We must now ask our reader to leave for a season this scene of plot and
intrigue, and turn with us to a very different picture. The same morning
which on the iron-bound coast of Ireland broke in storm and hurricane,
dawned fair and joyous over the shady shores of Egypt, and scarcely
ruffled the long rolling waves as they swept into the deep bay of
Aboukir. Here now a fleet of one hundred and seventy ships lay at
anchor, the expedition sent forth by England to arrest the devouring
ambition of Buonaparte, and rescue the land of the Pyramids from
bondage.
While our concern here is less with the great event than with the
fortune of one of its humble followers, we would fain linger a little
over the memory of this glorious achievement of our country's arms. For
above a week after the arrival of the fleet, the gale continued to
blow with unabated fury; a sea mountains high rolled into the bay,
accompanied by sudden squalls of such violence that the largest ships
of the fleet could barely hold on by their moorings, while many smaller
ones were compelled to slip their cables, and stand out to sea. If the
damage and injury were not important enough to risk the success of the
expedition, the casualties ever inseparable from such events threw a
gloom over the whole force, a feeling grievously increased by the first
tidings that met them,--the capture of one of the officers and a boat's
crew, who were taken while examining the shore, and seeking out the
fittest spot for a landing.
On the 7th of March the wind and sea subsided, the sky cleared, and a
glorious sunset gave promise of a calm, so soon to be converted into a
storm not less terrible than that of the elements.
As day closed, the outlying ships had all returned to their moorings,
the accidents of the late gale were repaired, and the soaked sails hung
flapping in the evening breeze to dry; while the decks swarmed with
moving figures, all eagerly engaged in preparation for that event which
each well knew could not now be distant. How many a heart throbbed
high with ecstasy and hope, that soon was to be cold; how many an eye
wandered over that strong line of defences along the shore, that never
was to gaze upon another sunset!
And yet, to mark the proud step, the flashing look the eager speech
of all around, the occasion might have been deemed one of triumphant
pleasure rather than the approach of an enterprise full of hazard and
danger. The disappointments which the storm had excited, by delaying the
landing, were forgotten altogether, or only thought of to heighten the
delight which now they felt.
The rapid exchange of signals between the line-of-battle ships showed
that preparations were on foot; and many were the guesses and surmises
current as to the meaning of this or that ensign, each reading the
mystery by the light of his inward hopes. On one object, however, every
eye was fixed with a most intense anxiety. This was an armed launch,
which, shooting out from beneath the shadow of a three-decker, swept
across the bay with muffled oars. Nothing louder than a whisper broke
the silence on board of her, as they stole along the still water, and
held on their course towards the shore. Through the gloom of the falling
night, they were seen to track each indenture of the coast,--now lying
on their oars to take soundings; now delaying, to note some spot of
more than ordinary strength. It was already midnight before “the
reconnoissance” was effected, and the party returned to the ship, well
acquainted with the formidable preparations of the enemy, and all the
hazard that awaited the hardy enterprise. The only part of the coast
approachable by boats was a low line of beach, stretching away to the
left, from the castle of Aboukir, and about a mile in extent; and this
was commanded by a semicircular range of sand-hills, on which the French
batteries were posted, and whose crest now glittered with the bivouac
fires of a numerous army. From the circumstances of the ground, the
guns were so placed as to be able to throw a cross-fire over the bay;
while a lower range of batteries protected the shore, the terrible
effect of whose practice might be seen on the torn and furrowed
sands,--sad presage of what a landing party might expect! Besides these
precautions, the whole breastwork bristled with cannon and mortars
of various calibre, embedded in the sand; nor was a single position
undefended, or one measure of resistance omitted, which might increase
the hazard of an attacking force.
Time was an important object with the English general; reinforcements
were daily looked for by the French; indeed it was rumored that tidings
had come of their having sailed from Toulon, for, with an unparalleled
audacity and fortune combined, a French frigate had sailed the preceding
day through the midst of our fleet, and, amid the triumphant cheerings
of the shore batteries, hoisted the tricolor in the face of our
assembled ships. Scarcely had the launch reached the admiral's ship,
when a signal ordered the presence of all officers in command to attend
a council of war. The proceedings were quickly terminated, and in
less than half an hour, the various boats were seen returning to their
respective ships, the resolution having been taken to attack that very
morning, or, in the words of the general order, “to bring the troops as
soon as possible before the enemy.” Never were tidings more welcomed;
the delay, brief as it was, had stimulated the ardor of the men to the
highest degree, and they actually burned with impatience to be engaged.
The dispositions for attack were simple, and easily followed. A sloop of
war, anchored just beyond the reach of cannon-shot, was named as a point
of rendezvous. By a single blue light at her mizzen, the boats were to
move towards her; three lights at the maintop would announce that they
were all assembled; a single gun would then be the signal to make for
the shore.
Strict orders were given that no unusual lights should be seen from the
ships, nor any unwonted sight or sound betray extraordinary preparation.
The men were mustered by the half-light in use on board, the ammunition
distributed in silence, and every precaution taken that the attack
should have the character of a surprise. These orders were well and
closely followed; but so short was the interval, and so manifold
the arrangements, it was already daylight before the rendezvous was
accomplished.
If the plan of debarkation was easily comprehended, that of the attack
was not less so. Nelson once summed up a “general order,” by saying,
“The captain will not make any mistake who lays his ship alongside of
an enemy of heavier metal.” So Abercrombie's last instructions were,
“Whenever an officer may be in want of orders, let him assault an
enemy's battery.” These were to be carried by the bayonet alone, and, of
the entire force, not one man landed with a loaded musket.
A few minutes after seven the signal was given, and the boats moved
off. The sun was high, a light breeze fanned the water, the flags and
streamers of the ships-of-war floated proudly out as the flotilla stood
for the shore; in glorious rivalry they pulled through the surf, each
eager to be first, and all the excitement of a race was imparted to this
enterprise of peril.
Conspicuous among the leading boats were two, whose party, equipped in a
brilliant uniform of blue and silver, formed part of the cavalry force.
The inferiority of the horses supplied was such that only two hundred
and fifty were mounted, and the remainder had asked and obtained
permission to serve on foot. A considerable portion of this corps was
made up of volunteers; and several young men of family and fortune were
said to serve in the ranks, and from the circumstance of being commanded
by the Knight of Gwynne, were called “Darcy's Volunteers.” It was a
glorious sight to see the first boat of this party, in the stern of
which sat the old Knight himself, shoot out ahead, and amid the cheering
of the whole flotilla, lead the way in shore.
Returning the various salutes which greeted him, the old man sat
bare-headed, his silvery hair floating back in the breeze, and his manly
face beaming with high enthusiasm.
“A grand spectacle for an unconcerned eyewitness,” said an officer to
his neighbor.
The words reached Darcy's ears, and he called out, “I differ with you,
Captain. To enjoy all the thrilling ecstasy of this scene a man must
have his stake on the venture. It is our personal hopes and fears are
necessary ingredients in the exalted feeling. I would not stand on
yonder cliff and look on, for millions; but such a moment as this is
glorious.” As he spoke, a long line of flame ran along the heights,
and at the same instant the whole air trembled as the entire batteries
opened their fire. The sea hissed and glittered with round shot and
shell; while, in a perfect hurricane, they rained on every side.
The suddenness of the cannonade, and the confusion consequent on the
casualties that followed, seemed for a moment to retard the advance, or,
as it appeared to the French, to deter the invading force altogether;
for as they perceived some of the boats to lie on their oars, and others
withdrawn to the assistance of their comrades, a deafening cheer
of triumph rang out from the batteries, and was heard over the bay.
Scarcely had it been uttered when the British answered by another, whose
hoarse roar bespoke the coming vengeance.
The flotilla had now advanced within a line of buoys laid down to direct
the fire, and here grape and musketry mingled their clattering with
the deeper thunder of cannon. “This is sharp work, gentlemen,” said the
Knight, as the spray twice splashed over the boat, from shot that fell
close by. “They 'll have our range soon. Do you mark how accurately the
shots fall over that line of surf?”
“That's a sand-bank, sir,” said the coxswain who steered. “There 's
barely draught of water there for heavy launches.”
“I perceive there is some shelter yonder beneath that large battery.”
“They can trust that spot,” cried the coxswain, smiling. “There 's a
heavy surf there, and no boat could live through it. But stay, there is
a boat about to try it.” Every eye was now turned towards a yawl which,
with twelve oars, vigorously headed on through the very midst of a
broken and foam-covered tract of water, where jets of sea sprang up
from hidden rocks, and cross currents warred and contended against each
other.
The hazardous venture was not alone watched by those iu the boats,
but, from the crowning ridge of batteries, from every cliff and crag on
shore, wondering enemies gazed on the hardihood of the daring.
“They'll do it yet, sir,--they 'll do it yet,” cried the coxswain, wild
with excitement. “There's deep water inside that reef.”
The words were scarcely out, when a tremendous cannonade opened from the
large battery. The balls fell on every side of the boat, and at length
one struck her on the stem, rending her open from end to end, and
scattering her shivered planks over the surfy sea.
A shout, a cheer, a drowning cry from the sinking crew, and all was
over.
So sudden and so complete was this dreadful catastrophe, that they who
witnessed it almost doubted the evidence of their senses, nor were the
victors long to enjoy this triumph; the very discharge which sunk
the boat having burst a mortar, and ignited a mass of powder near, a
terrible explosion followed. A dense column of smoke and sand filled the
air; and when this cleared away, the face of the battery was perceived
to be rent in two.
“We can do it now, lads,” cried Darcy. “They 'll never recover from the
confusion yonder in time to see us.” A cheer met his words, and the
coxswain turned the boat's head in the direction of the reef.
Closely followed by their comrades in the second boat, they pulled along
through the surf like men whose lives were on the venture; four arms to
every oar, the craft bounded through the boiling tide; twice the keel
was felt to graze the rocky bed, but the strong impulse of the boat's
“way” carried her through, and soon they floated in the still water
within the reef.
“It shoals fast here,” cried the coxswain.
“What's the depth?” asked Darcy.
“Scarcely above three feet. If we throw over our six-pounder--”
“No, no. It's but wading, after all. Keep your muskets dry, move
together, and we shall be the first to touch the shore.”
As he said this, he sprang over the side of the boat into the sea, and
waving his hat above his head, began his progress towards the land.
“Come along, gentlemen, we 've often done as much when salmon-fishing
in our own rivers.” Thus, lightly jesting, and encouraging his party, he
waded on, with all the seeming carelessness of one bent on some scheme
of pleasure.
The large batteries had no longer the range; but a dreadful fire of
musketry was poured in from the heights, and several brave fellows fell,
mortally wounded, ere the strand was reached. Cheered by the approving
shouts of thousands from the boats, they at length touched the beach;
and wild and disorderly as had been their advance when breasting the
waves, no sooner had they landed than discipline resumed its sway, and
the words, “Fall in, men!” were obeyed with the prompt precision of a
parade. A strong body of tirailleurs, scattered along the base of the
sand-hills and through the irregularities of the ground, galled them
with a dropping and destructive fire as they formed; nor was it till
an advanced party had driven these back, that the dispositions could be
well and properly taken. By this time several other boats had touched
the shore, and already detachments from the Fortieth, Twenty-eighth, and
Forty-second regiments were drawn up along the beach, and, from these,
frequent cries and shouts were heard, encouraging and cheering the
“Volunteers,” who alone, of all the force, had yet come to close
quarters with the enemy.
A brief but most dangerous interval now followed; for the boats,
assailed by a murderous fire, had sustained severe losses, and a short
delay inevitably followed, assisting the wounded, or rescuing those who
had fallen into the sea. Had the French profited by this pause, to bear
down upon the small force now drawn up inactive on the beach, the fate
of that great achievement might have been perilled; as it happened,
however, nothing was further from their thought than coming into
immediate contact with the British, and they contented themselves with
a distant but still destructive cannonade. It is not impossible that the
audacity of those who first landed, and who--a mere handful--assumed the
offensive, might have been the reason of this conduct, certain it is,
the boats, for a time retarded, were permitted again to move forward and
disembark then; men, with no other resistance than the fire from the
batteries.
The three first regiments which gained the land were, strangely enough,
representatives of the three different nationalities of the Empire;
and scarcely were the words, “Forward! to the assault!” given, when an
emulative struggle began, which should first reach the top and cross
bayonets with the French. On the left, and nearest to the causeway
that led up the heights, stood the Highlanders. These formed under an
overwhelming shower of grape and musketry, and, with pibrochs playing,
marched steadily forward. The Fortieth made an effort to pass them,
which caused a momentary confusion, ending in an order for this regiment
to halt, and support the Forty-second; and while this was taking place,
the Twenty-eighth rushed to the ascent in broken parties, and, following
the direction the “Volunteers” had taken in pursuit of the tirailleurs,
they mounted the heights together.
So suddenly was the tirailleur force repelled, that they had scarcely
time to give the alarm, when the Twenty-eighth passed the crest of the
hill, and prepared to charge. The Irish regiment, glorying in being the
first to reach the top, cheered madly, and bore down. The French
poured in a single volley, and fell back; not to retreat, but to entice
pursuit. The stratagem succeeded. The Twenty-eighth pursued them hotly,
and almost at once found themselves engaged in a narrow gorge of
the sand-hills, and exposed to a terrific cross-fire. To retreat was
impossible; their own weight drove them on, and the deafening cheers
of their comrades drowned every word of command. Grape at half-musket
distance ploughed through their ranks, while one continuous crash of
small-arms showed the number and closeness of their foes.
It was at this moment that Darcy, whose party was advancing by a smaller
gorge, ascended a height, and beheld the perilous condition of his
countrymen. There was but one way to liberate them, and that involved
their own destruction: to throw themselves on the French flank, and
while devoting themselves to death, enable the Twenty-eighth to retire
or make head against the opposing force. While Darcy, in a few hurried
words, made known his plan to those around him, the opportunity for its
employment most strikingly presented itself. A momentary repulse of
the French had driven a part of their column to the highroad leading to
Alexandria, where already several baggage carts and ammunition wagons
were gathered. This movement seemed so like retreat that Darcy's
sanguine nature was deceived, and calling out, “Come along, lads,-they
are running already!” he dashed onward, followed by his gallant band.
His attack, if inefficient for want of numbers, was critical in point
of time. The same instant that the French were assailed by him in flank,
the Forty-second had gained the summit and attacked them in front: fresh
battalions each moment arrived, and now along the entire crest of the
ridge the fight raged fiercely. One after the other the batteries were
stormed, and carried by our infantry at the bayonet's point; and in less
than an hour from the time of landing, the British flag waved over seven
of the nine heavy batteries.
The battle, severe as it was on the heights, was main-tained with even
greater slaughter on the shore. The French, endeavoring too late to
repair the error of not resisting the actual landing, had now thrown an
immense force by a flank movement on the British battalions; and this
attack of horse, foot, and artillery combined, was, for its duration,
the great event of the day. For a brief space it appeared impossible for
the few regiments to sustain the shock of such an encounter; and had it
not been for the artillery of the gunboats stationed along the shore,
they must have yielded. Their fire, however, was terribly destructive,
sweeping through the columns as they came up, and actually cutting lanes
in the dense squadrons.
Reinforcements poured in, besides, at every instant; and after a bloody
and anxious struggle, the British were enabled to take the offensive,
and advance against their foes. The French, already weakened by loss and
dispirited by failure, did not await the conflict, but retired slowly,
it is true, and in perfect order, on one of the roads leading into the
great highway to Alexandria.
Victory had even more unequivocally pronounced for the British on the
heights. By this time every battery was in their possession. The enemy
were in full flight towards Alexandria, the tumultuous mass occasionally
assailed by our light infantry, to whom, from our deficiency in cavalry,
was assigned the duty of harassing the retreat. It was here that Darcy's
Volunteers, now reduced to one third of their original number, highly
distinguished themselves, not only attacking the flank of the retiring
enemy, but seizing every opportunity of ground to assail them in front
and retard their flight.
In one of these onslaughts, for such they were, the Volunteers became
inextricably entangled with the enemy, and although fighting with the
desperation of tigers, volley after volley tore through them; and the
French, maddened by the loss they had already suffered at their hands,
hastened to finish them by the bayonet. It was only by the intervention
of the French officers, a measure in itself not devoid of peril, that
any were spared; and those few, bleeding and mangled, were hurried
along as prisoners, the only triumph of that day's battle! The strange
spectacle of an affray in the very midst of a retiring column was seen
by the British in pursuit, and the memory of this scene is preserved
among the incidents of that day's achievements.
[Illustration: 328]
Many and desperate attempts were made to rescue the prisoners. The
French, however, received the charges with deadly volleys, and as their
flanks were now covered by a cloud of tirailleurs, they were enabled to
continue their retreat on Alexandria, protected by the circumstances of
the ground, every point of which they had favorably occupied. The battle
was now over; guns, ammunition and stores were all landed; on the
heights the English ensign waved triumphantly; and, far as the eye could
reach, the French masses were seen in flight, to seek shelter within the
lines of Alexandria.
It was a glorious moment as the last column ascended the cliffs, to
find their gallant comrades masters of the French position in its entire
extent. Here, now, two brigades reposed with piled arms, guns, mortars,
camp equipage, and military chests strewed on every side, all attesting
the completeness of a victory which even a French bulletin could hardly
venture to disavow. It is perhaps fortunate that, at times like this,
the feeling of high excitement subdues all sense of the regret so
natural to scenes of suffering; and thus, amid many a sight and sound of
woe, glad shouts of triumph were raised, and heartfelt bursts of joyous
recognition broke forth as friends met, and clasped each other's hands.
Incidents of the battle, traits of individual heroism, were recorded on
every side: anecdotes then told for the first time, to be remembered,
many a year after, among the annals of regimental glory!
It is but seldom, at such moments, that men can turn from the theme of
triumph to think of the more disastrous events of the day; and yet
a general feeling of sorrow prevailed on the subject of the brave
Volunteers, of whose fate none could bring any tidings; some asserting
that they had all fallen to a man on the road leading to Alexandria,
others affirming that they were carried off prisoners by the French
cavalry.
A party of light infantry, who had closely followed the enemy till
nightfall, had despatched some of their wounded to the rear; and by
these the news came, that in an open space beside the high-road the
ground was covered with bodies in the well-known blue and silver of the
Volunteers. One only of these exhibited signs of life; and him they
had placed among the wounded in one of the carts, and brought back with
them. As will often happen, single instances of suffering excite more of
compassionate pity than wide-spread affliction; and so here. When death
and agony were on every hand,--whole wagons filled with maimed and dying
comrades,--a closely wedged group gathered around the dying Volunteer,
their saddened faces betraying emotions that all the terrible scenes of
the day had never evoked.
“It 's no use, sir,” said the surgeon, to the field-officer who had
called him to the spot. “There is internal bleeding, besides this
ghastly sabre-cut.”
“Who knows him?” said the officer, looking around; but none made answer.
“Can no one tell his name?”
There was a silence for a few seconds; when the dying man lifted his
failing eyes upwards, and turned them slowly around on the group. A
slight tremor shook his lips, as if with an effort to speak; but no
sound issued. Yet in the terrible eagerness of his features might be
seen the working of a spirit fiercely struggling for utterance.
“Yes, my poor fellow,” said the officer, stooping down beside him, and
taking his hand. “I was asking for your name.”
A faint smile and a slight nod of the head seemed to acknowledge the
speech.
“He is speaking,--hush! I hear his voice,” cried the officer.
An almost inaudible murmur moved his lips; then a shivering shook his
frame, and his head fell heavily back.
“What is this?” said the officer..
“Death,” said the surgeon, with the solemn calm of one habituated to
such scenes. “His last words were strange-, did you hear them?”
“I thought he said 'Court-martial.'”
The surgeon nodded, and turned to move away.
“See here, sir,” said a sergeant, as opening the dead man's coat he drew
forth a white handkerchief, “the poor fellow was evidently trying to
write his name with his own blood; here are some letters clear enough.
L-e-o, and this is an n--or m--”
“I know him now,” cried another. “This was the Volunteer who joined us
at Malta; but Colonel Darcy got him exchanged into his own corps. His
name was Leonard.”