The British General who pointed out the road to victory on the 21st of
June, has by many been denominated a military quack, who never gained a
battle but by sheer blundering. This assertion, no less ridiculous than
false, I shall not notice farther than to remark, that the Emperor of
the French must at one time have entertained a similar opinion of our
unrivalled General's military talents, otherwise how can we account for
him appointing a general to the chief command in Spain who was totally
unfit for the station he occupied at Vittoria. On perusing the details
of the battle what opinion will military men of later times entertain
of Marshal Jourdan's abilities as a general when they discover that
he posted a few light troops only on the heights of Puebla, when they
should have been crowned with a force sufficiently numerous to have
held them against all mortal flesh? What opinion will they have of his
military qualifications, when they read, that he permitted his right
wing to be driven from his principal and direct line of communication
into France, when to have preserved which, next to beating his
antagonist, should have been his principal object. What will they think
of the Hero of Gemappe, when they perceive that he not only allowed his
wings to be turned, but thrown back upon his centre, and his whole army
ultimately forced back upon an outlet, not broader than was necessary
to secure the retreat of one of his divisions, on such an emergency?
Why, that he was a person perfectly incompetent to command an army of
sixty or seventy thousand Frenchmen against such an adversary: for by
the first error he placed the key of his position in our hands,--by
the second, he barred the door of the principal outlet from the field
against himself,--and by the effects produced by these, his army was
huddled together, and in a short time became such an ungovernable
mass, that he had latterly no other alternative than to abandon his
artillery, stores, &c. in order to preserve his cavalry and infantry
from entire destruction.
In the company which I had the honour to command in 1813, there was a
man named Walsh, whose character was so tainted, that not a soldier
in the company would associate with him. Whether designedly, or
through neglect, I will not pretend to determine, but on inspecting
his arms at Puebla, I found his bayonet bent like a sickle. Enraged
at his conduct, I reprimanded him sharply; but instead of expressing
regret for the offence, Walsh turned his head as I was moving off, and
most unfeelingly said, "What am I to do with the bayonet, Sir? if we
charge to-day I will not be able to thrust it into any _Frenchman's
guts_." This ruffianly speech caused a thrill of horror to run through
the company like a shock of electricity. On our march from Puebla
towards the scene of action, Walsh's whole conversation was nothing
but a connected chain of blasphemous sentences. Oath succeeded oath,
with such frightful rapidity, that his companions at length became
horror-struck. In this state of mind he went into action on the lower
part of the position, where the shot and the shell plunged around him
without producing any visible amendment. The regiment proceeded to the
heights, Walsh all the way pursuing a similar course, venting curses
on all and every thing around, above, and below. When we had arrived
within about two hundred yards of the 50th, _and before any one had
heard the sound of a ball at that point_, the unfortunate wretch,
in the very act of uttering a dreadful torrent of blasphemy, fell a
lifeless corpse, his head having been perforated by a musket ball.
Walsh's sudden and striking exit from this to another world, furnished
conversation to his companions during the remainder of the day. His
death was viewed by them as a striking manifestation of the divine
wrath for his numerous and heinous offences against the Author of his
being.
Between the second and third attacks on the heights of Puebla, the
pay-sergeant of the company, accompanied by a corporal and private,
requested my permission to bring Walsh's knapsack from the rear, and
dispose of its contents by auction, for behoof of his family. Highly
approving of this admirable display of feeling on the part of the
company, I waited on Colonel Cameron, and solicited permission for the
sergeant to go and take the necessaries from the dead man's back. Quite
delighted with the idea, the Colonel readily gave his sanction. In a
few minutes the auction began; the biddings went on with life, till the
whole was disposed of. By this praise-worthy act thirty-one shillings
were added to the balance due to the deceased, and remitted to the
widow. Two officers of the 50th, who were standing beside me during the
sale, declared, with tears in their eyes, that it was one of the most
singular and beautiful exhibitions they had ever witnessed. Singular it
undoubtedly was; for in the annals of warfare it was perhaps the only
_public auction_ ever attempted amidst the roaring of artillery and
vollies of musketry.
A young lad belonging to the sixth company committed a singular act
of cowardice at Vittoria. On ascending the heights, he, under some
frivolous pretence, fell out, but _forgot_ to rejoin his comrades. In a
few days thereafter, notice arrived from an hospital in the rear, that
he had received such a bad wound in the hand that amputation had been
performed at the wrist. On investigating into the matter, it turned
out, that in order to avoid the _chance of being hit_ in action, he had
actually inflicted a wound on himself which might have proved mortal.
Thus, to avoid the _possibility_ of dying the death of the brave, he
imprinted the stamp of the coward on his person, and suspended round
his neck a load of ignominy and dishonour which can only be hid in the
grave.
When inspecting the arms of the first company, a young lad who had
never been in action before, stepped up to the captain of it, and
informed him he was so unwell that he would be obliged to fall out. On
inquiring the nature of the complaint, Captain C. received for answer,
"_A sair wame, Sir_." Conceiving that all was not right, Captain C. was
induced to walk with him to Colonel Cameron, who, on taking the _sick_
man by the shoulder, and causing him to face the heights of Puebla,
pointed to some French sentries on their summit, and then inquired
if he saw them. Replying in the affirmative, the Colonel then said,
"Well, my man, those fellows you see on the top of the hill are the
best _doctors_ in the world for complaints like your's," and raising
his voice he continued, "and by ---- if I live you shall consult them
this day!" Covered with shame, poor B. rejoined his companions, moved
forward with them in very depressed spirits, but during the action was
one of the keenest spirits in the fray, and ever after his Captain had
more difficulty in restraining his courage than he had in rousing it
into action at Vittoria. This little incident shews most unequivocally,
that in going into action for a first time, young soldiers should
invariably be incorporated with old ones. For had this youth been
allowed to retire, under the feigned plea of sickness, he would have
remained a coward ever after.
A French colonel, commanding a portion of their light troops on the
heights of Puebla, finding the ground unfavourable for equestrian
exercise, sent his charger to the rear a little before the action
began. Being a very corpulent man, his running pace was that of a duck,
which of all others is the worst calculated to carry a person out of
the clutches of a _light bob_. Seeing there was no possibility of
making his escape, the Colonel wheeled round, and surrendered himself a
prisoner. Perceiving him covered with a profuse perspiration, our lads
were ill-mannered enough to indulge in a hearty laugh at his expense.
Seeing he was the butt of the group, the worthy representative of Sir
John Falstaff very good humouredly remarked to an officer of the 92d
regiment on surrendering his sword, "O God! O God! what a fool was I to
part with my horse. For the want of it now I have become your merryman."
Colonel Cadogan, of the 71st, who fell on the heights of Puebla, was
leading a charge of his light troops when he was hit. The Colonel had
turned round to cheer on his followers, and had just repeated, "Well
done, well done, brave Highlanders!" when the intrepid leader, mortally
wounded, fell from his horse into the arms of a kindred spirit, Captain
Seton, commanding the light company 92d Highlanders, son of the late
Sir William Seton of Pitmidden, Aberdeenshire.
Yes, tho' too soon attaining glory's goal,
To us his bright career too short was given;
Yet, in a glorious cause, his phœnix soul
Rose on the flames of victory to heaven.