THE RETREAT OF THE FRENCH.
It is not my intention, were I even adequate to the task, to trace with
anything like accuracy the events of the war at this period. In fact, to
those who, like myself, were performing a mere subaltern character, the
daily movements of our own troops, not to speak of the continual changes
of the enemy, were perfectly unknown, and an English newspaper was more
ardently longed for in the Peninsula than by the most eager crowd of a
London coffee-room; nay, the results of the very engagements we were
ourselves concerned in, more than once, first reached us through the press
of our own country. It is easy enough to understand this. The officer in
command of the regiment, and how much more, the captain of a troop, or the
subaltern under him, knows nothing beyond the sphere of his own immediate
duty; by the success or failure of his own party his knowledge is bounded,
but how far he or his may influence the fortune, of the day, or of what is
taking place elsewhere, he is totally ignorant; and an old Fourteenth man
did not badly explain, his ideas on the matter, who described Busaco as “a
great noise and a great smoke, booming artillery and rattling small-arms,
infernal confusion, and to all seeming, incessant blundering, orders
and counter-orders, ending with a crushing charge; when, not being hurt
himself, nor having hurt anybody, he felt much pleased to learn that they
had gained a victory.” It is then sufficient for all the purposes of my
narrative, when I mention that Massena continued his retreat by Santarem
and Thomar, followed by the allied army, who, however desirous of pressing
upon the rear of their enemy, were still obliged to maintain their
communication with the lines, and also to watch the movement of the large
armies which, under Ney and Soult, threatened at any unguarded moment to
attack them in flank.
The position which Massena occupied at Santarem, naturally one of great
strength, and further improved by intrenchments, defied any attack on
the part of Lord Wellington, until the arrival of the long-expected
reinforcements from England. These had sailed in the early part of January,
but delayed by adverse winds, only reached Lisbon on the 2d of March; and
so correctly was the French marshal apprised of the circumstance, and so
accurately did he anticipate the probable result, that on the fourth he
broke up his encampment, and recommenced his retrograde movement, with an
army now reduced to forty thousand fighting men, and with two thousand
sick, destroying all his baggage and guns that could not be horsed. By a
demonstration of advancing upon the Zezere, by which he held the allies
in check, he succeeded in passing his wounded to the rear, while Ney,
appearing with a large force suddenly at Leiria, seemed bent upon attacking
the lines. By these stratagems two days’ march were gained, and the French
retreated upon Torres Novas and Thomar, destroying the bridges behind them
as they passed.
The day was breaking on the 12th of March, when the British first came in
sight of the retiring enemy. We were then ordered to the front, and broken
up into small parties, threw out our skirmishers. The French chasseurs,
usually not indisposed to accept this species of encounter, showed now less
of inclination than usual, and either retreated before us, or hovered in
masses to check our advance; in this way the morning was passed, when
towards noon we perceived that the enemy was drawn up in battle array,
occupying the height above the village of Redinha. This little straggling
village is situated in a hollow traversed by a narrow causeway which opens
by a long and dangerous defile upon a bridge, on either side of which a
dense wood afforded a shelter for light troops, while upon the commanding
eminence above a battery of heavy guns was seen in position.
In front of the village a brigade of artillery and a division of infantry
were drawn up so skilfully as to give the appearance of a considerable
force, so that when Lord Wellington came up he spent some time in examining
the enemy’s position. Erskine’s brigade was immediately ordered up, and the
Fifty-second and Ninety-fourth, and a company of the Forty-third were led
against the wooded slopes upon the French right. Picton simultaneously
attacked the left, and in less than an hour, both were successful, and
Ney’s position was laid bare; his skirmishers, however, continued to hold
their ground in front, and La Ferrière, a colonel of hussars, dashing
boldly forward at this very moment, carried off fourteen prisoners from
the very front of our line. Deceived by the confidence of the enemy, Lord
Wellington now prepared for an attack in force. The infantry were therefore
formed into line, and, at the signal of three shots fired from the centre,
began their foremost movement.
Bending up a gentle curve, the whole plain glistened with the glancing
bayonets, and the troops marched majestically onward; while the light
artillery and the cavalry, bounding forward from the left and centre,
rushed eagerly towards the foe. One deafening discharge from the French
guns opened at the moment, with a general volley of small-arms. The smoke
for an instant obscured everything, and when that cleared away, no enemy
was to be seen.
The British pressed madly on, like heated blood-hounds; but when they
descended the slope, the village of Redinha was in flames, and the French
in full retreat beyond it. A single howitzer seemed our only trophy, and
even this we were not destined to boast of, for from the midst of the
crashing flame and dense smoke of the burning village, a troop of dragoons
rushed forward, and charging our infantry, carried it off. The struggle,
though but for a moment, cost them dear: twenty of their comrades lay dead
upon the spot; but they were resolute and determined, and the officer who
led them on, fighting hand to hand with a soldier of the Forty-second,
cheered them as they retired. His gallant bearing, and his coat covered
with decorations, bespoke him one of note, and well it might; he who
thus perilled his life to maintain the courage of his soldiers at the
commencement of a retreat, was none other than Ney himself, _le plus brave
des braves_. The British pressed hotly on, and the light troops crossed the
river almost at the same time with the French. Ney, however, fell back upon
Condeixa, where his main body was posted, and all farther pursuit was for
the present abandoned.
At Casa Noval and at Foz d’Aronce, the allies were successful; but the
French still continued to retire, burning the towns and villages in their
rear, and devastating the country along the whole line of march by every
expedient of cruelty the heart of man has ever conceived. In the words of
one whose descriptions, however fraught with the most wonderful power of
painting, are equally marked by truth, “Every horror that could make war
hideous attended this dreadful march. Distress, conflagration, death in
all modes,--from wounds, from fatigue, from water, from the flames, from
starvation,--vengeance, unlimited vengeance, was on every side.” The
country was a desert!
Such was the exhaustion of the allies, who suffered even greater privations
than the enemy, that they halted upon the 16th, unable to proceed farther;
and the river Ceira, swollen and unfordable, flowed between the rival
armies.
The repose of even one day was a most grateful interruption to the
harassing career we had pursued for some time past; and it seemed that my
comrades felt, like myself, that such an opportunity was by no means to
be neglected; but while I am devoting so much space and trespassing on my
reader’s patience thus far with narrative of flood and field, let me steal
a chapter for what will sometimes seem a scarcely less congenial topic, and
bring back the recollection of a glorious night in the Peninsula.