Officers and sergeants—Fairfield and his bad habit—Regimental
mechanism—Impolitic familiarity—3rd Division at the siege of Ciudad
Rodrigo—Lieutenant D‘Arcy and Ody Brophy—The Irish pilot.
The joke about Darby Rooney’s wardrobe, and the conversation that took
place between him and General Mackinnon, was circulated throughout the
army, and I believe there was not one regiment unacquainted with the
circumstance; indeed, so general was its circulation, that it reached
the headquarters of Lord Wellington himself, and, if report spoke truly
(which it doesn’t always do), it caused his lordship to laugh heartily.
I have myself—before and since I wrote the story—often been asked if it
was really a fact that we had no squads in the companies of my regiment,
and I have invariably answered that we had not, and that every iota told
by Bob Hardyman was true, for I think Bob’s description of the Connaught
Rangers altogether too rich to be contradicted or even altered. But were
I myself to give a “full and true account” of the “boys,” I would set
them down as a parcel of lads that took the world easy—or, as they
themselves would say, “aisy”—with a proper share of that nonchalance
which is only to be acquired on service—real service; but I cannot bring
myself to think them, as many did, a parcel of devils, neither will I by
any manner of means try to pass them off for so many saints! But the
fact is (and I have before said so) that there was not one regiment in
the Peninsular army more severely—perhaps so severely—drilled as mine
was; but I also say, without the slightest fear of contradiction, that
the officers never tormented themselves or their men with too much fuss.
We approached their quarters as seldom as we possibly could—I mean as
seldom as was necessary—and thereby kept up that distance between
officers and privates so essential to discipline; this we considered the
proper line of conduct to chalk out, and we ever acted up to it. We were
amused to see some regiments whose commanding officers obliged every
subaltern to parade his men at bedtime in their blankets!—why, they
looked like so many hobgoblins! But if such an observance were necessary
as far as concerned the soldiers, surely a sergeant ought to be able to
do this much.
If a selection of good sergeants and corporals be made by the officer at
the head of a regiment, and if that officer will only allow those
individuals to do their duty, there is not the least doubt but that they
will do it—I peril myself upon the assertion, and I bet a sovereign that
the “Guards” agree with me. I well remember some regiments managed in
the opposite way during the Peninsular War. Those poor fellows were much
to be pitied, for they were not only obliged to fag, but to dress also,
with as much scrupulous exactness as the time and place would admit of.
What folly! But was Lord Wellington to blame for this? Unquestionably
not. He never troubled his head about such trifles, and had the
commanding officers of corps followed the example set them (of not
paying too much respect to minutiæ) by the Commander-in-Chief, the
situation of the junior officers in the army would have been far
different from what it was.
Another custom prevailed in many regiments, which was attempted to be
got up in mine, but we crushed it in its infancy; it was the sending a
surgeon or his assistant to ascertain the state of an officer’s health,
should he think himself not well enough to attend an early drill.
We had in my old corps, amongst other “characters,” one that, at the
period I am writing about, was well known in the army to be as jovial a
fellow as ever put his foot under a mess-table. His name was Fairfield;
and though there were few who could sing as good a song, there was not
in the whole British army a worse duty officer. Indeed, it was next to
impossible to catch hold of him for any duty whatever; and so well known
was his dislike to all military etiquette, that the officer next to him
on the roster, the moment Fairfield’s name appeared for guard-mounting
or court-martial, considered himself as the person meant, and he was
right nine times out of ten. The frequent absence of Fairfield from
drill, at a time too when the regiment was in expectation of being
inspected by the general of division, obliged the officer commanding to
send the surgeon to ascertain the nature of his malady, which from its
long continuance (on occasions of duty!) strongly savoured of a chronic
complaint. The doctor found the invalid traversing his chamber rather
lightly clad for an indisposed person; he was singing one of Moore’s
melodies, and accompanying himself with his violin, which instrument he
touched with great taste. The doctor told him the nature of his visit,
and offered to feel his pulse, but Fairfield turned from him, repeating
the lines of Shakespeare, “Canst thou minister,” etc. etc. “Well,”
replied the surgeon, “I am sorry for it, but I cannot avoid reporting
you fit for duty.”—“I’m sorry you cannot,” rejoined Fairfield; “but my
complaint is best known to myself! and I feel that were I to rise as
early as is necessary, I should be lost to the service in a month.”
“Why,” said the doctor, “Major Thompson says you have been lost to it
ever since he first knew you, and that is now something about six
years,” and he took his leave for the purpose of making his report.
The Major’s orderly was soon at Fairfield’s quarters with a message to
say that his presence was required by his commanding officer. Fairfield
was immediately in attendance. “Mr. Fairfield,” said the Major, “your
constant habit of being absent from early drill has obliged me to send
the surgeon to ascertain the state of your health, and he reports that
you are perfectly well, and I must say that your appearance is anything
but that of an invalid—how is this?” “Don’t mind him, sir,” replied
Fairfield; “I am, thank God! very well _now_, but when the bugle sounded
this morning at four o’clock a cold shivering came over me—I think it
was a touch of ague!—and besides, Dr. Gregg is too short a time in the
Connaught Rangers to know my _habit_.”—“Is he?” rejoined the old Major,
“he must be d—--d stupid then. But that is a charge you surely can’t
make against me. I have been now about nineteen years in the regiment,
during six of which I have had the pleasure of knowing you, and you will
allow me to tell you, that I am not only well acquainted with 'your
habit,' but to request you will, from this moment, _change it_”—and with
this gentle rebuke he good-humouredly dismissed him. He was an excellent
duty officer ever after.
A regiment is a piece of mechanism, and requires as much care as any
other machine whose parts are obliged to act in unison to keep it going
as it ought. If a screw or two be loose, a skilful hand will easily
right them without injuring the machine; but if it falls into the hands
of a self-sufficient ignorant bungler, it is sure to be injured, if not
destroyed altogether; and as certain as the daylight, if it is ever
placed in a situation where it must from necessity be allowed to act for
itself—where the main spring cannot control the lesser ones much less
the great body of the machine—it will be worse than useless—worse than a
log—not only in the way, but not to be depended upon!
It must not, however, be supposed that these observations are meant to
favour a too little regard to that system of discipline which is so
essential to be observed in the army, and without which any army—but
particularly a British one—would be inefficient. Extremes should be
avoided, and too much familiarity is as bad as too much severity. I once
heard of a commanding officer of a first-rate regiment who was in the
habit of allowing the junior officers of his corps to make too free with
him; he at length found it necessary to send his adjutant to inquire the
reason why a young ensign, who was in the habit of absenting himself
from parade, did so on one of those days which was allotted as a
garrison parade? The adjutant informed the ensign that the colonel
awaited his reply. “Shall I say you are unwell?” demanded he. “Oh no,”
replied the ensign, “I’ll settle the matter with the commanding officer
myself.” The hour of dinner approached, yet no communication was
received from the ensign. Passing from his quarters to the mess-room,
the commanding officer met the ensign, and was about to accost him when
the latter turned his head aside and declined recognising his colonel,
who, upon arriving at the mess-room, was so dejected as to attract the
notice of all the officers. Upon being asked why he was so out of
spirits, the colonel, “good easy man,” told a “round unvarnished tale,”
and in conclusion added, “I thought nothing of his not answering my
message, but I cannot express how much I am hurt at the idea of his
cutting me as he did when I wished to speak with him!” This was _un peu
trop fort_; and had the regiment in question been much longer under the
command of the good-natured personage I have described, there is little
doubt but that it would have become rather relaxed in its discipline.
The different movements amongst the contending armies in the end of 1811
caused it to be presumed that the campaign the following year would open
with much spirit; and so it did, although earlier than was anticipated.
Marmont, thinking himself safe till the spring, had not only quartered
his army in very extensive cantonments, but also detached General
Montbrun, with three divisions, to co-operate with Marshal Suchet in the
kingdom of Valencia. Intimately acquainted with these details, Lord
Wellington redoubled his efforts in the arrangement of all that was
necessary to carry on the siege of Ciudad-Rodrigo with vigour. The 3rd
Division, which was one of those destined to take a part in the attack,
broke up from its cantonments on the morning of the 4th of January 1812.
Carpio, Espeja, and Pastores were occupied by our troops, and the
greatest activity prevailed throughout every department, but more
especially in that of the Engineers. All the cars in the country were
put into requisition for the purpose of conveying fascines, gabions, and
the different materials necessary to the Convent of La Caridad, distant
a league and half from Rodrigo. The guns were at Gallegos, and
everything was in that state of preparation which announced that a
vigorous attack was about to be made, in the depth of a severe winter,
against a fortress that had withstood for twenty-five days all the
efforts of Marshal Masséna in the summer of 1810, when it was only
occupied by a weak garrison of Spaniards. Yet, nevertheless, every one
felt confident, and the soldiers burned with impatience to wipe away the
blot of the former year in the unfortunate siege of San Christoval and
Badajoz.
I have before mentioned that we had not an effective corps of
engineers—I mean in point of numbers. To remedy this defect a proportion
of the most intelligent officers and soldiers of the infantry were
selected during the autumn months and placed under the direction of
Colonel Fletcher, the Chief Engineer. They were soon taught how to make
fascines and gabions, and what was of equal consequence—how to use them.
They likewise learned the manner of working by sap, and by this means
that branch of our army, which was before the weakest, had now become
very efficient.
The morning of the 4th of January was dreadfully inauspicious. The order
for marching arrived at three o’clock, and we were under arms at five.
The rain fell in torrents, and the village of Aldea-de-Ponte, which the
brigade of General Mackinnon occupied, was a sea of filth; the snow on
the surrounding hills drifted down with the flood and nearly choked up
the roads, and the appearance of the morning was anything but a
favourable omen for us, who had a march of nine leagues to make ere we
reached the town of Robleda on the river Agueda, which was destined to
be our resting-place for the night.
At half-past six the brigade was in motion, and I scarcely remember a
more disagreeable day; the rain which had fallen in the morning was
succeeded by snow and sleet, and some soldiers, who sunk from cold and
fatigue, fell down exhausted, soon became insensible, and perished; yet,
strange to say, an Irishwoman of my regiment was delivered of a child
upon the road, and continued the march with her infant in her arms.
Notwithstanding the severity of the day, it was impossible to avoid
occasionally smiling at the _outré_ appearance of some of the officers.
The total disregard which the Commander-in-Chief paid to uniformity of
dress is well known, and there were many on this day who were obliged to
acknowledge that they showed more taste than judgment in their
selection. Captain Adair of my corps nearly fell a victim to the choice
he had made on this our first day of opening the campaign of 1812. He
wore a pair of boots that fitted him with a degree of exactness that
would not disgrace a “Hoby”; the heels were high and the toes sharply
pointed; his pantaloons were of blue web; his frock-coat and waistcoat
were tastefully and fashionably chosen, the former light blue richly
frogged with lace, the latter of green velvet with large silver Spanish
buttons; but he forgot the most essential part of all—and that was his
boat-cloak. For the first ten or twelve miles he rode, but the cold was
so intense that he was obliged to dismount, and unquestionably his dress
was but ill calculated for walking. The rain with which his pantaloons
were saturated was by this time nearly frozen (for the day had begun to
change), and he became so dreadfully chafed that he was necessitated to
give up the march, and we left him at a village half way from Robleda,
resembling more one of those which composed “the army of martyrs” than
that commanded by Lord Wellington. I myself was nearly in as bad a
state, but being a few years younger, and more serviceably clad, I made
an effort to get on.
We had by this time (eight o’clock at night) proceeded a considerable
way in the dark, and, as may be supposed, it was a difficult matter to
keep the men together as compactly as could be wished. Whenever an
opportunity occurred a jaded soldier or two of my regiment used to look
in on our Spanish friends, and if they found them at supper, they could
not bring themselves to refuse an offer to “take share of what was
going,” and, to say the truth, this was no more than might be expected
from a set of fellows who belonged to a country so proverbial for its
hospitality to strangers as theirs (Ireland) was! Besides this, the men
of the Connaught Rangers had a way of making themselves “at home” that
was peculiar to them, and for which—whatever else might be denied
them!—they got full credit. Bob Hardyman used to say “they had a _taking
way_ with them.”
Passing a hamlet a short distance from Robleda we saw a number of
Spaniards, women as well as men, outside the door of a good-looking
house; much altercation was apparently taking place; at length a soldier
(named Ody Brophy) rushed out with half a flitch of bacon under his arm;
a scuffle ensued, and Lieutenant D‘Arcy, to whose company the soldier
belonged, ran up to inquire the cause of the outcry, but it was soon too
manifest to be misunderstood; the war-whoop was raised against our man,
who, on his part, as stoutly defended himself, not by words alone but by
blows, which had nearly silenced his opponents, when he was seized by my
friend D‘Arcy. _Piccaroon_, _Ladrone_, and other opprobrious epithets
were poured with much volubility against him, but he, with the greatest
_sang froid_, turned to his officer and said, “Be aisy now, and don’t be
vexing yourself with them or the likes of them. Wasn’t it for you I was
making a bargain? and didn’t I offer the value of it? Don’t I see the
way you’re lost with the hunger, and the divil a bit iv rations you’ll
get ate to-night. Och! you cratur, iv your poor mother, that’s dead! was
to see you after such a condition, it’s she that id be leev’d iv herself
for letting you away from her at-all-at-all.”—“Well,” said D‘Arcy
(softened, no doubt, and who would not at such a speech?), “what did you
offer for it?”—“What did I offer for it, is it? Fait, then, I offered
enough, but they made such a noise that I don’t think they heard me,
for, upon my sowl, I hardly heard myself with the uproar they made; and
sure I told them iv I hadn’t money enough to pay for it (and it was true
for me I hadn’t, unless I got it dog cheap!) you had; but they don’t
like a bone in my skin, or in yours either, and that is the raison they
are afther offinding me afther such a manner. And didn’t one of the
women get my left thumb into her mouth, and grunch it like a bit of
mate? Look at it,” said he in conclusion, at the same time thrusting his
bleeding hand nearly into D‘Arcy’s face, “fait and iv your honour hadn’t
come up, it’s my belief she would have bit it clane off at the knuckle.”
This speech, delivered with a rapidity and force that was sufficient to
overwhelm the most practised rhetorician, carried away everything along
with it, like chaff before a whirlwind, and D‘Arcy made all matters
smooth by paying the price demanded (two dollars), and the piece of
bacon was carried away by Ody, who was a townsman of D‘Arcy’s, and who
repeatedly assured him “he would do more than that to sarve him.”
It was impossible to avoid paying a tribute of praise to Ody Brophy for
the tact with which he avoided the storm with which he was threatened;
and upon this occasion he proved himself as good a pilot as ever guided
a vessel, and to the full equal to one I once heard of in the harbour of
Cork. A captain of a man-of-war, newly appointed to a ship on the Irish
station, took the precaution, in “beating out” of harbour, to apprise
the pilot that he was totally unacquainted with the coast, and therefore
he must rely on the pilot’s local knowledge for the safety of his ship.
“You are perfectly sure, pilot,” said the captain, “you are well
acquainted with the coast?”
“Do I know my own name, sir.”
“Well, mind, I warn you not to approach too near the shore.”
“Now make yourself aisy, sir; in troth you may go to bed iv you plaise.”
“Then shall we stand on?”
“Why—what else would we do?”
“Yes, but there may be hidden dangers which you know nothing about.”
“Dangers! I’d like to see the dangers dare hide themselves from
Mick—sure, don’t I tell you I know every rock on the coast” (here the
ship strikes), “_and that’s one of 'em_.”