One of the Forlorn Hope
"A terribly hard nut to crack," observed Jack, for perhaps the
twentieth time, as he and Tom sat their horses on a ridge above
Badajoz, and looked down upon the fortress. "It'll be interesting
to see how Wellington sets about the matter. Suppose there'll be a
tremendous cannonade, and then an assault. Wish we were going to be
in it."
"I mean to, whatever happens," came from our hero, who was staring
down at the fortress, as if he wished to guess in which house his
father and Don Juan were imprisoned. "As to how it'll be done,
there's no saying; for I've never witnessed a siege before. But
apparently the sappers and miners dig their way toward the fortress,
erecting batteries as they go, till they are so close that our guns
can batter down the walls. Then comes the grand assault. I can
imagine that that is a terrific business. Well, let's ride round the
place and see what's happening. There's very little else for us to do
just now, and we can leave the men with Alfonso."
For two weeks past the combined command of Portuguese and Spanish
guerrillas whom Tom had charge of had been operating about the
magnificent fortress which Wellington had determined to capture.
Throwing a circle completely about the place, they had cut the
garrison off entirely from the outside world, and thus had enabled
Wellington to concentrate his men without alarming the French. For
here again, as in the case of Ciudad Rodrigo, it was all-important
that the siege operations should not be disturbed by the arrival
of a large French force, against whom our troops would have to act
before taking the fortress. As in the case of Ciudad Rodrigo, had
information leaked out the enemy could easily have concentrated a
force in the neighbourhood, sufficient to delay and make impossible
all siege operations. But, thanks to secrecy in his preparations,
thanks, too, in no small measure to the work of such corps as Tom
commanded, the intentions of Wellington were quite unknown, till,
of a sudden, in the March following his capture of Ciudad Rodrigo,
he turned his divisions in the direction of Badajoz, a fortress
sometimes known as "the gate of Spain," and, crossing the River
Guadiana on the 16th, caused the place to be invested by the three
divisions commanded by Beresford and Picton. The remainder of his
troops, some 60,000 in all, counting Spanish and Portuguese allies,
covered the siege operations.
Looking down from the point of vantage to which they had ridden, Tom
and his chum could obtain a bird's-eye view of the ancient fortress
of Badajoz, and could easily trace its outline. But the arrival
of a staff officer helped them wonderfully to understand what was
occurring before their eyes. Cantering up the hill at this moment,
and looking the smart fellow he was, this officer drew rein close to
the two young fellows, acknowledging their salutes with one as brisk,
and with a smile.
"Taking the air?" he asked. "We shall have plenty of it before we've
done with the Frenchies. Ah! that's Clifford, I believe."
Tom saluted again and flushed.
"The officer the French refuse to fight, eh?"
Our hero was compelled to agree, with heightened colour, whereat the
officer laughed loudly.
"And his adjutant along with him, too," he remarked, looking the
unabashed Jack up and down, and reflecting that he seemed to be a
very smart and jovial fellow. "You chaps know how you're spoken of,
perhaps, eh?" he asked with another smile, causing both the lads to
shake their heads.
"Then I'll tell you. Never is one seen but the other is at his heels.
So throughout the army you're known as the 'twins.' Good name, isn't
it?"
Once more they heard his hearty laughter, which they shared with
him; for this was news to our two heroes. Not that they could help
admitting that there was reason for the name they had earned, since
Jack Barwood had become Tom's veritable shadow. They seemed to haunt
the same piece of ground always, and even when with their command
the jovial Jack was ever at the side of his superior. There was
a whisper also amongst the men, fostered not a little by voluble
sayings of Andrews and his brother rifleman, that these two young
officers, occupying such posts of responsibility, were nevertheless
not above a little skylarking. Indeed, if Tom and Jack had proved
that they were eager and ready to lead their men into action, they
had also more than once shown a disposition to lead them into
mischief.
"Well, now, let's have a look at the place," said the officer,
producing a short spyglass. "You can see for yourselves how the
fortress is placed. It stands on an eminence at the junction of the
Rivers Guadiana and Rivillas, the former being crossed by a long
bridge, which you can see for yourself. There's the castle, perched a
hundred feet above the level of the rivers, and occupying almost the
apex of the point of confluence. The town spreads behind it fan-wise,
and is walled, presenting eight strong bastions, with curtains,
counterscarps, glacis, and covered ways, without doubt, all helping
to make the place extremely strong. There are five gates, though
you can't see them all from this point. There, take a look; you can
actually observe people moving in the streets."
The view was, in fact, an enchanting one; for Badajoz at that time
was not an erection of a few years, but one of great antiquity. It
had withstood sieges against the Moors and Goths, and had been taken
and retaken many a time; and there it was fully prepared for another
siege, garrisoned by some 5000 of the enemy, and packed to repletion
with guns, ammunition, and food; in fact with all that makes defence
possible.
"And how will the siege be conducted?" asked Tom, when he had taken a
long look at the place. "Shall we endeavour to make a breach at one
point or at many?"
"Many," came the short answer. "No doubt Wellington will launch his
attacking parties in several directions. But first he must smash
up that work you see on the far side of the river, known as Fort
Picurina. Batteries will be placed elsewhere, and I believe the angle
nearest us has been selected, as well as that farthest away, close to
the Trinidad and St. Vincent bastions respectively. In a few hours
the guns will be thundering in a manner which will open your eyes."
The bombardment that followed was, in fact, a revelation to our
hero; for, though Wellington might easily have been better equipped
for a siege, and have had a far superior battering train, the guns
he possessed were nevertheless of service. Nor must it be forgotten
that these same guns had been brought into position only after the
very greatest labour and secrecy; for they had been sent round by sea
from Lisbon, had then been transported up the River Setubal in small
boats, to Alcacer do Sal, and thence by land across the Alemtejo to
the River Guadiana.
Think of the labour involved in such an operation, of the secrecy
necessary to keep the movement from the knowledge of the French.
Think also of the small army of helpers, all taking part in this war,
and yet working out of sound of gun shot, and far from the presence
of the enemy. That, perhaps is a question which escapes the notice
of many. The tale of some campaign brings to light narratives of
gallant deeds, of fierce attacks, of strenuous fighting; it leaves
too often to the imagination of one ignorant of the life of a
soldier, and of the needs of a campaign, all the numerous services
upon which success of an army in the field depends. For if there be
no one to supervise the stores, and to dispatch them to the seat
of war, how can troops operate in a country devoid almost of food,
where ammunition cannot be obtained, and where boots, clothing, and
a thousand other necessary trifles wear out, are lost, or destroyed
with alarming rapidity? Think, then, of the host labouring out of
sight of the enemy, but labouring nevertheless. Think also of the
other numerous band marching with troops as non-combatants, and yet
subject to as great dangers, the very same privations, and bearing
on their shoulders equal, if not greater, responsibilities; for with
the troops there must be men to see to the distribution of food, to
gather stores, and apply for all that is necessary. There must be
trained officers to look to the ailments of horses, and, above all,
perhaps, there must be an army of surgeons to care for the wounded
and the thousands more who go down under privation and exposure.
Riding round the bivouacs of the besieging army after their chat with
the staff officer, Tom began to gather a better impression than he
had ever had before of the numerous duties attached to soldiering.
In the background, well away from the investing regiments, were
many horse lines, where rows of animals were picketed, their riders
being encamped near at hand. Closer to the fortress lay the lines
of regiments engaged in the actual work of the siege, and here many
a camp fire blazed. Whole rows of camp kettles sat over the long
trenches dug in the muddy ground, while the flames from wood fires
swept beneath them and sent billows of odorous steam into the air.
Butchers were at work slaughtering beasts bought for the feeding of
the troops, while not far away a sentry stood guard over a spring
which was the drinking supply for that portion of the army. But
it was still nearer the fortress that the real interest lay; for
there hundreds of men were delving, cutting trenches, and steadily
advancing them toward the enemy. Indeed, that very day, they had need
of every bit of cover; for guns opened from Badajoz, and clouds of
grapeshot swept across the open.
"Hot work, ain't it?" grinned Jack, who with Tom was making a tour
of inspection. "Put your head up, Tom, and take a squint at those
Frenchies."
"And get it shot to pieces for my trouble. Thanks!" came the laughing
answer. "George! Listen to that."
"My uncle!" came from the young adjutant. "A regular torrent. How
long and how often do they pepper you like that?" he asked of the
sapper ensign who had invited them to inspect the work.
"How often? Couldn't say," was the laconic answer, as if the
thunderous discharge of the guns of the enemy, and the roar of clouds
of grape sweeping overhead were an everyday occurrence, and hardly
worth discussion. "Oh, pretty often, especially at night! But it'd be
all right if it weren't for this awful weather. You see, a chap has
to grovel when the guns open, and that's bad for uniforms."
He was something of a dandy, this immaculate ensign of sappers, and
stepped daintily along the deep trenches already constructed by
the British working parties. Tom watched him with admiration as he
brushed some dirt from his laced sleeve with a silk handkerchief, and
then wondered satirically for one brief moment if this young officer
were merely a heap of affectation, useless for any real work, merely
an ornament to the profession to which he belonged.
"Certainly not that," he told himself a few seconds later, after
seeing more of the ensign. "He's a born dandy, perhaps, but he's a
plucky beggar, and a fine example to his men."
That, in fact, was precisely what this ensign was, as was the case
with many another officer in Wellington's army. Example is everything
when men are engaged in strenuous operations; and if those in command
show coolness, determination, sangfroid, and other virtues, their own
particular men are wonderfully heartened. And here was this ensign
coolly flicking dirt from his laced sleeve, while a foot overhead
grapeshot swept past in a torrent. There he was, joking and laughing
with the jovial Jack as if he had not so much as a serious thought
in his head, and as if this were merely a game. But a minute later
he was leading the way to an outwork, strolling negligently across a
portion necessarily exposed to the bullets of the enemy, and showing
not so much as a sign of haste.
"Come along," he sang out to our hero. "It's a little warm crossing,
but it's generally all right. We had three caught by the enemy's
bullets yesterday, but that's because they would stop to star gaze.
Ah, very neat shooting, eh? I declare, the beggar has cut one of my
epaulettes off with his shot!"
It was true enough. Tom had heard a shot fired from the fortress, for
the trench they had just left was within long range of an outwork
manned by the enemy. He had instantly seen the left epaulette of the
ensign rise in the air, spin round merrily, and then fall to the
ground. And the young officer only showed annoyance at such an injury
being done to his uniform! As for the men stationed in the trench
behind, and those in the earthwork for which they were making, they
watched the little scene with grins of amusement and delight.
"Dicky Silvester, ensign. That's him," growled one of the sappers
hoarsely to his neighbours. "Joined us a year ago, or less, and looks
and acts as if he were a born soldier, and didn't care a fig for
bullets or anything else. Who are the other orficers? Ain't they cool
'uns too? My hat, Dicky ain't the only one as don't give a hang for
bullets!"
The cool behaviour of the three even raised a cheer before they had
entered the earthwork, calling a sharp order from the ensign.
"What's this?" he demanded, dropping slowly out of shot of the enemy,
a manoeuvre which Tom and Jack followed. "Laughing and cheering when
there's work to be done! Here----"
Another patch of dirt on his uniform distracted his attention and
cut short the speech. As for the men, they dashed their picks again
into the ground and went on with their delving. Then whispers passed
amongst them.
"Blessed ef I don't think as the toff of an orficer in staff uniform
ain't Mr. Tom Clifford, him as held up them Portuguese in a church,
commanding the Frenchies who'd taken him as prisoner," said one.
"Ain't that the one?"
"And went right into Ciudad Rodrigo t' other day," agreed his
comrade, "and come galloping out dressed as a gal. He's the boy. Law!
He looks at Badajoz as if he was hungry to get inside, and had more
almost to do with this siege than we have."
Tom might indeed have been accused of that, for those wretchedly wet
days in March, 1812, found him frequently in the trenches, watching
as parallels were dug, eagerly measuring the advance of the busy army
of sappers digging their way closer to the fortress. Or he would lie
behind one of the batteries by day and by night, and would listen
to the thunder of the guns, and would watch for the tell-tale spout
of dust which shot into the air as the huge iron ball struck the
bastion. Then would come the clatter of falling masonry, followed
perhaps by a cheer from the gunners. More often the shot would be
answered by a terrific hail of grape, which pattered overhead, swept
the entire face of the batteries--and but for the fascines erected
to give cover every one of the gunners would have been killed--then
whizzed across the open, splashing into the many pools of water which
had been left by the heavy and almost continuous rain. It seemed,
indeed, slow work this siege operation; slow and perhaps not too sure.
"For even when the breaches are practicable there are the defenders
to be dealt with," thought Tom. "There will be mines to blow us up,
obstructions of every sort, and grape and shot showered down upon us.
But take the place we will; I mean to be one of the very first inside
the fortress."
Any doubts Tom may have had as to the determination of Lord
Wellington were soon set at rest; for, the weather still continuing
atrocious, and the trenches being flooded and almost uninhabitable,
an assault of the Picurina was ordered, and the fort carried with
brilliant dash by 500 men of the 3rd Division. The storm of shot
and shell poured into the fort after we had gained possession of
it was such that one wondered how the new garrison could live, for
Phillipon, the commander of the French, did his utmost to drive us
out. But our men stuck grimly to the task, and again plying their
busy spades, soon had advanced to a point where batteries could be
erected. And then began a trial of skill and endurance between the
gunners of France and those of England. By day and by night the
neighbourhood echoed to the roar. A pall of smoke hung over fortress
and encampment, while in the depths of night guns flashed redly, and
spluttering portfires hovered here and there as the gunners stood to
their pieces. At length the work was done; the breaches were declared
practicable, though to view them and the grim lines hovering in
rear, prepared to defend every inch of the steeply-sloping rubbish,
would have caused any but brave men to shiver. But Wellington's men
were as determined as he; they had set their hearts on gaining the
fortress. The call for a forlorn hope, as ever, produced a swarm
of volunteers. That night of 6 April, a night the anniversary of
which is ever kept with loving memory by those who now serve in the
regiments then present at Badajoz, found 18,000 bold fellows craving
for the signal which should launch them to the attack, craving for
the signal which, alas! would launch many and many a gallant officer
and lad into eternity. Let us, too, remember those heroes with
honour, recollecting that by their gallantry and dash they helped in
the work in progress, and that every fortress won in this Peninsula
campaign was yet another step forward, a step that would add to the
difficulties of Bonaparte, and which, with those which followed,
ultimately brought about his downfall. Let us honour them as gallant
souls who cast off the yoke then weighing upon the peoples of Europe.
"You'll go with the stormers?" asked Jack of Tom, almost beneath his
breath, as the two stood side by side in the trenches.
"I've obtained permission, and go I shall," came the determined
answer. "Now recollect, Jack, what I've said. If Badajoz is taken,
the rascal who has captured my people will do his best to get out of
the place. See that our men are lively when the first streak of dawn
comes, and let them arrest any civilian."
"Good luck! Take care," gasped Jack, loath to part with his old
friend. "I'll watch outside and see that all is done as you've
directed; but do take care. Recollect, the regiment can't do without
you."
He was sent off with a merry laugh from Tom, and straightway
clambered up a rise from which he could view the proceedings. A
strange silence hung about the fortress. Within and without the
trenches, packed in the batteries, and in many another part lay the
stormers, waiting, waiting for that signal. Picton's division on the
right crouched over their scaling ladders, ready to rush to the walls
of the castle. On the left, Sir James Leith's division waited to make
a false attack on the Pardeleras, an outside work. But the Bastion de
San Vincente was the real point of attack, and Walker's brigade, part
of this division, was destined to assault it. The Light Division was
to dash for the Santa Maria quarter, while the 4th was to hurl itself
against the breach in the Trinidad quarter. The St. Roque bastion,
in between these two latter, was to be stormed by Major Wilson, who
was in command of the guards of the trenches. Finally, the Portuguese
were to see what could be done with the Tête de Pont, the outwork on
the far bank of the River Guadiana, commanding the head of the bridge.
A dull hum above the trenches told of excitement. Flickering lights
and a subdued murmur above the fortress showed that the defenders
were prepared. Silently men gathered before the 4th and the Light
Division, men provided with ladders and axes, with but few rounds of
ammunition, and freed of their knapsacks. Each carried a sack filled
with hay, which, it was hoped, would give some cover. And before
those two parties waiting in front of the two divisions, and each
counting 500 men, there fell in yet again two parties of heroes,
the forlorn hopes, the officers and men who were sworn to enter the
fortress, to show the way in, or to die in the attempt, noble souls
who worked not for gold as a reward, but only for the honour and
glory of their country.
Ah! a blaze of light from a carcass hurled from the wall showed one
of those advance parties. Shouts echoed from the fortress, then there
came the splash of flame from guns, the spurting tongues of fire
belched from muskets, and the thunder of the explosions. Cheers and
hurrahs broke from our men. What matter if the alarm had been sounded
half an hour before Wellington was to give the fatal signal? They
were ready--the boys of the Light Brigade, the heroes of the 4th
Division--the stormers all along the walls were ready. A mad babel
broke the former silence or semi-silence, portfires flashed in all
directions, while fireballs were hurled into the ditches, lighting
the way of the stormers. Pandemonium was let loose at Badajoz that
night. A cloudy, star-strewn sky looked down upon horrors which one
hopes may never be repeated. For on the side of the French was shown
great bravery and demoniacal cunning. Every artifice of the besieged
was employed, while on the side of the British soldiers a mad, a
frantic courage was displayed. What if mines did burst and blow
hundreds to pieces? Their comrades dashed down into the ditch without
hesitation, and cast themselves into the selfsame breach where the
tragedy had been perpetrated. What if the enemy did cast bags of
gunpowder into the confused ranks of the stormers? It was all the
more inducement to them to dash onward.
To describe all that occurred would be beyond us. Let us follow our
hero, though, and see what happened in his direction. Tom was one of
the forlorn hope. Shouldering his hay pack, and gripping his sword,
he dashed at the breach before him when the alarm was given. The
stunning discharge of a cannon to his front almost swept him from his
feet, and cleared a lane through the comrades before him. A fireball
danced down the steep slope of the breach and blazed brightly,
showing the faces and figures of the enemy plainly, the muskets they
were levelling, and an appalling _chevaux de frise_ erected at the
top of the breach. Composed of naked sabre blades secured to logs of
wood, this obstacle awaited the stormers before they could come to
hand grips with the enemy. But that was not all. Tom stumbled over a
boulder, floundered on to his face, and was then lifted boldly and
flung aside by a mighty concussion.
"A mine," he thought. "Am I alive or not? What's happened to the
others?"
He might well ask that. The poor fellows were swept out of existence
almost to a man; but behind them were the noble five hundred, and in
rear again the gallant Light Division. Before them was the breach;
that terrible breach, with its defenders, its guns, its awful
obstacle, and the hundred-and-one means there for the destruction
of the stormers. Time and again did men dash at it. Gallant souls,
driven crazy by the hazard they endured, and filled with fearful
determination, clambered to that _chevaux de frise_ and were there
slaughtered. Officers stood in full sight of the enemy calling to
their men, leading them upward. And yet none could enter.
Elsewhere the fighting had been equally strenuous. After many and
many an attempt the castle was at length won, and later Walker's
brigade tore its gallant way over the San Vincente Bastion,
victorious in spite of mines and guns fired at point-blank range.
It was from that quarter, in fact, that success at length came;
for the Light and the 4th Divisions had as yet failed to burst
their way through the breaches before them. But an advance from the
direction of San Vincente took the defenders in the rear, and just
as our men had retired at the orders of Wellington, preparatory to a
fresh attack, those breaches were taken. Men burst in now from all
directions; the enemy fled for the most part to Fort Christoval,
over the river, and Badajoz was ours. Cheers and counter cheers
were heard in all quarters. The wounded sat up as best they could
and joined in the jubilation, and then pandemonium again broke out
in every street of the city; for the victorious troops straightway
got out of hand. They poured in a torrent through the streets of
Badajoz, rifling the houses, and, breaking into the cabarets, helped
themselves to the wines of Spain. That early morning, in fact,
discovered a terrible situation in the fortress; for of order there
was none. Drunken soldiers staggered over the pavements committing
violence everywhere, while as many more were pillaging or doing
actual violence to the unfortunate inhabitants. And all that while
Tom Clifford lay on the slope of the breach which with many another
gallant soul he had endeavoured to storm. Regiments passed over
him. The surgeons and their bearers came and went in search of the
wounded, and passed him always. For Tom lay stark and still. With his
face half-buried in the torn tunic of a soldier who had died while
doing his duty, and his limbs curled up as if he were asleep, he lay
without a movement, appearing not even to breathe, lifeless to those
who cast a casual glance at him.
"Dead!" groaned Jack and Andrews when at length they found him.
"Killed by the mine which wiped out every man of 'the forlorn hope.'
Poor Tom!"
"Breathing!" shouted Alfonso, who also accompanied him. "I tell you
he is still alive."
That brought them all about him, and within a few minutes our hero
was being carried from the breach. But was he living still? Was
Badajoz to see the end of a promising career, and put a stop to his
quest? Or would Tom Clifford appear upon the scenes again, and still
have something to say to the rascal who had abducted both father and
uncle?