have no morning for some of them; but they entertained not such dismal
reflections, and remembered only a high spirit of emulation, which the
recent captures of Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz called forth. The night
was intensely dark, not a star lit the vast black dome of heaven, and
each column, guided by a Spaniard who knew the country well, set out
upon its separate march. The first, composed of the gallant 28th
(familiarly known as the _slashers_) and 34th regiments, with a
battalion of Portuguese cacadores, under the orders of General Chowne,
were directed to take by storm the tower of Miravete,--a fortress
crowning the summit of a rugged hill, rising on one side of the mountain
pass to which it gave its name, and through which the road to Madrid
lies.
The second column, commanded by General Long, was directed to storm the
works erected by the garrison of Miravete across the pass, which
consisted of a strong gate, with breast-work and palisadoes, loop-holed
for musquetry and defended by cannon.
General Howard's, or the first brigade, formed the third column,
composed of the 50th regiment, the 71st Highland Light Infantry, and the
Gordon Highlanders, together with some artillery. These marched by the
mountains; the priest acting as their guide to the forts at the bridge
of Almarez, which they were ordered to "take at the point of the
bayonet." Sir Rowland Hill accompanied them, riding beside the grey
padre, who had been accommodated with a mule, with a dozen bells
jangling at its bridle.
The night, as I have already said, was intensely dark; a general
blackness enveloped the whole surrounding scenery, and the summits of
the gloomy mountains among which they marched, could scarcely be
discerned from the starless sky that closed behind them like a vast
sable curtain. Many hours more than the general had ever calculated upon
were spent on the way, and numerous suspicions of the guide's knowledge
or veracity were entertained; yet to all questions he replied with some
monkish benediction, muttered in a snuffling tone, and insisted that the
route he led them was the nearest to the village of Almarez.
But many a malediction did the heavily-armed soldiers bestow on their
monkish guide, and the desolate and toilsome way he led them.
Struggling through dark defiles and narrow gorges, encumbered with
fallen trees and rugged masses of rock, twisted brushwood and thickets,
every one of which might, for aught they knew, contain a thousand
riflemen in ambush,--through toilsome and slippery channels of rushing
streams,--over immense tracts of barren mountainous waste, they were led
during the whole of that night, the priest's grey cope and cassock
waving in the gloom as he rode at the head of the column, appearing like
the _ignis-fatuus_, which led them about until, at last, when morning
was drawing near, the column halted in the midst of a deep swamp, which
took some ankle deep, and others above their leggins or gartered hose,
in water,--the reverend padre declaring, by the sanctity of every saint
in the kalendar, he knew not whereabouts they were. A scarce-smothered
malison broke out from front to rear, and the soldiers stamped their
feet in the water from pure vexation. Close column was now formed on
the 50th regiment, and Sir Rowland questioned the padre in so angry a
tone, that the whole brigade heard him.
"Hold the bridle of his mule, and cut him down should he attempt to
fly," said he to his orderly dragoon. "And now, _senor padre_, answer
me directly, and attempt not to prevaricate; for by Heaven if you do,
you will find your cassock no protection from the halberts or a musquet
shot,--one or other you shall feel without ceremony."
"Noble caballero," urged the padre.
"Silence! This night you have played the traitor to Ferdinand, to
Spain, and to us. Is it not so?"
"No, senor general," replied the other stoutly.
"Through your instrumentality, the attack on Almarez has failed."
"_Ira se en humo!_"[*] replied the priest, doggedly.
[*] It will end in smoke,--a Spanish saying.
"Do you mock us, rascal?'
"No, cavalier; but no true Spaniard likes to be questioned thus
imperiously."
"You speak somewhat boldly for a priest. But daylight is already
breaking, and we must retire into concealment, or abandon the attempt
altogether. Point out some track by which we may retreat, or, priest
and Spaniard as you are, I will order a drum-head court-martial, and
have you shot as a traitor and spy, or leaguer with the enemy."
"_Gracios excellenze!_" urged the padre.
"Your entreaties are of no avail. You have deceived us with the usual
treachery of your nation, false monk!"
"By _San Juan_ I have not, general! The robe I wear, and the letter of
the corregidor of Merida, sufficiently attest my veracity. I have erred
through ignorance, not intention."
"I pray it may be so," said Sir Rowland in a kinder tone. "God forbid I
should wrong an honest man! But where lies the village of Almarez--"
At that moment the flash of a cannon a long way down the mountains,
among whose shattered peaks the report was reverberated, answered the
question.
By the time which elapsed between the sight of the flash and the sound
of the report, it seemed to be fired about a mile distant. "The morning
gun,--that is Almarez," muttered the soldiers.
"_Caballeros y soldados!_" cried the priest with sudden energy, "I have
been no traitor, as you seem to suppose me. In truth I knew not the
road,--by San Jago de Compostella I did not! To-morrow night, without
fail, I will guide you to the gates of Almarez. I tell you this as
truly as that every maravedi of my reward shall go to the shrine of my
good Lady of Majorga, whom some rogues have lately plundered of her
robes."
"Unhand his bridle," said Sir Rowland; "I must believe him. Major, what
think you?'
"There is no alternative," replied the major of brigade; "but as the
regulations say, 'Guides cannot be too jealously watched;' and again in
page--"
"'Tis a waste of time to expound the regulations to a man, whose
knowledge is confined to his bible and mass-book," replied the general
with a smile. "We will retire up the mountains, and lie concealed till
favoured again by the darkness. Let the column break into sections, and
move off left in front. Colonel Cameron, your Highlanders will lead the
way."
A solitary place of concealment was gained among the rugged mountains of
the Lina, where the bivouac was hidden from the sentinels on the castle
of Miravete.
The officers anxious to lead that most desperate, but gallant of all
military enterprises, the _forlorn hope_ in the intended assault, were
requested to send their names to the general. In spite of all that
Macdonald and his more cautious friends could say to dissuade Ronald
from so heedlessly exposing himself to danger, the fiery young
Highlandman offered to lead the storming-party. He well knew how great
was the danger, and how little the chance of escape, attending those who
headed the forlorn band; but he was animated by no ordinary feelings,
and spurred on by the most powerful of all human passions,--love and
ambition. With these inspiring his soul, what is it that a brave man
feels himself unequal to encounter and overcome? Ronald was also eager
to distinguish himself, to gain the favour of the general, the applause
of the troops, the freedom of Catalina, and the admiration--alas! he
could no longer look for the love of Alice Lisle.
The brigade-major informed him (not forgetting to add a stave of the
regulations thereto) that his namesake, Captain Stuart of the 50th
regiment, had likewise sent his name as a candidate for the desperate
honour, and had been of course accepted in consequence of his superior
rank, adding that Sir Rowland would not forget Mr. Stuart in the next
affair of the same kind, and that on the present occasion he might, if
he chose, attend the storming-party as a supernumerary, as it was very
likely the first fire would knock its leader on the head. With this
Ronald was obliged to be contented,--rather chagrined, however, to find
that he had exposed himself to the same danger, without a chance of
obtaining the same honour.
During that day the ground was carefully examined and reconnoitred. The
rugged bed of a dried-up stream, which led from the summits of the Lina
to the Tagus at Almarez, was chosen as the surest line of route on the
next occasion.
Almarez was a miserable little Spanish village, consisting of two rows
of huts or cottages, leading to an ancient bridge, which had been
recently blown up, but the want of which the French supplied by a strong
pontoon, extending between their forts on each side of the river,--the
one named Ragusa, and the other Napoleon. The latter _tete-du-pont_ was
strongly intrenched, and defended by nine pieces of heavy cannon and
five hundred men: Ragusa was a regular work, defended by an equal number
of men and iron guns. A large square tower, rising in the midst like a
keep, added greatly to the strength of the place.
After remaining for three days bivouacked among the solitary mountains
of the Lina (a ridge or sierra which runs parallel with the Tagus,)
about ten o'clock on the evening of the last the third column got under
arms; and making a circuit among the hills under guidance of the priest,
to avoid Miravete, arrived at the bed of the stream, which, in the
darkness, was their surest guide to Almarez. But before reaching this
place, either by the ignorance or treachery of their guide, they were
again led astray, and spent another night marching about in the darkness
and solitude of these dreary sierras. It was close on dawn of day
before they gained the village of Almarez at the base of the hills, by
descending the rough channel of the rill, a long and toilsome path,
admitting but one file abreast, as the rocks rose abruptly on each side
of it, and the passage was encumbered by large stones, projecting roots
and trunks of fallen trees, which caused many of the soldiers to be hurt
severely, by falling in the dark as they toiled on, bearing in addition
to their arms the scaling-ladders, the hammers, levers, and other
implements for the assault on the gates of the _tete-du-pont_.
The intention of taking Almarez by surprise was frustrated by the
garrison in the castle of Miravete. General Chowne's column having made
an assault on the outworks of the place, its soldiers, to alarm the
forts at the bridge, sent off scores of rockets in fiery circles through
the inky black sky; beacons of tar-barrels blazed on every turret, and
red signal-lights glared in every embrasure of the embattled tower,
purpling the sky above and the valley below, flaring on the hideous
rents, yawning chasms, and precipitous fronts of the huge basaltic rocks
among which it is situated, and some of which, covered with foliage,
overhang the dark blue waters of the Tagus. In some places the basaltic
crags reared their fronts to the height of several hundred feet above
the straggling route of the third column. The scene was wild, splendid,
picturesque, and impressively grand, such as few men have looked
on,--the dark sky, the tremendous scenery, and the tower blazing with
its various lights and fires, while the peals of musquetry from the
assailants and the assailed reverberated among the hills, the outlines
of which were now distinctly visible,--their sides dotted here and there
by flocks of Merino sheep, goats, &c. which had escaped the
forage-parties of the enemy.
General Hill was now perfectly aware that an attempt to carry the forts
by surprise was frustrated, as the assault upon them all should have
commenced at once; yet, relying on the mettle and chivalry of his
gallant troops, worn out as they were by their night-marches, he did not
hesitate to make the effort, although he knew that the garrisons of the
_tetes-du-pont_ would be under arms for his reception. Within an hour
of day-break the three regiments had quitted their path, and formed in
order at some little distance from the scene of intended operations.
All was still and dark. Before them lay the quiet little village of
Almarez, with its orange trees and vineyards, and with its ruined
bridge, the broad abutments and piers of the centre-arch of which hang
over the Tagus, whose deep dark waters swept sluggishly on, rippling
against the jarring and heaving boats of the pontoon bridge which the
foe had thrown across the river a little lower down, and at each end of
which appeared the rising mounds, crowned--the nearest by fort Napoleon,
and that on the other side by the extended trenches and lofty tower of
Ragusa.
All was singularly and ominously still within the forts: none appeared
stirring except the sentries, whose figures against the sky were
discerned moving to and fro on the bastions, or standing still to watch
the lights of Miravete, which were yet blazing afar off among the dark
mountains of the sierra.
Preparations were now made for the attack. The colours were uncased and
thrown upon the breeze; the flints and priming were examined. The 6th
regiment of the Portuguese line, and two companies of German riflemen
under Captain Blacier, were ordered to form the _corps-de-reserve_, and
moved behind a rising ground, which would cover them from the enemy's
fire; while the three British regiments, formed in two columns, pressed
forward pell-mell upon the _tetes-du-pont_. Now indeed was the moment
of excitement, and the pulsation of every heart became quicker. But the
soldiers placed the utmost reliance upon the skill and gallantry of
their leader and colonels. At the head of the 50th regiment was Stuart,
a man whose perfect coolness and apathy in the hottest actions surprised
all, and formed a strong contrast to the enthusiastic spirit of gallant
Cadogan of the Highland Light Infantry, and to the proud sentiments of
chivalry, martial fire, and reckless valour which animated Cameron of
Fassifern.
*CHAPTER VII.*
*D'ESTOUVILLE.*
"I have seen thee work up glacis and cavalier
Steeper than this ascent, when cannon, culverin,
Musquet, and hackbut shower'd their shot upon thee,
And formed, with ceaseless blaze, a fiery garland
Round the defences of the post you stormed."
_The Ayrshire Tragedy_. Act 1.
The storming-party, with their broad scaling-ladders, passed forward
double-quick to the front.
"Heaven guide you, Ronald!" whispered Louis Lisle hurriedly, pressing
the hand of Stuart as he passed the flank of his company.
"God bless you, Lisle! 'tis the last time we may look on each other's
faces," replied the other, his heart swelling with sudden emotions of
tenderness at this unexpected display of friendship, at such a time, and
from one to whom he had long been as a stranger.
"_Maniez le drapeau! Vive l'Empereur! Appretez vos armes!
Joue--feu!_" cried the clear voice of D'Estouville from the fort; and
instantly a volley of musquetry broke over the dark line of
breast-works, flashing like a continued garland of fire, showing the
bronzed visages and tall grenadier caps of the old French Guard, while
the waving tri-colour, like a banner of crape in the dark, was run up
the flag-staff.
"_Vive l'Empereur! Cannoniers, commencez le feu!_" cried a hoarse voice
from the angle of the epaule, and the roar of nine twenty-four pounders
shook the Tagus in its bed, while crash came their volley of grape and
canister like an iron tempest, sweeping one half of the storming-party
into eternity, and strewing fragments of limbs, fire-locks, and ladders
in every direction. A roar of musquetry from the British, and many a
soul-stirring cheer, were the replies, and onward pressed the
assailants, exposed to a tremendous fire of small arms from the
bulwarks, and grape and cannon shot from the flanking bastions of the
_tete-du-pont_, which mowed them down as a blast mows withered reeds.
When now, for the first time, the sharp hiss of cannon-shot, the groans
of dying, and the shrieks of wounded men rang in his ears, it must be
owned that Ronald Stuart experienced that peculiar sensation of thick
and tumultuous beating in his heart, boundless and terrible curiosity,
intense and thrilling excitement, which even the most brave and
dauntless must feel when _first_ exposed to the dangers of mortal
strife. But almost instantly these emotions vanished, and his old
dashing spirit of reckless daring and fiery valour possessed him.
Captain Stuart had fallen dead at his feet without a groan,--shot
through the head and heart by the first fire from the epaule, and
Ronald, sword in hand, now led on the stormers.
"Follow me, gallants! and we will show them what the first brigade can
do," cried he, leaping into the _avant-fosse_. A wild hurrah was his
reply, and the soldiers rushed after him, crossing the ditch and
planting their ladders against the stone face of the sloping glacis,
exposed to a deadly fire from loop-hole, parapet, and embrasure, while
the French kept shouting their war-cry of "Long live the Emperor!" and
the voice of D'Estouville was heard above the din, urging them to keep
up a rapid fire.
"_Soldats,--joue! Chargez vos armes,---joue! Vivat!_" echoed always by
the hoarse voice of the artillery-officer from the bastion.
"Steady the ladder, Evan Bean Iverach," cried Stuart. "Keep close by
me, and show yourself your father's son. God aid our steel! Follow me,
soldiers,--forward!--Hurrah!" With his sword in his right hand, his
bonnet in his left, and his dark hair waving about his face, he ascended
the ladder fearlessly, and striking up the bayonets which bristled over
the parapet, leaped upon it, brandished his sword, miraculously escaping
the shower of shot which hailed around him. With dauntless bravery he
sprang from the parapet among them, and instantly the French gave way
before the irresistible stream of British troops who poured in upon
them, and a desperate struggle took place--short, bloody, but decisive.
"_Ah, mon Dieu! Raille--raille! soldats! Diable! Croisez la
baionette!_" shouted D'Estouville frantickly,--setting his men the
example by throwing himself headlong on the bayonets of the
assailants,--but he was driven back, and his efforts were in vain; a
score of ladders had been placed against the glacis at other places, and
the works were stormed on almost every part at once. The defenders were
driven back, but fighting with true French bravery for every inch of
ground. The British assailed them with irresistible impetuosity,
bearing them backwards with the charged bayonet, the clubbed musquet,
the pike, and the sword. By the particular favour of Providence Ronald
escaped the dangers of the forlorn hope, while the soldiers who composed
his band were mown down like leaves in autumn; but while pressing
forward among the enemy, two powerful grenadiers of _les Gardes
Francais_ rushed upon him with their levelled bayonets, putting him in
imminent peril. The pike of a serjeant of the 50th freed him of one
assailant, and closing with the other, he dashed his head against the
breech of a carronade, and passed his sword through the broad breast of
a third who came up to his rescue, and the warm blood poured over the
hand and blade of his conqueror, who now could scarcely keep his feet on
the wooden platform surrounding the inner side of the breast-work, which
was covered with blood and brains, and piled with dead and wounded--with
drums, dismounted cannon, and broken weapons. The scene which was now
presented, is far beyond my humble powers of description. The blaze of
cannon and musquetry from Ragusa, at the other end of the pontoon
bridge,--where the garrison fired at the risk of killing their
comrades,--glared on the glassy bosom of the Tagus, tinging it with that
red and golden colour so freely bestowed upon it by poets. But within
the inner talus of the breast-work and bloody platform, the scene would
have produced horror in one less excited than men contending hand to
hand, and who regarded honour rather than life.
There lay the ghastly dead, cold and pale in the grey light of the
morning,--across them in heaps the wounded, quivering with intensity of
agony, grasping the gory ground with convulsive clutches, and tearing up
the earth, which was soon to cover them, in handfuls, while their eyes,
starting from the sockets, were becoming glazed and terrible in death.
Others, who had received wounds in less vital parts of the frame, were
endeavouring to drag themselves from the press, or stanch their
streaming blood, imploring those who neither heard or heeded them for
"Water! water for the love of God!" Yells of sudden agony, the deep
groan of the severely wounded and hoarse death-rattle of the dying men,
mingled and were lost in the tumultuous shouts of the French, the steady
and hearty cheers of the British, the clash of steel, the tramp of feet
and discharge of musquetry, the notes of the wild war pipes of the 71st
and 92nd, which were blown loud enough to awaken the heroes of Selma in
their tombs. Many acts of personal heroism were performed on both sides
before the enemy were fairly driven from their works, for which they
fought with the characteristic bravery of their gallant nation.
But longer contention would have been madness. The right wing of the
Highland Light Infantry, and the whole of the 50th regiment, poured in
upon them like a flood: the whole place was captured in the course of
_fifteen minutes_, and its garrison driven into the little square formed
by their barracks, and into the bastion from which their imperial
tri-colour flung its folds over the conflict.
"On! Forward! Capture the colours before they are destroyed!" was now
the cry; and hundreds, following Colonel Stuart of the 50th, pressed
forward into the bastion, across the demi-gorge of which the enemy had
cast bundles of fascines, composed of billets of wood, baskets of earth,
&c., over which they presented their bayonets, and kept up a rapid fire.
Still eager to distinguish himself, Ronald pressed on by the side of the
colonel of the 50th, and while endeavouring to break the hedge of steel
formed by the enemy's bayonets, he was thrust in among them and borne to
the ground, and his campaigns would probably have ended there, had not
Evan Iverach, at the peril of his life, plunged over the fascines after
him, and borne to the earth a French officer, whose sabre was descending
on his master's head.
The athletic Highlander pinned the Gaul to the earth, and unsheathing a
skene-dhu (black knife), drove it through the breast of his discomfited
foe.
"_Nombril de Belzebub! Les sauvages Ecossais! Sacre bleu! Camarades,
sauvez-moi!_"--but his comrades had barely time to save themselves from
the tide of armed men, who poured through the gap which Evan and his
master had formed.
"Hurrah, Highlanders!" cried the stentorian voice of Campbell from
another part of the works, where he appeared on foot at the head of his
company (he was major by brevet) armed with a long Highland dirk in
addition to his formidable Andrea Ferrara. "Hurrah! brave hearts! Give
them Egypt over again! Mount the platform, lads! slue round the cannon,
and blow their skulls off!" A hundred active Highlanders obeyed the
order. The twenty-four pounders were reversed, loaded, pointed, and
fired in a twinkling, sending a tremendous volley of grape-shot among
the dense mass which crowded the dark square, from which arose a yell
such as might come from the regions of the damned, mingled with the
gallant cry of "_Vive l'Empereur!_"
"Well done, brave fellows! Load and fire again! there's plenty of
grape! Another dose! Give it them!--hurra!" cried the inexorable
Campbell again. The effects of the second volley were indeed appalling,
as, from the elevation of the platform, the shot actually blew off the
skulls of the unfortunate French in scores. This was the decisive
stroke. The bastion and square were alike abandoned, and all rushed
towards the Tagus, to cross and gain the tower of Ragusa; but the
garrison of that place, on finding that fort Napoleon was captured and
its guns turned on them by the German artillery, to ensure their own
retreat destroyed that of their comrades, by cutting the pontoon bridge.
D'Estouville's troops had now no alternative but to surrender themselves
prisoners of war.
So enthusiastic were the soldiers while flushed with excitement and
victory, that, following the bold example of Evan Bean, numbers swam the
Tagus, and from the other side fired after the fugitive garrison of
Ragusa.