Breaking up of the British Peninsular army at the abdication of
Napoleon—Separation of the soldiers' wives—The elopement—Sad story
of Thorp, the Drum-Major—Conclusion.
After six years of terrible war, the army of the Peninsula at length
found a stop put to its victorious career, and the inhabitants of the
city of Toulouse were the last who heard a hostile shot fired against
their countrymen. From the commencement of this wonderful struggle, in
August 1808, to April 1814, more battles had been fought (all of them
won) than England could boast of for nearly a century; and the
triumphant march of the army of Wellington was uninterrupted by one
defeat, until the subjection of their brave opponents was complete,
which forbade further hostile advance upon the French territory.
It would be a work of supererogation to bring events before the reader
which have been so often and so well told. Suffice it to say that upon
the news of the abdication of the Emperor Napoleon having reached the
headquarters of the Dukes of Dalmatia and Wellington, the armies of the
different nations which formed portions of those troops were so arranged
as to be ready to return to their respective countries or destinations.
Those of Spain returned to Spain, and those of Portugal returned to
Portugal. The British infantry embarked at Bordeaux, some for America,
some for England; and the cavalry, marching through France, took
shipping at Boulogne.
The separation of those troops from each other, after so long an
intercourse, and an uninterrupted series of victories, was a trying
moment. There were, no doubt, many at least about to return to their
native country and to their friends; but they were also about to leave
behind them, probably for ever, those countries in which they had passed
the most eventful years of their lives, and to be separated from friends
whose claim to the title could not be doubted—because such friendships
as those I speak of were not formed by interested motives, and were
consequently the more sincere and lasting. They left also behind them
the bones of forty thousand of their companions who had fallen, either
by disease or by the sword, in the tremendous but glorious contest they
had been all engaged in—a contest which decided more than the fate of
the Peninsula, for the very _existence_ of England was the stake played
for, or rather fought for, in this terrible game; the loss of one single
point would not only have rendered the game desperate, but lost it
altogether. The players on both sides were nearly equal in skill, and if
Wellington could not boast of the same evenness and perfection of some
of the materials he had in hand, as compared with his opponents, he most
undeniably held a few _trumps_ that always decided the game in his
favour. Sixty thousand Anglo-Portuguese, under their great leader,
accomplished more on the southern frontier of France than did HALF A
MILLION of the allies on the side of Germany.
These are heart-stirring facts, and the recollection of them, even after
so long a lapse of time, causes the pulse to quicken, and the heart to
beat high; for it can never be too often repeated, or too well
remembered, by those of the Peninsular army who are now living, that it
was the imperishable deeds of that army that saved their country.
Their great leader now left them; but he did not do so without his
marked expressions of what he thought of the past, and his promises for
the future. His General Order contained the following words:—
“Although circumstances may alter the relations in which he has stood
towards them for some years, so much to his satisfaction, he assures
them he will never cease to feel the warmest interest in their welfare
and honour, and that he will be at all times happy to be of any service
to those to whose conduct, discipline, and gallantry their country is so
much indebted.”
How these promises have been kept is too well known, and it is difficult
to say whether that he ever made them, or never kept them, is to be
regretted most. However, the Duke of Wellington, no doubt, does not put
the same construction on his words, and on his acts, that others do; and
it will be the task of the historian and posterity to deal with a matter
which can be better judged of by unbiassed persons than by the parties
interested. That the Duke of Wellington is one of the most remarkable,
and perhaps the greatest man of the present age, few will deny; but that
he has neglected the interests and feelings of his Peninsular army, as a
body, is beyond all question; and were he in his grave to-morrow,
hundreds of voices, that are now silent, would echo what I write.
All the necessary preparations being made, the armies of the three
nations parted, and proceeded on the different routes pointed out for
them to follow. The breaking up of this splendid army of veterans, that
for six years slept on the field of battle they had invariably won, was
a trying moment. Many a bronzed face, that had braved every danger
unmoved, was now moistened with a tear; but the proud consciousness that
so long as their country required their services, and that nothing, save
death, had separated them, until at last they stood triumphant on the
threshold of the invaders' country, stifled every other feeling. In
fine, the commands of the great man that had so often assembled them at
his beck, now separated them—and for ever.
Several of the most effective regiments were ordered to embark for
Canada, and as the war between England and America was at its height,
the battalions destined for American service were restricted to a
certain number of soldiers' wives. The English, Irish, and Scotch were
sent to England, and proper attention paid to their wants and comforts.
They had also on board the transports that were to convey them to
England their own countrymen and their own countrywomen, amongst whom
were many personally known to them, who had served in the same brigade
or division. But the poor faithful Spanish and Portuguese women,
hundreds of whom had married or attached themselves to our soldiers, and
who had accompanied them through all their fatigues and dangers, were
from stern necessity obliged to be abandoned to their fate. This was
also a trying moment; many of these poor creatures, the Portuguese in
particular, had lived with our men for years, and had borne them
children. They were fond and attached beings, and had been useful in
many ways, and under many circumstances, not only to their husbands, but
to the corps they belonged to generally. Some had amassed money (Heaven
knows how!), but others were without a sixpence to support them on their
long journey to their own country, and most of them were nearly naked.
The prospect before them was hideous, and their lamentations were
proportionate, for many, though they had a _country_ to return to, had
neither friends to welcome them nor a home to shelter them; for in this
war of extermination, life, as well as property, was lost. The soldiers
were seven months in arrear of pay, and the officers were as badly off;
nevertheless subscriptions were raised, and a fund, small no doubt in
proportion to their wants, enabled relief to be portioned amongst all.
This partial and insufficient aid did not, nor could not, however,
lessen the real bitterness of the scene, for many of those devoted
beings—now outcasts, about to traverse hundreds of miles ere they
reached their homes, if homes they found any—had followed their husbands
through the hottest of the battlefield; had staunched their wounds with
their tattered garments, or moistened their parched lips, when without
such care death would have been certain; they had, when such aid was not
required, devoted days and nights in rendering those attentions which
only they who have witnessed them can justly appreciate. Yet these
faithful and heroic women were now, after those trials, to be seen
standing on the beach, while they witnessed with bursting hearts the
filling of those sails, and the crowding of those ships, that were to
separate them for ever from those to whom they had looked for protection
and support.
In this list there was one female, a lady—I call her so, for her rank
and prospects entitled her to the appellation I have given her—who was
as much to be pitied as the rest, though her circumstances were widely
different. She was a beautiful woman, only daughter of the wealthy Juiz
de Fora of Campo Mayor. During the autumn of 1809, when a portion of the
Peninsular army, after the battle of Talavera, was quartered in that
town, this girl—for so she was then—fell in love with the Drum-Major of
the 88th Regiment. His name was Thorp. As in most cases of the sort,
both parties had made up their minds to the consequences. The girl was
determined to elope with Thorp, and Thorp was equally resolved to carry
her off; but this required measures as well as means. Touching the
latter Thorp was amply supplied, for he was pay-sergeant of a company,
and, moreover, received constant remittances from his father, who was a
man of respectability in Lancashire. In a word, Thorp was a gentleman,
and lived and died a hero! As to the lady, her tale is easily told. Her
father, Señor José Alfonzo Cherito, Juiz de Fora of Campo Mayor, was a
man possessing large estates, and having but one child, and that child a
daughter, he naturally looked forward to a suitable match for her. Now,
as poor Thorp could not boast of those qualities or attributes which the
worthy Juiz de Fora had very naturally anticipated, when his daughter
had made up her mind to espouse Thorp, his rage and disappointment may
be easily imagined when he learned that she had left his _quinta_,
taking all her jewels with her. The regiment was to march the following
morning, and as all mode of conveyance in the shape of cars or mules,
for the wounded or sick, was under the “surveillance” of the worthy
magistrate, he apprehended no difficulty in tracing his runaway
daughter—but he was mistaken. The cars were examined, the baggage-mules
were overhauled, the commissariat mules, carrying ammunition, biscuit,
and rum, were looked at, but amongst all these no trace of the fugitive
could be found. What, then, was to be done? There was but one other
chance of finding the girl, and this was a survey of the officers'
horses, as the officers rode at the head or in rear of the column; but
the Juiz de Fora, although a functionary of high note and high authority
in his own calling, and amongst his own neighbours, did not much relish
an inspection, though freely granted, which would place him amongst a
thousand shining British bayonets. However, he did accept the
invitation, and was allowed to make the inspection—but he discovered no
trace of his daughter.
“Are you satisfied?” said the Colonel.
“I am satisfied that my daughter is not with your regiment, sir; yet I
am anything but satisfied as to her fate!” replied the old man.
The band played a quick march; Thorp, as Drum-Major, flourished his
cane; the daughter of the Juiz de Fora, in her new and disguised
character of cymbal-boy, with her face blacked, and regimental jacket,
banged the Turkish cymbals, and Thorp, who as Drum-Major was destined to
make a noise in the world, was for obvious reasons silent on this
occasion. The regiment reached Monte Forte the same day, and the _padre_
of that town performed the marriage ceremony in due form.
In detailing the history of the elopement and marriage of Jacintha
Cherito with Drum-Major Thorp, I have given but a short outline of a
very romantic and, as it was nigh turning out, a tragical affair. But
were I to sit down quietly, and write of all the intrigues that were set
in motion, or of all the attempts that were made to assassinate this
girl, and also her husband, what I could truly write would be fitting
for the pages of a romance. Thorp’s history shall be told in a few
words. It was this:—
He joined the 88th Regiment on its return from South America in 1807. He
was quite a lad, and being rather too young to be placed in the ranks,
was handed over to the Drum-Major. He soon became so great a proficient
that, on the regiment embarking for Portugal, at the end of 1808, he was
raised to the rank of Drum-Major, in the room of his preceptor, who was
invalided. In those days our Drum-Majors wore hats pretty much the same
as those now worn by Field-Marshals; indeed, the only difference between
them was that the hat then worn by the former was not only of a more
imposing and capacious size, but more copiously garnished with white
feathers round the brim than those of the latter now are. The coat, too,
a weight in itself, from the quantity of silver lace with which it was
bedizened, was an object sufficient to attract attention and respect
from the multitude that witnessed the debarkation of the regiment at
Lisbon. In short, Thorp was mistaken by the Portuguese for a General
Officer, and some went so far as to guess at his being the Earl of
Moira, who, it was rumoured at the time, was about to join the army.
Absurd as those opinions were—and most absurd they assuredly were,
because Thorp, neither in years nor appearance, resembled in the
slightest degree the high personage he was mistaken for—Thorp felt
gratified—and where is the Drum-Major that would not?—at being taken for
a General Officer; and from that moment he made up his mind to pitch
drums, drummers, and drum-sticks, not only from his hands but his
thoughts also, and fight his way to the honourable privilege of carrying
the pole of a colour in place of the mace of a Drum-Major.
His wish was soon gratified, for when his regiment, at Busaco, was
running headlong with the bayonet against three of Reynier’s splendid
battalions, Thorp, to the amazement of Colonel Wallace, was seen at the
head of the 88th, not with his “mace of office” in his hand, but with
his plumed hat, waving it high over his head, as he called out, “The
Connaught Rangers for ever!” During the action the Sergeant-Major had
been killed while fighting beside Thorp, and Wallace, on the field of
battle, named him as Sergeant-Major, in place of the one he had lost.
From this period up to the battle of Toulouse, Thorp was a distinguished
man. Four times had he been wounded, but he was always up with his
regiment in time for the next battle, often with his wounds unhealed. At
the battle of Orthes, his conduct was so remarkable that his name was
forwarded for an ensigncy. Thorp knew this, and at Toulouse, the last
battle fought by the Peninsular army, he was resolved to prove that his
recommendation was deserved. In this action his bravery was not bravery
alone—it was rashness.
Some companies of Picton’s division had been repulsed in an attack at
the bridge-head, near the canal—which attack it has been said, and in my
opinion truly said, should never have been made—when Thorp ran forward,
and assisted in rallying the soldiers. The fire from the firearms and
batteries of the French was incessant, and many officers and soldiers
had fallen. There was one spot in particular that had been the scene of
much slaughter to those who occupied it, and five officers, besides
numbers of soldiers, had been already struck down by cannon-shot, and
others wounded by musketry. Amongst the latter was Captain Robert
Nickle, one of the most distinguished officers in the army. While he was
hobbling to the rear, he observed Thorp standing in the midst of those
who had fallen, the rest having been withdrawn out of fire from a
position that should never have been occupied. For in the front of the
French battery, and running in a direct line from the canal to this
position, was a low narrow avenue or hedge, which ended within a few
yards of where our people had formed after their repulse, and this
avenue served as a guide, or groove, for the enemy’s range; they were
now, however, more or less, under cover. In a moment of excitement,
Thorp, with his cap in his hand, stood alone on this spot, saying, “Now
let us see if they can hit _me_!” Nickle, who was passing at the moment,
supported by two of his company—for his arm was badly shattered—called
out to Thorp to leave the spot. “Oh, Captain Nickle,” replied Thorp,
“they can’t hit _me_, I think.” Those were the last words he ever
uttered. A round shot struck his chest, and, cutting him in two, whirled
his remains in the air. Thus fell the gallant Thorp, and though his rank
was humble, his chivalrous deeds were those of a hero. The day after his
death the English mail brought the _Gazette_ in which poor Thorp’s name
was seen as promoted to an ensigncy in his old regiment; and though this
announcement came too late for him to know it, it was a great
consolation to his poor afflicted widow, and it was the means of
reconciling her father to the choice she had made, and her return once
more to her home was made a scene of great rejoicing; but nothing more
of her was ever heard by the regiment.
* * * * *
The war in the Peninsula was now ended, after having continued for
nearly six years with various changes; and gloriously, in truth, was it
ended by the British General and his unconquerable army. “Thus the war
terminated, and with it all remembrance of the veterans' services.” And
now, reader, I am about to take leave of you, for the present at least.
In these “Adventures” I have told you many circumstances you never
before heard of, and I hope I have not fatigued you, or trespassed too
long on your patience. I have, without being, I trust, too tedious, told
you of the wrongs my old corps has suffered. I have, without presuming
to write a History of the Peninsular War, told you something of the
services performed by the Peninsular army; and I have drawn your
attention to the scandalous manner in which the never-to-be-forgotten
services of that wonderful army were treated by the Government and by
the Duke of Wellington. I leave the continuation of the _Adventures of
the Connaught Rangers_ dependent on the favour of which you may think
the pages I have now presented to you deserving.
THE END
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.
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Transcriber’s Note
Hyphenations occurring on line breaks are resolved by following the
preponderant occurrence of the word elsewhere in the text. Several
inconsistencies in punctuation in the front matter were resolved without
notice here.
The reference in the sole error corrected are to the page and line in
the original.
288.32 we were beginning [t]o forget Restored.