Henty's return from Ashanti in 1874 is memorable to the writer from its
being the commencement of his introduction to a good fellowship which
lasted till that event which turns all friendships into a memory.
The meeting was in that famous old street named after the little river
of such modest and retiring nature that it was only written down as a
ditch, though probably in its beginnings, long before it was lost in
Father Thames, it was christened Fleet.
It was just outside the _Standard_ office that the acquaintance began
with the singular-looking, swarthy, not sun-tanned, but blackened war
correspondent freshly arrived from the deadly swamps and black shadows
of the West Coast forests.
Scientific writers on the physiology of man and his colouration tell us
that the black races have been endowed by nature with a curious black
pigment lying beneath the skin, and that this is evidently intended as a
protection from the too ardent and otherwise injurious rays of the sun.
In the case of Henty, his appearance on his first return from the
Coomassie campaign was that of one upon whom nature had begun to bestow
some of this strange protection. He did not look embrowned, but
blackened; so discoloured, in fact, that there was one who laughingly
spoke of the discoloration--which lasted for some considerable time--as
making him strongly resemble a chimney-sweep who had been trying hard to
wash himself clean for Sunday and had dismally failed.
Henty found time in 1874 to send to the press in book form his account
of the West Coast expedition, under the title of _The March to
Coomassie_, a work which ran through two editions. But he was not
allowed long for the purpose of resuming the natural tint of an
Englishman. Fresh work was looming in the almost immediate future, and,
as if fate had ordained that he was to have something to do with nearly
every warlike episode that recent history records, the summons came that
he should start for that hotbed of revolution and insurrection, Spain.
Here he was to busy his pen with his accounts of the long-drawn-out,
never-seeming-to-end troubles in connection with the succession, and the
long duel between Don Alfonso and Don Carlos to decide which should
reign as king. Moreover a short-lived Spanish republic was in these
days much to the fore. He had come back from Ashanti looking forward to
rest and change. The rest was withheld, but the change came in plenty.
Peace had been proclaimed in one part of the world, and one war was at
an end, but this other war was in full swing, and so almost immediately
he received his orders to start for Spain.
Arrived in the Peninsula, he hurried to head-quarters, where he was
received with the greatest courtesy and furnished with the means of
following the army before Bilbao. Here he was soon in his element,
penning one of his graphic letters, describing the forces and dealing
with the fortifications, batteries, and the strategy of the contending
armies. There was no waiting here, no want of exciting matter such as
would interest his readers at home, and in the pursuit of information he
seems to have kept well to the front, meeting the sad traces of battle
in the shape of stretcher after stretcher being brought in laden with
the dead and wounded.
He never seems to have flinched from the duty that was his, and above
all, he never lost sympathy with the wounded, even, as in former cases,
making a point of exploring the temporary hospitals that were being
filled.
He describes soon after his arrival at the front, and just at the close
of one of the encounters, how he went out one night in search of
information, stopping by the roadside for the space of a couple of
hours. The scene was as striking as it was sad. There was but little
moonlight, and by the glare of a few camp fires he saw the long line of
stretchers go by bearing officers and men to the ambulances. The
procession was watched by the startled uninjured soldiers, whose faces
showed that they were gazing for the first time on the victims of a
civil war.
Those they looked upon were in a way fortunate, for in the long line
that passed Henty, or which he passed by, there were many who had found
no bearers, and so had crawled along by the aid of some comrade.
Here and there there were ambulances for dressing the wounds of those
who required most attention. Many who had been hit in the neck, arms,
or feet, had been temporarily bandaged, and he came upon one poor fellow
who had been severely wounded in the neck and shoulder, whose dressing
had become disarranged as he struggled onward. At length, forced by his
suffering, he was resting by the way, moaning piteously, and after Henty
had rearranged the dressing with a handkerchief and the sufferer's
cravat, the man murmured in Spanish his grateful thanks to the young
Englishman who had helped him in his need.
It was truly a time of suffering, for hundreds of wounded had passed the
night untended upon the ground, and even the dead could not be buried,
as neither side dared expose themselves to the severe fire that was kept
up.
In Henty's earlier letters the sympathy above mentioned affected his
descriptions, which were sad in the extreme, in fact those of a man who
suffered too. All through the period when he was with the Spanish army,
in a quiet unobtrusive way the letters constantly showed how often he
was placed in circumstances where there were calls made upon his
humanity, and invariably he displayed his readiness to join hands with
the members of the Red Cross Society and help the wounded sufferers in
their distress.
Experience and his own nature generally found him friends, who from day
to day were ready to share with him such provision as was to be had, or
to accept a portion of his own scanty military rations. Then setting
danger at defiance, he was glad to yield to fatigue and prepare himself
for the next day's toil by sleeping anywhere, beneath a shelter if it
was to be found, if not, rolled in a waterproof, one of his principal
cares always being the protection of his writing-case and pens. Here,
however, in spite of his care, he was called upon to suffer the war
correspondent's great difficulty. It is comparatively easy for an
energetic man, supplied with proper credentials, to gather enough
stirring facts in the progress of a war to form an interesting article
for his paper, but after hurrying to the nearest shelter where he could
write and finish his letter, there would always come the difficulties of
despatch. It was not always easy to find a messenger to bear it to the
nearest place where postal communication could be ensured, and
afterwards only too often he had the mortification of discovering that
the carefully-written communication had miscarried.
The war which Henty was now engaged in describing was not one of great
battles with massed brigades against massed brigades, and troops spread
over miles of country, but it was a desultory continuance of what might
be spoken of as village warfare. The Carlists fought in a
guerrilla-like fashion, and were continually being driven from one
position to start up again unexpectedly in another.
There was plenty of artillery brought to bear at times, but more often
it was hand-to-hand fighting, kept up with very small results, as far as
the main issue was concerned, though defeat and destruction were
frequently the fate of either party, while the country itself was the
greatest sufferer.
In his many journeyings from place to place in search of information,
Henty was constantly brought face to face with the more or less petty
horrors and often mischievous ruin caused by civil war--desolated
villages, ruined homestead and mansion, and the stagnation of the
country's social life by the passing through it of fire and sword. And
for what? Too often the answer might be given in the words which our
own poet placed in the mouth of Old Kaspar: "I know not why they fought,
quoth he, But 'twas a famous victory." The politician alone can tell.
What we know is that it seemed to be a never-ending war, one which
supplied George Henty with the material which he afterwards made the
basis of interesting historical tales. For he was ever to the front,
and seems to have led a charmed life, living as he did an existence
wherein there was always an impending attack, with the enemy starting up
here and there in greater or less force.
One Sunday he was in a town on the banks of a river, when the Carlists
suddenly appeared on the other bank and began firing volleys across the
water, the bullets coming whistling unpleasantly about the streets. He
naively says that the inhabitants were getting into a great state of
alarm. Naturally! But by mid-day on Monday the fire ceased, and by the
evening it appears that the Carlist commanders received some news that
involved retreat, and made them start off guerrilla-like with all their
forces through some of the passes leading into the more impregnable
valleys. Then came pursuit, till cartridges and grenades began to run
short, and a fresh enemy appeared in the shape of a scarcity of
provisions. Meanwhile the Carlists distinguished themselves by burning
several houses, including a convent and a very fine mansion, which were
in no way interfering with their attack. In his description of this
petty warfare Henty goes on to say: "From what I gather of the
peasantry, the Carlists must have suffered from the shells. Twenty
bullock-carts with wounded were removed, and a chief is said to have
been killed, while on the other side the Republican loss did not exceed
a hundred. How pitiful! A sample this of much of the warfare that was
carried on, and with so little result!"
In another letter, written from Burgos in June, 1874, he gives a
charming description of the beauty of the districts where the Carlists
had again and again appeared during their January raids. By this time,
though, there was a fresh enemy in the field, namely the weather, and on
a certain railway journey he had ample evidence of the havoc wrought by
the elements. A lowering sky, he says, and dark clouds which almost
touched the roofs of the village churches gave warning of the severest
thunderstorm he ever witnessed in that part of Spain. As the train
dashed across the plains, the storm burst with such fury that the
hailstones actually broke some of the carriage windows, while the clouds
were so low that the train seemed to be passing through them. In fact,
within human record no storm had done such damage in Old Castile.
Finally the train was brought to a standstill in a little station, and
the officials made the announcement that the line had been destroyed by
the flood. Henty with his colleagues, therefore, had to pass the night
as best they could with the rain pouring in torrents and the wind
moaning around. Fretting was in vain, and the unhappy station-master
could only shrug his shoulders and listen patiently to the upbraidings
of the correspondents, who accused him of obstinacy in not sending the
train forward. But with the dawn the little party became aware that
they had had a very narrow escape. A previous train had become derailed
some hours before they came up, and seven poor creatures were lying
wounded in the station. The daylight showed them too that, as far as
their eyes could see, the country was flooded; fields and crops, walls
and roads, were covered with the yellow muddy water. The line was a
wreck; the sleepers were held together by the rails, and the embankment
had been washed away. Miles and miles of rich country had been
destroyed by the fury of the inundation, while the rays of the rising
sun cast a lurid glare over the scene. The correspondents had to
continue their journey along the line on foot, passing the ruins of the
wrecked train which had preceded them, and then onwards to the next
quarters of the northern army. Here they learned of the doings of the
Carlist generals, and found that four stations had been burned, and that
in every peaceful village in this land of vineyards the houses were
fortified and held by the soldiery, for the war was being carried on in
a more pitiable way than ever. It was the custom for the Carlist bands
to sweep down from Navarre in the dead of night, to burn farms or
stations, then take up a few rails, or attempt to destroy a bridge,
while by daybreak the mischief would be done and the raiders far away.
It was an adventurous life for a war correspondent, and one can only
repeat how ample was the supply of material for Henty's ready pen. But
the end came at last, for in spite of a brave struggle the Carlist star
went down in gloom, and Henty returned to England to enjoy a brief rest
before taking part in a bright and enjoyable expedition, that of the
Prince of Wales--His Majesty, King Edward--to India.