were able to move
should set off instantly for Oropesa, as the French were at hand. The
sensation this notice produced is beyond all description. The Captain
lay perfectly still; other wounded men had themselves placed across
horses and mules, and fruitlessly attempted to escape. The road to
Oropesa was covered with our poor wounded, limping, bloodless soldiers.
On crutches or sticks they hobbled woefully along. For the moment panic
terror lent them a new force, but many lay down on the road to take
their last sleep.
Such were the tales that Aaron and others came to tell him. He tried
to comfort them, and said the French were not so bad as they fancied.
Still, his mind was far from being at ease. He thought it possible
that some foraging party might plunder him and commit excesses in the
house, or on the women, who would run to him for protection, however
uselessly. The evening of the 4th, however, closed in quietness, and
a visit from the senior medical officer, Mr. Higgins, gave him great
comfort.
The 5th of August dawned still and lovely. A traveller might have
supposed Talavera to be in profound peace until, gazing on her gory
heights, he saw they were covered with heaps of ghastly slain. The
tranquil interval was employed in laying in a stock of provisions.
Pedro argued with him.
“But, signore, the Brencone asks a dollar a couple for his chickens!”
“Buy, buy, buy!” was all the answer he could get from the Captain.
Wine, eggs, and other provender were laid in at a rate which provoked
the rage and remonstrance of the little Italian servant.
About the middle of the day a violent running and crying under the
windows announced an alarm. The women rushed into his room, exclaiming,
“Los Franceses, los Franceses!” The assistant surgeon of artillery came
in.
“Well, Mr. Steniland,” said the Captain, “are the French coming?”
“Yes,” he answered; “I believe so. Mr. Higgins is gone out to meet
them.”
“That’s right,” said Boothby.
In about an hour Mr. Higgins entered, saying, “I have been out of town
above two leagues and can see nothing of them. If they do come, they
will have every reason to treat us with attention, for they will find
their own wounded lying alongside of ours, provided with the same
comforts and the same care.”
On the 6th, reports of the enemy’s approach were treated with total
disregard. Between eight and nine o’clock the galloping of horses was
heard in the street. The women ran to the windows and instantly shrank
back, pale as death, with finger on lip.
“Los demonios!” they whispered, and then on tiptoe watched in
breathless expectation of seeing some bloody scene.
“They have swords and pistols all ready,” cried Manoela, trembling.
“How’s this?” cried old Donna Pollonia. “Why, they pass the English
soldiers. They go on talking and laughing. Jesus! Maria! What does it
mean?”
Presently Mr. Higgins came in. He had ridden out to meet the French
General, and had found that officer full of encomiums and good
assurances.
“Your wounded are the most sacred trust to our national generosity.
As for you, medical gentlemen, who have been humane and manly enough
not to desert your duty to your patients (many of whom are Frenchmen),
stay amongst us as long as you please. You are as free as the air you
breathe.”
The town owed much to Mr. Higgins!
To prepare for the approaching crisis, to ride forth and parley with
the enemy and persuade him that he owes you respect, gratitude--this is
to be an officer of the first class. Throughout Mr. Higgins displayed
the character of no common man.
We should say something of the household among which the Captain was
placed.
Servants and masters and mistresses in Spain associate very freely
together, but the submissive docility of the servants keeps pace with
the affability with which they are treated. First after Don Manoel and
Donna Pollonia came Catalina--a tall, elegant woman of forty, a sort
of housekeeper held in high estimation by the señora. Then come two
old women, Tia Maria and Tia Pepa “tia” means “aunt”); then Manoela,
a lively, simple lass, plain and hardy, capable of chastising with
her fists any ill-mannered youth. Then the carpenter’s daughters, two
pretty little girls, often came to play in his room--Martita, aged
about ten, and Maria Dolores, perhaps fifteen, pensive, tender, full
of feminine charm. These fair sisters used to play about him with the
familiarity and gentleness of kittens, and lightened many an hour.
Well, it was not all plain sailing, for stories of pillage and plunder
came to their ears. Three troopers had gone to the quarters of his
wounded friend, Taylor, and began coolly to rifle his portmanteau.
Taylor stormed and said he was an English Captain.
“Major, ’tis very possible,” said they; “but your money, your watch,
and your linen are never the worse for that; no, nor your wine
either!” and the ruthless savages swallowed the wine and the bread
which had been portioned out as his sustenance and comfort for the day.
Feeling that such might be his case, Boothby put his money and watch
in a little earthen vessel and sent it to be buried in the yard; then
calling for his soup and a large glass of claret, he tossed it off
defiantly, saying to himself, “You don’t get this, my boys!”
Next morning they heard that the French infantry were coming, and the
town was to be given up to pillage, as so many of the citizens had
deserted it.
The women came to him. “Shall we lock the street door, Don Carlos?”
they said.
“By all means,” said he. “Make it as fast as you can, and don’t go near
the windows.”
Soon they heard the bands playing, and the women rushed to the windows,
as if to see a raree-show, forgetting all his injunctions.
Soon after thump! thump! thump! sounded at the door.
“Virgin of my soul!” cried old Pollonia, tottering to the window.
“There they are!” But, peeping out cautiously, she added, “No, ’tis but
a neighbour. Open, Pepa.”
“You had better not suffer your door to be opened at all,” said the
Captain.
But Pepa pulled the string, and in came the neighbour, shrieking:
“Jesus! Maria! Dios Santissimo! The demons are breaking open every door
and plundering every house; all the goods-chests--everything--dragged
out into the street.”
“Maria di mi alma! Oh, señora!”
The crashing of doors, breaking of windows, loud thumpings and
clatterings, were now distinctly heard in all directions. All outside
seemed to boil in turmoil.
Ere long, thump! thump! at their own door.
But it was only another neighbour. Pepa pulled the string, and in she
came. Her head was piled up with mattresses, blankets, quilts, and
pillows. Under one arm were gowns, caps, bonnets, and ribbons. Her
other hand held a child’s chair. Add to all this that her figure was of
a stunted and ludicrous character, and she came in puffing and crying
under that cumbrous weight of furniture. They could not resist laughing.
“For the love of God, señora,” she whined, “let me put these things in
your house.”
She was shown up into the garret. Others followed after her.
But soon there was a louder knocking, with a volley of French oaths.
The house shook under the blows.
“Pedro, tell them in French that this is the quarter of an English
Captain.”
Pedro cautiously peeped out of the window.
“Dios! there is but one,” said Pedro, “and he carries no arms. Hallo,
sair! la maison for Inglis Captin! Go to hell!”
This strange language, and his abrupt, jabbering way of talking, forced
a laugh out of his master.
“Ouvrez la porte, bête!” shouted the Frenchman. “I want some water.”
“Holy Virgin!” cried Pollonia. “We had better open the door.”
“No, no, no!” said Boothby. “Tell him, Pedro, that if he does not take
himself off I shall report him to his General.”
Pedro had not got half through this message, when suddenly he ducked
his head, and a great stone came in and struck the opposite wall.
“Il demonio!” groaned the women, as they, too, ducked their heads.
Then the fellow, who was drunk, just reeled off in search of some
easier adventure.
Pedro had hardly finished boasting of his victory when the door was
again assailed.
“Oh,” said Pollonia, “it’s only two officers’ servants;” and she shut
the window.
“Well, what did they want?” asked the Captain.
“They wanted lodgings for their masters, but I told them we had no
room.”
“And have you room, Donna Pollonia?”
“Yes; but I didn’t choose to say so.”
“Run, Pedro, run and tell those servants that there is plenty of room.
Don’t you see, señora, that this is the best chance of preserving your
house from pillage?”
They returned--one a Prussian lad who spoke French very ill. The
Captain’s hope that these fellow-lodgers would prove gentlemen lent him
a feeling of security.
Little Pedro was watching the motions of the two servants like a lynx.
“Signore,” said he, “those two _diavoli_ are prying about into every
hole and corner.”
On this Aaron was sent to dig up the watch and money and bring the wine
upstairs.
Soon after in came Pedro, strutting with a most consequential air.
“The French Captain, signore,” said he.
There followed him a fine, military-looking figure, armed cap-à-pie,
and covered with martial dust. He advanced to the bedside with a quick
step.
“I have had the misfortune, sir, to lose a limb,” said Boothby, “and I
claim your protection.”
“My protection!” he replied, putting out his hand. “Command my devoted
services! The name of an Englishman in distress is sufficient to call
forth our tenderest attention.”
The Captain was a good deal affected by the kindness of his manner.
Kindness can never be thoroughly felt unless it be greatly wanted.
He begged he would visit him sometimes, and he promised to bring a
friend.
Señora Pollonia was charmed with M. de la Platière, who, with his young
friend Captain Simon, often came in for a chat.
Alas! they had to go away after a few days’ stay, but de la Platière
wrote his name in chalk on the door, in the hope that it might
discourage any plunderers.
One day Boothby was suddenly aroused by the appearance in his room of
an officer whom he had seen before, but did not much like.
“Eh, Capitaine, comment ça va-t-il? Ça va mieux! Ha! bon!”
Then he explained that the blade of his sword was broken. “As prisoner
of war,” he said, “you will have no use for a sword. Give me yours,
and, if you will, keep mine. Where is yours?”
“It stands,” said Boothby, “in yonder corner. Take it by all means.”
“Je vous laisserai la mienne,” he said, and hurried off.
Boothby wished his sword in the Frenchman’s gizzard, he was so rough
and rude.
One afternoon Pedro rushed in, excited, and said: “The General himself
is below, sir!”
“Bring him up, Pedro.”
Quickly he ushered in an officer of about the age of five-and-thirty.
He was splendidly dressed, of an elegant person, his face beaming with
good nature and intelligence.
He came up to the bed, and without waiting for the form of salutation,
seated himself in a chair close to the pillow, and laying his hand on
Boothby’s arm, he said, in a mild and agreeable voice:
“Ne vous dérangez, mon ami! Solely I am here to see if I can possibly
lighten a little the weight of your misfortune. Tell me, can I be
useful to you? Have you everything you want?”
For all these kind inquiries the Captain expressed his gratitude, and
added, “I have really nothing to ask for, unless you could send me to
England.”
“Ah! if you were able to move, Captain, I could exchange you now; but
by the time you will have gained strength to travel you will be at the
disposal of the Major-General of the army.”
That visit gave much comfort and hope.
In the evening de la Platière and Simon returned with the news that Sir
Arthur Wellesley had met with disasters.
“Taisez-vous, mon cher,” said Simon. “It may have a bad effect on his
spirits.”
But he insisted on hearing all they knew, and while they were talking
a French soldier walked calmly up into the room, and coming up to the
foot of the bed, stood before his officers, astounded, petrified.
When, after sternly eyeing him a while, they sharply demanded his
business, his faculties returned, and he stammered out:
“Mon Capitaine, I--I--I took it for a shop! I beg pardon.” And off
he went in a hurry. But what would he have done if he had found the
English officer alone?
On October 1 Captain Boothby was allowed to go out on crutches. He
says: “The sense of attracting general observation hurried me. The
French soldiers who met me expressed surprise at seeing the success of
an amputation which in the hands of their field surgeons was nearly
always fatal. The Spaniards were most sympathizing. ‘What a pity!’ ‘So
young, too!’ ‘Poor young Englishman!’ were pathetically passed along
the street as he hobbled by.”
In July, 1810, Captain Boothby was exchanged with a French prisoner and
returned to his father and mother in England.
This gives us the kindlier side of war; but there is another side.
In the prison of Toro were some French soldiers kept by the Spaniards.
Nothing could be worse than the cruelty under which these Frenchmen
suffered. In their prison was a cell, with a window strongly barred,
and covered by an iron shutter pierced with small holes. The dungeon
was about 10 feet square and 5 feet high. At the furthest end was a
block of stone for a seat, with an iron collar for the neck, fixed by a
short chain in the wall. Another chain was passed round the body. The
poor wretches were chained in one position all day, which often hurried
them to a miserable death. Their food was a little bread and water.
It is easy, however, to bear any amount of suffering when you know the
time will soon come when you will be free.
It is not so easy to bear a whole lifelong penalty for having dared
to fight for one’s country. One would think that a national gratitude
would rescue our wounded soldiers from a life of beggary or the
workhouse. Yet after every war how many one-armed and one-legged
soldiers or sailors are pitifully begging along our streets and roads!
There is no animal so cruel as man. _Corruptio optimi pessima._
From a “Prisoner of France,” by Captain Boothby. By kind permission
of Messrs. A. and C. Black and Miss Boothby.