Guerilla warfare; its true character—The 3rd Division marches for the
Alemtejo—Frenchmen and Irishmen on a march—English regiments—Colonel
Wallace—Severe drilling—Maurice Quill and Doctor O‘Reily—Taking a
rise.
We occupied our old quarters at Nava d'Aver, and were well received by
the inhabitants, who preferred taking a quiet view of the combats of the
3rd and 5th to taking a part in both or either; their plan of operations
was of a far different sort, and although unattended with any danger to
themselves, was fraught with the most disastrous consequences to their
foes, which is, no matter what may be urged against it, the very essence
of the art of war.
It may, perhaps, be asked what their method was? or why I, a mere
subaltern, should take upon myself the censorship of the art of war? My
answer to the former shall be plain and I hope conclusive. To the
latter, that having served during part of the year 1809, the entire of
1810–11–12, and part of 1813, in the 3rd Division (commonly designated
the “fighting division”) of the Peninsular army, and the division never
having, during the period alluded to, squibbed off as much as one
cartridge without my being in every place, I had opportunities of
gaining, and I think I did gain, a little insight into military tactics.
If, however, the view I have taken of the subject upon which I am
speaking be an erroneous one, I fear my readers will come to the
conclusion that I have lost some time which might have been better
employed—or, to speak more plainly, that I have mistaken my profession.
Marshal Saxe used to say that a mule which had made twenty campaigns
under Cæsar would still be but a mule.
I have digressed thus far before touching on a subject that, no doubt
(although I have not seen any work of the kind), has been written upon,
and upon which much diversity of opinion did exist at one time in
England; whether it still exists or not I shall not pretend to say, not
having been in the United Kingdom for some years; but certain it is that
a very general opinion was prevalent that the war in the Peninsula was
carried on, on the part of the peasantry, in a spirit bordering more on
a crusade than the ordinary exertions of a brave people struggling for
liberty, and that those heroes fought more like a parcel of devils
incarnate than mortal men. Indeed, the engravings struck off at Lisbon
in commemoration of those days certainly represented them as a gigantic,
ferocious people, while the few British that were thrown into the
background looked like so many dwarfs who were afraid to come to close
quarters with the French. I have ever combated this mistaken opinion,
nor does the recollection of the hundreds of those heroes that I have
seen marched to the different depôts, handcuffed like a gang of
criminals, weaken the view I have taken of the _voluntary_ part the
Peninsular people took in the contest. In a word, their plan was this:—
The moment our troops had completely routed a body of the enemy’s
infantry, strewing the ground with dead and wounded, disorganised a park
of artillery, or unhorsed some squadrons of dragoons, _then_, and _then_
only, would these _gallant fellows_ sally forth from their lurking
places, and (first taking the precaution to put a stop to any sort of
parley from their unfortunate victims by knocking them on the head)
completely rifle them of everything they possessed. On the contrary, if
our troops met with any reverse, as in the case of Don Julian Sanchez
and his ragged band, our allies would take advantage of every incident
of ground, and make one of their rapid retrograde movements, sufficient
to baffle the evolutions of the most redoubtable _legère_ regiments in
the French army. This I say is the true harassing system, and the one
suited to the genius of the Peninsular nations. It weakens your enemy,
and is attended with no risk to yourselves or your friends, which is the
same thing; but in England many think that the Portuguese and Spaniards
did as much, if not more, during the Peninsular contest than the British
army.
Matters remained tranquil in our neighbourhood after the battle of
Fuentes d'Oñoro, and the retreat of the army of Portugal across the
Agueda, and Lord Wellington employed himself in giving directions for
the repairs of the injury inflicted by Brennier upon Almeida previous to
his evacuation of that fortress. The troops had recovered from their
fatigues and were fresh again and ready for anything, when accounts
reached us from the Alemtejo that General Beresford was carrying on the
siege of Badajoz, in which operation he was likely to be disturbed by
Marshal Soult, who was on his march from Seville. Our division broke up
from its cantonments on the 16th of May, and Lord Wellington, who rode
at a rapid pace, reached Elvas in three days. There he received the
report of the battle of Albuera.
The weather was fine and we continued our route without any forced
marches, taking the old beaten track through Castello Branco, Niza, and
Portalegre. Our march was uninterrupted by any particular incident; we
had no enemy near us, and were therefore left to ourselves.
The French army have the character of being the best marchers in Europe,
and I know from experience that no men, to use a phrase of the _Fancy_,
understand better than they do how to “hit and get away”; nevertheless I
would say, that an army composed exclusively of Irishmen would outmarch
any French army as much as I know they would outfight them. The quality
which carries a Frenchman through, and enables him to overcome obstacles
truly formidable in themselves, is his gaiety, and his facility of
accommodating, not only his demeanour, but his _stomach_ also, to
circumstances as they require it. An Irishman is to the full as gay as a
Frenchman; if he does not possess his _piquant_ wit—and I don’t say that
he does not—he has in a paramount degree the rich humour of his own
country, which is nowhere else to be found. He can live on as little
nourishment as a Frenchman; give him his pipe of tobacco and he will
march for two days without food and without _grumbling_; give him, in
addition, a little spirits and a biscuit, and he will work for a week.
This will not be a task so easy of accomplishment to the English
soldier; early habits have given him a relish for good eating, and
plenty of it too; if he has not a regular allowance of solid food, it is
certain he will not do his work well for any great length of time. But
an Irish fellow has been accustomed all his life to be what an
Englishman would consider half-starved; therefore quantity or quality is
no great consideration with him; his stomach is like a corner
cupboard—_you might throw anything into it_. Neither do you find
elsewhere the lively thought, the cheerful song or pleasant story, to be
met _only_ in an Irish regiment. We had a few Englishmen in my corps,
and I do not remember ever to have heard one of them attempt a joke. But
there are those who think an Irish regiment more difficult to manage
than that of any other nation. Never was there a more erroneous idea.
The English soldier is to the full as drunken as the Irish, and not half
so pleasant in his liquor.
These opinions are, however, mere matter of fancy. Some of our best
regiments were English, and one, to please me, decidedly the finest in
the Peninsular army, the 43rd, was principally composed of Englishmen.
Then there was that first-rate battle regiment, the 45th, a parcel of
Nottingham weavers, whose sedentary habits would lead you to suppose
they could not be prime marchers; but the contrary was the fact, and
they marched to the full as well as my own corps, which were all Irish
save three or four. But if it come to a hard tug, and that we had
neither rations nor shoes, then, indeed, the Connaught Rangers would be
in their element, and outmarch almost any battalion in the service; and
for this plain reason, that scarcely one of them wore many pairs of
shoes prior to the date of his enlistment, and as to the rations (the
most part of them at all events), a dozen times had been in all
probability the _outside_ of their acquaintance with such delicacies.
But the grand secret in a good marching, good fighting, or loyal
regiment, one not given to a habit of deserting, is being _well
commanded_; because the finest body of men may be ruined, the efforts of
the bravest regiment paralysed, and the best disposed corps become
marauders and deserters, from having an inefficient man at their head.
Colonel Alexander Wallace, who commanded us for so many years, and under
whom the regiment repeatedly covered itself with glory, was the very
chief we wanted. Although a Scotchman himself, he was intimately
acquainted with the sort of men he had under him, and he dealt with them
and addressed their feelings in a way that was peculiar to himself and
suited to them. In action he was the same as on parade, and in either
case he was as he should be. If we were placed (as we often were) in any
critical situation, he would explain to the soldiers what he expected
them to do; if in danger of being charged by cavalry he would say, “Mind
the square; you know I often told you that if ever you had to form it
from line, in face of an enemy, you’d be in a d—--d ugly way, and have
plenty of noise about you; mind the tellings off, and don’t give the
_false touch_ to your right or left hand man; for by G—d, if you are
once broken, you’ll be running here and there like a parcel of
_frightened pullets_!” But Colonel Wallace was out of his place as a
mere commander of a regiment; he was eminently calculated to head a
division, because he not only possessed that intrepidity of mind which
would brave any danger, but genius to discover the means of overcoming
it. It was by his foresight that our brave companions, the 45th, were
sustained in their unequal contest with Reynier’s division at Busaco;
and Lord Wellington, who saw and fully appreciated the manœuvre, rode
up to the 88th Regiment, and seizing Colonel Wallace by the hand, said:
“Upon my honour, Wallace, I never witnessed a more gallant charge than
that just now made by your regiment.” The dead and wounded of the 2nd
and 4th Léger, the 15th and 36th (four French regiments which were
opposed to the 88th singly), lay thick on the face of the hill, and
their numbers gave ample testimony that we deserved the praises bestowed
upon us by our General. The 45th also came in for their share of praise,
and no battalion ever merited it better than they did;—at one time they
were engaged with nearly ten times their own number.
It was the fashion with some to think that the 88th were a parcel of
wild rattling rascals, ready for a row, but loosely officered. The
direct contrary was the fact. Perhaps in the whole British army there
was not one regiment so severely drilled. If a man coughed in the ranks,
he was punished; if the sling of the firelock, for an instant, left the
hollow of the shoulder when it should not, he was punished; and if he
moved his knapsack when standing at ease, he was punished—more or less
of course, according to the offence. The consequence of this system,
exclusively Colonel Wallace’s, was that the men never had the appearance
of being fatigued upon a march; and when they halted, you did not see
them thrusting their firelocks against their packs to support them. Poor
Bob Hardyman of the 45th said the reason the Connaught Rangers carried
their packs better than any other regiment was “that they never had
anything in them”! and, to speak candidly, we never had more than was
necessary, and in truth it was very little that satisfied our fellows.
At drill our manœuvres were chiefly confined to line marching,
echelon movements, and formation of the square in every possible way;
and in all these we excelled. Colonel Wallace was very unlike an old
Major who, having once got his battalion _into_ square, totally forgot
how to get it _out_ of it. Having tried several ways, each time more
effectually clubbing the sections, he thus addressed his officers and
soldiers: “Gentlemen! I can clearly discern that there is a _something
wanting_, and I strongly recommend you, when you reach your barracks, to
peruse Dundas![14]—Men, you may go home,” and he thus dismissed them.
-----
Footnote 14:
“Dundas” is the famous drill-book of Sir David Dundas, who succeeded
the Duke of York as Commander-in-Chief.
-----
I never remember our having as much as one adjutant’s drill; all was
done by the commanding officer himself. Our adjutant was left ill at
Lisbon, and he that acted was more of a good penman (an essential point)
than a drill. I forget now how the circumstance of our having been sent
an adjutant from the Guards occurred, but one of their sergeant-majors
did reach us in the capacity of adjutant. On his arrival at headquarters
he dined with the Colonel, who invited him to attend parade the next
morning. We were under arms at ten, and never once ordered arms until
two! Not a man fell out of the ranks, not a man coughed, and not a man
moved his pack. When the drill was over, “Well,” said Colonel Wallace,
“what do you think of the state of the battalion?”—“Very steady indeed,
sir,” replied the Guardsman. He left us that night, _and we never saw
him afterwards_.
On the 24th of May we reached Campo Mayor, and here I became acquainted
with Maurice Quill. It would be quite idle in me to attempt giving any
very detailed account of a character so well known; one who, whenever he
opened his mouth, was sure to raise a laugh, and often before he had
time to speak; and he by whom I was introduced (Dr. O‘Reily) was little,
if anything, inferior to Quill in either eccentricity or humour.
The first question Quill asked O‘Reily was, if we all slept soundly the
night Brennier got away from Almeida. O‘Reily replied, “that some of our
army certainly slept sounder than was desirable; but that in their
affair at Albuera they did seem to have had their eyes perfectly open,
not only during the action, but after it.” At this moment, a couple of
hundred of those troops that had been broken by the Polish horse, having
escaped from the enemy, passed us.
During our conversation, O'Reily, as was customary with him, became
quite abstracted, and apparently absorbed in his own reflections, and
upon our turning round we discovered him in one of Mendoza’s attitudes!
“What are you squaring at?” demanded Maurice. “My good friend Quill,”
replied O‘Reily, “I have long felt the difficulty of coming to a
satisfactory conclusion as to the probability of science being
eventually able to overcome savage strength. There is much, sir, to be
said on both sides of the question, and I have great doubts concerning
the battle about to be decided.”—“What battle? why, sure, we are not
going to fight another so soon?” said Quill. “The fight to which I
allude, sir,” said O‘Reily, with Quixote-like gravity—for he paused
between every word—“is the one pending between Crib and the black man
Molineux; it will be a contest of science against brute strength”—and he
threw himself into one of the finest defensive attitudes I ever saw;
“there,” said he, “there is the true science for you; nevertheless, it
might be overcome by savage strength, and there is the rub, sir. I have
devoted much time in endeavouring to come to a satisfactory conclusion
on this point, but hitherto without effect, so I must await the issue of
this fearful encounter; and, my dear Quill, having said so much on the
subject, allow me to wish you a very good morning.” It was evident that,
although Quill was no novice, O‘Reily had taken “a rise out of him,” and
it afforded us matter of amusement for many a day after.
We remained in Campo Mayor until the 27th of May (in order to allow the
stores and battering train from Elvas to arrive), on which day we passed
the Guadiana at a ford, distant from San Christoval about three
cannon-shots; we received no interruption in our passage of the river,
and the operation was performed without loss. The 28th, 29th, and 30th
were taken up in marking out our camp, and constructing huts; and as the
weather was beautiful, and our camp abundantly supplied by the
peasantry, we passed a very agreeable time of it.
The river ran within a few yards of us; its marshy banks being thickly
covered with plantations of olives, afforded a delightful shade to us
when we either went to fish or bathe. Its breadth at this point might be
about sixty toises, and it is well stocked with fine mullet. We had
several expert fishermen amongst us, and they contrived not only to
supply their own tables with fish, but also to increase the comforts of
their friends.