of our voyage; and at night it was not the least delightful of our
pleasures, to listen to the glees of the German riflemen who sailed
in our division; they were at once harmonious and characteristic, and
gave a charm to the scene which kept many a hundred listeners awake. It
has often been a matter of annoyance to me, to think that the peasantry
of Great Britain alone are the only people in Europe who cannot sing
in _harmony_; the lower orders of every other country are qualified
to take a part in a glee. Amongst my countrymen, I have heard even
an harmonious _second_ condemned as “_not in tune_,” or “_putting
the singer out_!” Of late years, however, the nature of harmony has
been more comprehended—no doubt, arising from the practice of singing
psalms;—if so, this is one good thing that may be set down to the
credit of “_the saints_.”
On the 29th we came in sight of the low sandy shores of Zealand, and on
the 30th we anchored within about two miles of Campveer, having safely
explored a most dangerous gut or branch of the Scheldt, every ship
sounding as she proceeded; while “_By the Mark Seven_” was melodiously
sung by the crews of the various vessels! A calm and sunny day added
much to the effect of the scene.
The troops were now landed, our baggage remaining on board, and General
Frazer, under whose command our regiment was, proceeded to attack
Campveer. A small battery in our way was abandoned, and the enemy
hotly followed to the gates of the town. So sudden was the panic,
that Colonel Pack, with his regiment (the 71st), pursued them even
beyond the first drawbridge, and was proceeding to attempt to take the
town by assault, when two six-pounders were brought to bear by the
enemy in front of him, which cleared a lane through our men, killing
eighteen and wounding twenty-six: among the former were an ensign and
an assistant-surgeon. The latter's head was completely blown to atoms.
It has been thought by many, that the French left the drawbridge down
on purpose to lead their assailants into a trap; and this opinion is
strengthened by the trickery which is well known to prevail throughout
the French mode of warfare. Colonel Pack very narrowly escaped being
taken prisoner; in fact, he may be said to _have_ been a prisoner, for
a few moments after his regiment retired in confusion: he escaped,
however, by cutting down the French soldier who took him.
Campveer is an inconsiderable fortress, and was then garrisoned with
not more than 400 men; therefore it could not have been supposed to
stand long against such a force as we were capable of bringing before
it. The fact was soon proved: one day's cannonade and bombardment from
our gunboats silenced their batteries, and the garrison capitulated.
The damage done to the town was not very considerable; there were,
however, some lamentable proofs of the power of shot and shell left
upon the walls, windows, and roofs of the houses. Few people had
remained in the town on our approach, therefore few if any of the
inhabitants' lives were lost, and only a very few of the French
were either killed or wounded. They sunk one of our best and most
destructive gun boats by a shot from the batteries, but otherwise they
did very little injury to our naval force.
The main body of the army immediately advanced on Middleburg, the
capital of the island, about four miles from Campveer; but although
this city is fortified, it could not be held by the enemy, in
consequence of the impossibility of their gaining supplies from
Flushing, which was at the other extremity of the island, and opened
upon the broad Scheldt. The latter was therefore considered a more
secure and tenable fortification. For this reason, the French forces
moved on from Middleburg, along the high road, closely pursued by our
troops, but fighting every yard of the way, taking special care never
to wait for the points of our lads' bayonets, which were within a very
critical distance of their _rear_. The French, in thus retreating,
would run for about two hundred yards; then rapidly rally and
deliberately wait until the “_crabs_,” as they called us, were close
enough; then would they give us a volley—not, however, without our
hearty return of the compliment; when they would immediately scamper
off through open files of their own men, who were ready to form up
and pour in their shot, while the others were in turn retreating,
forming, and loading. This plan was very effectual; for the French in
the pursuit lost scarcely any men, while we had a church and a large
house full of wounded, besides several killed. In this way were the
enemy followed up and driven into the very gates of Flushing: and such
was the panic which seized the garrison of that town, that the 14th and
the 82nd regiments, it is supposed, had they attempted it, would have
carried the place by assault. They drove their bayonets against the
walls of the fortress, yet retired without the loss of a single man,
although close under the range of the heavy guns from the ramparts.
The whole of the troops landed in the island of Walcheren, amounting to
about eighteen thousand men, all infantry (for no part of the cavalry
was yet disembarked), now invested Flushing, leaving a small garrison
at Middleburg and Campveer; and preparations were immediately commenced
for the siege. A finer, a healthier, and a more gallant army than our's
never took the field; and it is only to be regretted that it was not
employed upon a service where it could have been more advantageous to
its country. The other portion of the forces, about 20,000 men under
the command of Sir John Hope, were landed on South Beveland, from
which place they were sent back to England, without accomplishing any
thing—or rather, without having had any thing _to accomplish_, for the
enemy retreated on their approach, and left them in possession of the
island.
Our lines before Flushing were about half a mile from the walls,
extending back about another quarter of a mile, and all within the
imaginary semicircle which may be traced from the two sides of the
town, drawing the line by West Zuburg, a neat little village nearly a
mile from Flushing.
Our centre was commanded by Generals Houston and Stewart; our right by
General Graham, under whom were acting General Auckland and General
Leith; our left by Generals Picton and Rottenburg, the latter of whom,
however, was appointed to the more easy duty of officiating as military
commandant of Middleburg: his infirm state of health and advanced age
rendered this a very proper arrangement.
Sir Eyre Coote, our second in command, took up his station at West
Zuburg, close to the lines, and Lord Chatham remained at Middleburg.
The Marquis of Anglesea, then Lord Paget, finding that ship-board
was no _field_ for a General of Cavalry, took up his quarters
at West Zuburg, in a merchant's country-house, as a mere visitor
of the operating army. There was a sort of irregular or guerilla
force attached to the besieging army, consisting of about 500
jolly Jack-tars, under the command of Lord A. Beauclerk, formed by
detachments from each man-of-war employed in the service; and these
were by no means “fish out of water,” for they assisted mainly in
dragging up the heavy artillery, as well as in skirmishing in front of
our lines.
The country which our army occupied was extremely bushy and luxuriant,
though without tall trees, and quite flat; it was interspersed with
numerous beautiful gardens, meadows, &c.; and in the height of a very
fine summer, as this was, none could wander through it undelighted.
As no distant views could possibly occur in such walks, the eye
was constantly receiving an interesting change of objects,—now a
beautifully displayed garden, where fruit and flowers were profusely
growing; a step or two brought the wanderer to a green alley, adorned
with classical statues, and intersected with walks bordered by flowers,
and perhaps, on turning into one of them, a fish-pond became visible,
overshadowed by willows and cypress, and surrounded with dwarf trees
and heavy foliage; in the centre, an artificial cascade, and moored at
the side, a little boat, beautifully rigged. On leaving this, perhaps a
meadow presented itself, with a ripening crop of grass hedged closely
round—perhaps trodden down by our soldiers, who were bivouacking there,
or in the adjoining field—then a brushwood, and then again a dyke,
overhung by long rushes and grass. These objects, in varied succession,
covered the greater part of the land about West Zuburg and the road to
and from thence to Flushing. In this part I was quartered, and I have
walked for hours, without finding a spot that would form an exception
to the above description. It was the happiest time of my life—young
as I was, (little more than nineteen,) with a mind as elastic as the
air, and romantic to enthusiasm; placed for the first time in my life
in the centre of the field destined for the fight, and that field
so beautiful by nature and by art—so covered by foliage and green
swards, and so diversified by the bivouack and the battery; the guns
from the besieged town every minute or two shaking the atmosphere,
and the rifles of the skirmishers in irregular reports, startling the
ear—these, with a consciousness that I was a part of the machine of
war, gave an interest to every thing around me which I had never felt
before, and which I cannot now recall without delight.
The first day we appeared before Flushing, and the following we were
entirely employed in guarding against surprise; we were constantly
under arms, and could only regale ourselves with what we chanced to
have brought with us. However, rations were soon delivered out to us,
and with the help of sods and green bushes, grass, &c. we constructed
huts, which, with an old barn, helped us to make ourselves feel quite
“at home.” This was on the 1st and 2nd of August, from which time,
until the bombardment commenced (the 13th), we had little to do but
to work at the batteries and trenches; and to let ourselves be shot
at and shelled at by the town; with the exception, indeed, of one
evening's sharp work, when the garrison made a _sortie_ upon us. This,
while it lasted, was a tough contest, and although at least 20,000
men sallied out from the town, as much intent on mischief as men
well could be, they were forced to retire in double-quick time, after
about an hour's hard work, with nothing but their labour and their
loss for their pains. It was, I think, on the 6th of August, that the
_sortie_ was made, and from the gate which opened on the main road
to Middleburg. A few of my brother officers and I had been smoking
cigars, and moistening our lips with a little Hollands and water, in
an almost roofless cottage, and, I recollect, we were talking of the
very fortunate escape which one of our officers, then present, had had
about three hours before, from a shell which had fallen scarcely a foot
from him, and laughing at the manner in which he had run away from
the ignited globe of destruction, when we heard a volley of musketry
apparently not more than a quarter of a mile away, and in a moment
the orderly sergeant brought us instructions to “turn out” forthwith.
The regiment was under arms and upon the main road in a few minutes,
when we perceived a body of our troops falling back, while the French
were yelling as if in triumph, their voices only drowned by the loud
discharges of musketry from both sides. It was almost dark, but the
twilight was sufficient for us to discover a little disorder in the
regiment before us. Our lads muttered to each other as they advanced at
a rapid pace, “Oh! by J——s we'll soon stop yiz!”—“Wait 'till we come
at you, you beggars!” &c. and such from every part of the ranks were
not the most unpleasant sounds I ever heard,—my heart swelled with
exultation when I heard the men, and witnessed their manly courage.
“Steady, my lads—silence till you fire—wait, my lads—steady,” passed
from the Colonel, as we pushed on, and in a few minutes the regiment
before us opened. The grenadier company, stout and steady fellows,
formed in line as quick as lightning, pouring a thundering volley into
the column of the enemy which was approaching, and the word “_Charge!_”
sent us off like rockets. Our line hurried on with a simultaneous
shout, and every bayonet met its bloody sheath in a moment. We were
supported by the remainder of the regiment, and for several minutes
were mixed together, both French and English, tugging at each other
fiercely. Our fellows absolutely turned their muskets, and butted and
smashed them down, as if dissatisfied with the more silent, but more
effective execution of the bayonet. The scene was one of complete
confusion; many of our own men were wounded by their comrades' balls
from behind, as the surgeon afterwards declared, on comparing them,
as they were extracted—he distinguished the British bullets by their
greater size in relation to those of the French. The enemy, encouraged
by their officers, rallied and fired several times boldly, but were
again and again repulsed. The 51st and the 95th on our side attacked
from a field, and assisted mainly in deciding the affair. The firing by
degrees became less and less, and when our troops had completely chased
the French back to their strong hold, they were ordered to return. So
ended the sortie of the 6th of August.
In returning to our huts we overtook, amongst several of the wounded,
Lieutenant R——, of our's, my most intimate friend and companion; he
was carried by four of our men, and was on his way to the hospital
at West Zuburg. His altered voice, when he called to me, foreboded
melancholy consequences. He had been shot in the side by one of the
last bullets that the enemy discharged, after having done his duty
gallantly, and was in the act of giving them a farewell shout and a
farewell volley. As soon as the regiment halted, he was surrounded by
his brother officers, and the Colonel particularly attended to him. My
friend begged that I might be allowed to accompany him to the hospital,
and remain with him during the night, which was readily permitted,
and, with a sad farewell from all his brother officers, he was borne
along in a blanket. I walked beside him, administering every attention
in my power; and in about ten minutes we arrived at the church of
West Zuburg, which was appropriated for the field-hospital. My friend
was laid down upon some hay, shaken together upon a tombstone in the
church. His side was immediately examined by the medical officers on
duty, and he was bled; after which his wound was dressed, and a sheet
was thrown over him; for, as the weather was very hot, the surgeon
would not allow more covering. He did not appear to be in much pain,
but felt very much exhausted, and, with his hand holding mine, he
fell into a slumber. I sat beside him all the night, wetting his
lips whenever he awoke, which, however, was not very often, with what
had been delivered to me by the surgeon;—and such a night!—there
scarcely passed an interval of five minutes between the arrival of one
unfortunate fellow or another, who had been wounded in the sortie;
and three surgeons were employed constantly from twelve o'clock until
five in dressing their wounds. Brave fellows! had those who at home
are inclined to look contemptuously on the soldier—had they but passed
_that_ night in _that_ church, how differently would they feel towards
the men whose sufferings so well entitle them to sympathy!
In the morning the hospital was crowded with the wounded; the whole of
the floor—pews, and all, filled with groaning sufferers, principally
shot in the legs, and not a single bayonet-wound amongst them; which
showed that in the contest the enemy kept at full musket's length
from them, _except when they could not help it_; and no doubt _their_
hospital proved on the same morning that they pretty often were
_obliged_ to be within a shorter distance of the British soldiers.
It was twelve o'clock next day before proper quarters could be procured
for my wounded friend; and about an hour before we removed him from
the hospital, Lord Paget, Captain Paget of “the Revenge,” and Captain
Richardson of “the Cæsar,” came in to visit the wounded. My friend was
lying upon one side, apparently asleep, after having taken a cup of
tea. These officers made the kindest inquiries after, not only him, but
every man who seemed to be severely wounded. Next to my poor friend
lay a man who had been shot through the body two days before; he was
sitting up, or rather propped up by pads or pillows, and suffered, to
all appearances, excessively from difficulty of breathing,—I suppose
from being shot through the lungs. Captain Richardson recognized him
as a man who came to Walcheren on board of his own ship, and spoke
to him in the most tender-hearted manner. “Poor fellow!” said the
Captain, “he has a wife and five small children, God help him!” and
the manly weather-beaten cheek of the sailor felt the purest tear upon
it that sensibility ever shed. He strove to restrain his feelings, and
turned aside. The poor wounded soldier wept loudly as he cried “God
bless your honour!” and those who were present joined in his feelings.
Captain Richardson was, from appearance, the last man in the world, I
should have thought, to have been capable of the “melting mood,” for
he was a brawny stern son of the sea; however, the feeling heart was
there; and never did it appear more evidently than in the behaviour of
that rough sailor. I am convinced that the last moments of the poor
soldier (who very soon after died) were softened by his tenderness.
Lord Paget and his brother did honour to their feelings also, in the
kindness and solicitude they manifested for the sad sufferers; indeed,
his Lordship (I understood from one of the surgeons after the siege
was over) visited the hospital several times a-day, divested of all
the “pomp and circumstance” of his rank, and used to go from bed to
bed, making the kindest inquiries about the men. Here, too, appearances
would have deceived as much as with Captain Richardson, but in a
different way; Lord Paget was a perfect military beau, bedecked with
all the gaudery of a cavalry general, still farther set off by the oak
branch waving gracefully in his chapeau, the very picture of military
splendour; yet the feeling heart was shown in him as well as in the
rough sailor: indeed his Lordship's subsequent conduct at Waterloo
proves that the best qualities of the soldier may glow beneath feathers
and embroidery. Truly, now-a-days it does not appear necessary that
a good soldier must be dressed, like Charles the XIIth, in greased
jack-boots and buckskin breeches; for it is generally reported in the
army, that the Duke of Wellington has been heard to say, that “his
dressy officers were his best soldiers.”
My wounded friend was now removed to a house in the village, where
there was not a being but an old woman, and a little boy of about nine
years old, whose name (Yacob) was as quaint as his dress—a fac-simile
of the costume of Queen Anne's time—knee-buckles, shoe-buckles,
tight cravat, and a three-cornered “pinch,”—his lips holding a short
tobacco-pipe, which he smoked by command of the old woman whenever he
went out of doors. These two denizens of the cottage had only returned
to West Zuburg that morning with a few other inhabitants. They were
of great use in attending upon my friend; and to do the old woman
justice, she behaved with great humanity, notwithstanding the irritable
state of her mind, owing to the presence of the army in her village.
She was very obliging except whenever her china basons or plates were
touched, and then she lost her temper; for like Goldsmith's tea-cups,
they were only ranged for _show_.
I continued with my friend for two days, during which time the poor
fellow talked almost incessantly of his father, and felt every
apprehension of death: alas! this was but too well-founded; for after
giving me his watch and other little articles of value for his parent,
he closed his eyes for ever. The last duties were performed next day
over his body and that of a German rifle officer, who was killed the
day before. The officers of their respective regiments attended, and in
plain deal coffins we consigned to the earth the bodies of two as fine
young men as any in the army.
It was a melancholy scene; yet there was a stern terror in the
circumstances around, which kept the mind from indulging in weakness.
There was no tear shed, and few words were spoken. The melancholy drum,
mingled with frequent sounds of cannon from the town, was the dirge;
and the deserted village through which the procession moved, with the
warlike figures composing it, imparted feelings indescribable, and
only to be understood by those who have been in similar circumstances.
The sense of death and desolation, together with the peal of the
cannon, wrought their combined effects on the faces of all; and I
firmly believe, that had the officers and men, composing the mournful
procession, their choice of immediate battle or undisputed victory,
they would have taken the former. Woe to the foe who should have dared
to encounter them at that moment!
The enemy continued to annoy the British lines during the whole of the
time we lay before the town (twelve or thirteen days) previous to the
bombardment. Their riflemen were constantly creeping in front, behind
low walls and fences, to pick out an odd man from our working-parties,
and our German riflemen played at “hide and seek” with them wherever
they could. The guns and mortars from the town, too, were ever and
anon employed upon any party, or even a single man, at whom they could
be brought to bear. The shells were also thrown amongst the huts or
houses in which the enemy supposed any of our men might be, so that
we were obliged to be constantly on the look-out, to avoid them when
they fell. As instances of the precision with which they, as well
as the shot, were thrown, I will mention two cases; one relating
to Major Thompson, of the 68th, and the other to Mr. Cheselden,
assistant-surgeon of the 81st. The former had moved out from behind
the cover of a hedge, to direct some of his men, who were employed
in working; he had not been thus exposed two minutes, when a shell
was thrown close to him, and exploded, shattering his right arm below
the elbow. This officer, on having the limb amputated, appeared to
suffer no more than if the surgeon had been merely bleeding him; he
looked steadily at the movements of the knife, occasionally directing
the assistants to bring water, sponge, &c. &c. The other instance was
this: Mr. Cheselden, in company with an officer of the Quartermaster
General's staff and another, was amusing himself in looking over the
lines. They had stopped upon a rising part of the road to talk with an
orderly man and a drummer, who stood near. In a few moments a gun from
the town was levelled at them, and the shot struck the earth close by,
passing through the group, knocking them all down, and almost covering
them with fragments of earth and sand. Worse consequences, however,
followed: Mr. Cheselden's thigh was shattered, and the orderly man
killed; the others received no injury except the discoloration of their
clothes. The assistant surgeon's thigh was immediately amputated.
The annoyance from the enemy's rifles was a good deal lessened by the
brigade of sailors. These extraordinary fellows delighted in hunting
the “_Munseers_,” as they termed the French; and a more formidable pack
never was unkennelled. Armed, each with an immense long pole or pike,
a cutlass, and a pistol, they appeared to be a sort of force that,
in case of a sortie, or where execution was to be done in the way of
storming, would have been as destructive as a thousand hungry tigers:
as it was, they annoyed the French skirmishers in all directions, by
their irregular and extraordinary attacks. They usually went out in
parties, as if they were going to hunt a wild beast, and no huntsman
ever followed the chase with more delight. The French might fairly
exclaim with the frogs in the fable—“Ah! Monsieur _Bull_, what is sport
to you, is death to us.”