THE STORMING OF CIUDAD RODRIGO.
Whatever the levity of the previous moment, the scene before us now
repressed it effectually. The deep-toned bell of the cathedral tolled
seven, and scarcely were its notes dying away in the distance, when the
march of the columns was heard stealing along the ground. A low murmuring
whisper ran along the advanced files of the forlorn hope; stocks were
loosened; packs and knapsacks thrown to the ground; each man pressed his
cap more firmly down upon his brow, and with lip compressed and steadfast
eye, waited for the word to move.
It came at last: the word “March!” passed in whispers from rank to rank,
and the dark mass moved on. What a moment was that as we advanced to the
foot of the breach! The consciousness that at the same instant, from
different points of that vast plain, similar parties were moving on; the
feeling that at a word the flame of the artillery and the flash of steel
would spring from that dense cloud, and death and carnage, in every shape
our imagination can conceive, be dealt on all sides; the hurried, fitful
thought of home; the years long past compressed into one minute’s space;
the last adieu of all we’ve loved, mingling with the muttered prayer to
Heaven, while, high above all, the deep pervading sense that earth has no
temptation strong enough to turn us from that path whose ending must be a
sepulchre!
Each heart was too full for words. We followed noiselessly along the turf,
the dark figure of our leader guiding us through the gloom. On arriving
at the ditch, the party with the ladders moved to the front. Already some
hay-packs were thrown in, and the forlorn hope sprang forward.
All was still and silent as the grave. “Quietly, my men, quietly!” said
M’Kinnon; “don’t press.” Scarcely had he spoken when a musket whose charge,
contrary to orders, had not been drawn, went off. The whizzing bullet could
not have struck the wall, when suddenly a bright flame burst forth from the
ramparts, and shot upward towards the sky. For an instant the whole scene
before us was bright as noonday. On one side, the dark ranks and glistening
bayonets of the enemy; on the other, the red uniform of the British
columns: compressed like some solid wall, they stretched along the plain.
A deafening roll of musketry from the extreme right announced that the
Third Division was already in action, while the loud cry of our leader, as
he sprang into the trench, summoned us to the charge. The leading sections,
not waiting for the ladders, jumped down, others pressing rapidly behind
them, when a loud rumbling thunder crept along the earth, a hissing,
crackling noise followed, and from the dark ditch a forked and livid
lightning burst like the flame from a volcano, and a mine exploded.
Hundreds of shells and grenades scattered along the ground were ignited at
the same moment; the air sparkled with the whizzing fuses, the musketry
plied incessantly from the walls, and every man of the leading company
of the stormers was blown to pieces. While this dreadful catastrophe was
enacting before our eyes, the different assaults were made on all sides;
the whole fortress seemed girt around with fire. From every part arose the
yells of triumph and the shouts of the assailants. As for us, we stood upon
the verge of the ditch, breathless, hesitating, and horror-struck. A sudden
darkness succeeded to the bright glare, but from the midst of the gloom the
agonizing cries of the wounded and the dying rent our very hearts.
“Make way there! make way! here comes Mackie’s party,” cried an officer
in the front, and as he spoke the forlorn hope of the Eighty-eighth came
forward at a run; jumping recklessly into the ditch, they made towards the
breach; the supporting division of the stormers gave one inspiring cheer,
and sprang after them. The rush was tremendous; for scarcely had we reached
the crumbling ruins of the rampart, when the vast column, pressing on like
some mighty torrent, bore down upon our rear. Now commenced a scene to
which nothing I ever before conceived of war could in any degree compare:
the whole ground, covered with combustibles of every deadly and destructive
contrivance, was rent open with a crash; the huge masses of masonry bounded
into the air like things of no weight; the ringing clangor of the iron
howitzers, the crackling of the fuses, the blazing splinters, the shouts of
defiance, the more than savage yell of those in whose ranks alone the dead
and the dying were numbered, made up a mass of sights and sounds almost
maddening with their excitement. On we struggled; the mutilated bodies of
the leading files almost filling the way.
By this time the Third Division had joined us, and the crush of our
thickening ranks was dreadful; every moment some well-known leader fell
dead or mortally wounded, and his place was supplied by some gallant fellow
who, springing from the leading files, would scarcely have uttered his
cheer of encouragement, ere he himself was laid low. Many a voice with
whose notes I was familiar, would break upon my ear in tones of heroic
daring, and the next moment burst forth in a death-cry. For above an hour
the frightful carnage continued, fresh troops continually advancing, but
scarcely a foot of ground was made; the earth belched forth its volcanic
fires, and that terrible barrier did no man pass. In turn the bravest and
the boldest would leap into the whizzing flame, and the taunting cheers of
the enemy triumphed in derision at the effort.
“Stormers to the front! Only the bayonet! trust to nothing but the
bayonet!” cried a voice whose almost cheerful accents contrasted strangely
with the dead-notes around, and Gurwood, who led the forlorn hope of
the Fifty-second, bounded into the chasm; all the officers sprang
simultaneously after him; the men pressed madly on; a roll of withering
musketry crashed upon them; a furious shout replied to it. The British,
springing over the dead and dying, bounded like blood-hounds on their prey.
Meanwhile the ramparts trembled beneath the tramp of the light division,
who, having forced the lesser breach, came down upon the flank of the
French. The garrison, however, thickened their numbers, and bravely held
their ground. Man to man now was the combat. No cry for quarter, no
supplicating look for mercy; it was the death struggle of vengeance and
despair. At this instant an explosion louder than the loudest thunder shook
the air; the rent and torn up ramparts sprang into the sky; the conquering
and the conquered were alike the victims; for one of the greatest magazines
had been ignited by a shell; the black smoke, streaked with a lurid flame,
hung above the dead and the dying. The artillery and the murderous musketry
were stilled, paralyzed, as it were, by the ruin and devastation before
them. Both sides stood leaning upon their arms; the pause was but
momentary; the cries of wounded comrades called upon their hearts. A fierce
burst of vengeance rent the air; the British closed upon the foe; for one
instant they were met; the next, the bayonets gleamed upon the ramparts,
and Ciudad Rodrigo was won.