FUENTES D’ONORO.
From this period the French continued their retreat, closely followed by
the allied armies, and on the 5th of April, Massena once more crossed the
frontier into Spain, leaving thirty thousand of his bravest troops behind
him, fourteen thousand of whom had fallen or been taken prisoners.
Reinforcements, however, came rapidly pouring in. Two divisions of the
Ninth corps had already arrived, and Drouet, with eleven thousand infantry
and cavalry, was preparing to march to his assistance. Thus strengthened,
the French army marched towards the Portuguese frontier, and Lord
Wellington, who had determined not to hazard much by his blockade of Ciudad
Rodrigo, fell back upon the large table-land beyond the Turones and the Dos
Casas, with his left at Fort Conception, and his right resting upon Fuentes
d’Onoro. His position extended to about five miles; and here, although
vastly inferior in numbers, yet relying upon the bravery of the troops, and
the moral ascendency acquired by their pursuit of the enemy, he finally
resolved upon giving them battle.
Being sent with despatches to Pack’s brigade, which formed the blockading
force at Almeida, I did not reach Fuentes d’Onoro until the evening of the
3d. The thundering of the guns, which, even at the distance I was at, was
plainly heard, announced that an attack had taken place, but it by no means
prepared me for the scene which presented itself on my return.
The village of Fuentes d’Onoro, one of the most beautiful in Spain, is
situated in a lovely valley, where all the charms of verdure so peculiar to
the Peninsula seemed to have been scattered with a lavish hand. The citron
and the arbutus, growing wild, sheltered every cottage door, and the
olive and the laurel threw their shadows across the little rivulet which
traversed the village. The houses, observing no uniform arrangement,
stood wherever the caprice or the inclination of the builder suggested,
surrounded with little gardens, the inequality of the ground imparting a
picturesque feature to even the lowliest hut, while upon a craggy eminence
above the rest, an ancient convent and a ruined chapel looked down upon the
little peaceful hamlet with an air of tender protection.
Hitherto this lovely spot had escaped all the ravages of war. The light
division of our army had occupied it for months long; and every family was
gratefully remembered by some one or other of our officers, and more than
one of our wounded found in the kind and affectionate watching of these
poor peasants the solace which sickness rarely meets with when far from
home and country.
It was, then, with an anxious heart I pressed my horse forward into a
gallop as the night drew near. The artillery had been distinctly heard
during the day, and while I burned with eagerness to know the result, I
felt scarcely less anxious for the fate of that little hamlet whose name
many a kind story had implanted in my memory. The moon was shining brightly
as I passed the outpost, and leading my horse by the bridle, descended the
steep and rugged causeway to the village beneath me. The lanterns were
moving rapidly to and fro; the measured tread of infantry at night--that
ominous sound, which falls upon the heart so sadly--told me that they
were burying the dead. The air was still and breathless; not a sound was
stirring save the step of the soldiery, and the harsh clash of the shovel
as it struck the earth. I felt sad and sick at heart, and leaned against a
tree; a nightingale concealed in the leaves was pouring forth its plaintive
notes to the night air, and its low warble sounded like the dirge of the
departed. Far beyond, in the plain, the French watch-fires were burning,
and I could see from time to time the fatigue-parties moving in search of
their wounded. At this moment the clock of the convent struck eleven, and a
merry chime rang out, and was taken up by the echoes till it melted away in
the distance. Alas, where were those whose hearts were wont to feel cheered
at that happy peal; whose infancy it had gladdened; whose old age it has
hallowed? The fallen walls, the broken roof-trees, the ruin and desolation
on every side, told too plainly that they had passed away forever! The
smoking embers, the torn-up pathway, denoted the hard-fought struggle; and
as I passed along, I could see that every garden, where the cherry and the
apple-blossom were even still perfuming the air, had now its sepulchre.
“Halt, there!” cried a hoarse voice in front. “You cannot pass this
way,--the commander-in-chief’s quarters.”
I looked up and beheld a small but neat-looking cottage, which seemed to
have suffered less than the others around. Lights were shining brightly
from the windows, and I could even detect from time to time a figure
muffled up in a cloak passing to and fro across the window; while another,
seated at a table, was occupied in writing. I turned into a narrow path
which led into the little square of the village, and here, as I approached,
the hum and murmur of voices announced a bivouac party. Stopping to ask
what had been the result of the day, I learned that a tremendous attack
had been made by the French in column upon the village, which was at first
successful; but that afterwards the Seventy-first and Seventy-ninth,
marching down from the heights, had repulsed the enemy, and driven them
beyond the Dos Casas. Five hundred had fallen in that fierce encounter,
which was continued through every street and alley of the little hamlet.
The gallant Highlanders now occupied the battle-field; and hearing that the
cavalry brigade was some miles distant, I willingly accepted their offer to
share their bivouac, and passed the remainder of the night among them.
When day broke, our troops were under arms, but the enemy showed no
disposition to renew the attack. We could perceive, however, from the road
to the southward, by the long columns of dust, that reinforcements were
still arriving; and learned during the morning, from a deserter, that
Massena himself had come up, and Bessiéres also, with twelve hundred
cavalry, and a battery of the Imperial Guard.
From the movements observable in the enemy, it was soon evident that the
battle, though deferred, was not abandoned; and the march of a strong
force towards the left of their position induced our commander-in-chief to
despatch the Seventh Division, under Houston, to occupy the height of Naval
d’Aver--our extreme right--in support of which our brigade of cavalry
marched as a covering force. The British position was thus unavoidably
extended to the enormous length of seven miles, occupying a succession of
small eminences, from the division at Fort Conception to the height of
Naval d’Aver,--Fuentes d’Onoro forming nearly the centre of the line.
It was evident, from the thickening combinations of the French, that a more
dreadful battle was still in reserve for us; and yet never did men look
more anxiously for the morrow.
As for myself, I felt a species of exhilaration I had never before
experienced; the events of the preceding day came dropping in upon me from
every side, and at every new tale of gallantry or daring I felt my heart
bounding with excited eagerness to win also my need of honorable praise.
Crawfurd, too, had recognized me in the kindest manner; and while saying
that he did not wish to withdraw me from my regiment on a day of battle,
added that he would make use of me for the present on his staff. Thus was
I engaged, from early in the morning till late in the evening, bringing
orders and despatches along the line. The troop-horse I rode--for I
reserved my gray for the following day--was scarcely able to carry me
along, as towards dusk I jogged along in the direction of Naval d’Aver.
When I did reach our quarters, the fires were lighted, and around one of
them I had the good fortune to find a party of the Fourteenth occupied in
discussing a very appetizing little supper. The clatter of plates, and the
popping of champagne corks were most agreeable sounds. Indeed, the latter
appeared to me so much too flattering an illusion, that I hesitated giving
credit to my senses in the matter, when Baker called out,--
“Come, Charley, sit down; you’re just in the nick. Tom Marsden is giving us
a benefit. You know Tom?”
And here he presented me in due form to that best of commissaries and most
hospitable of horse-dealers.
“I can’t introduce you to my friend on my right,” continued Baker, “for my
Spanish is only a skeleton battalion; but he’s a trump,--that I’ll vouch
for; never flinches his glass, and looks as though he enjoyed all our
nonsense.”
The Spaniard, who appeared to comprehend that he was alluded to, gravely
saluted me with a low bow, and offered his glass to hobnob with me. I
returned the curtesy with becoming ceremony, while Hampden whispered in my
ear,--
“A fine-looking fellow. You know who he is? Julian, the Guerilla chief.”
I had heard much of both the strangers. Tom Marsden was a household word
in every cavalry brigade; equally celebrated were his contracts and his
claret. He knew every one, from Lord Wellington to the last-joined cornet;
and while upon a march, there was no piece of better fortune than to be
asked to dine with him. So in the very thick of battle, Tom’s critical eye
was scanning the squadrons engaged, with an accuracy as to the number of
fresh horses that would be required upon the morrow that nothing but long
practice and infinite coolness could have conferred.
Of the Guerilla I need not speak. The bold feats he accomplished, the aid
he rendered to the cause of his country, have made his name historical. Yet
still with all this, fatigue, more powerful than my curiosity, prevailed,
and I sank into a heavy sleep upon the grass, while my merry companions
kept up their revels till near morning. The last piece of consciousness I
am sensible of was seeing Julian spreading his wide mantle over me as I
lay, while I heard his deep voice whisper a kind wish for my repose.