THE ROYAL WELSH.
[Illustration]
England possesses many regiments that have a traditional as well as an
individual existence. The memory of deeds of valour wrought by their
predecessors is transmitted from generation to generation, and inspires
the young soldier with the desire of equalling, if not surpassing, the
heroism of those who have gone before. His regiment is the warrior’s
family, and each man feels, as the inheritor of a noble fame ought to
feel, that he must do nothing unworthy of the past renown gained in
older days. Thus it happens that there are certain regiments which may
always be counted on in the hour of danger, and one of these is the
23rd Royal Welsh Fusiliers. The Prince of Wales’s plume, with the motto
“_Ich Dien_,” betokens their nationality; and their claim to the proud
words, “_Nec aspera terrent_,” which they bear on their colours, has been
justified by their gallant conduct in Egypt, and at Corunna, Martinique,
Albuera, Badajoz, Salamanca, Vittoria, the Pyrenees, Nivelle, Orthès,
Toulouse, Waterloo, Alma, Inkermann, and Sebastopol. All these names are
emblazoned on their colours, and the successors of the heroes of the
Peninsula and Waterloo proved in the Crimea that the regiment had not
fallen from its high estate of honourable glory.
It will be interesting to our readers to glance briefly at the different
engagements in which the Welsh Fusiliers distinguished themselves about
the beginning of this century. They formed part of the expedition which
sailed for Egypt in 1801, under the command of Sir Ralph Abercrombie, for
the purpose of expelling the French from that country. The authorities
at home knew as little about Egypt and the French forces there as the
members of Lord Aberdeen’s cabinet did about the Crimea and the strength
of the Russian army. Our men had no other guide than an old map, which
proved to be very incorrect, and Sir Sidney Smith, a gallant sailor
but an indifferent geographer, who knew nothing of the interior of the
country. Moreover, it was supposed that the enemy amounted to only
15,000 men, whereas they really numbered 35,000 veteran troops. The idea
of sending 12,000 men, chiefly young soldiers, to expel such a body of
veterans from a country where they were strongly intrenched, may excite
some surprise, but British soldiers may do anything when properly led. On
the 8th of March our men landed with such regularity and order that every
brigade, every regiment, and even every company, drew up on the exact
spot they were intended to occupy. The sea was as smooth as glass, and
the bullets of the enemy fell as thick as hailstones around the boats,
but the landing force advanced and fell into their places with as much
coolness as if they had been dressing for a review. The Welsh Fusiliers
and three other regiments, including the gallant 42nd, landed in boats
on the right, and were exposed to showers of grape and shell from the
enemy’s batteries; but, nothing daunted, they quietly disembarked,
formed in line, and, without even stopping to load, rushed up the hill
to charge the enemy with the bayonet. Half way up they were met with a
volley from the enemy, but, pushing on, they reached the summit before
they could reload, rushed furiously upon them, and drove them from their
position. The general was proud of this first success, and thanked his
men for having displayed “an intrepidity scarcely to be paralleled.”
On the 13th of March he was about to attack the right flank of the
enemy, who anticipated his design, and descended from the heights to
meet him; after considerable loss our men had to retire to their former
position, where they remained till the 20th. On the evening of this day
Sir Sidney Smith (the heroic defender of Acre) received a letter from
an Arab chief, apprising him of the enemy’s intention to fall upon the
English with all their forces the following morning, but unfortunately
the commander-in-chief paid no attention to this warning. Next morning
he discovered his mistake; the French commenced the action by a feigned
attack on the British left, but concentrated their most vigorous efforts
against the right, where the Welsh Fusiliers were stationed. Their
superiority in numbers procured them a temporary success. Our right
flank was turned, and the 28th Regiment, who were most exposed to their
impetuous attack, could with difficulty retain their position, though
supported by the 58th and the Welsh Fusiliers, when the 42nd advanced to
their aid, and proved that France’s Invincibles were unworthy of their
name by wrenching
⸺“the banner from her bravest host,
Baptised Invincible in Austria’s gore.”
Notwithstanding their superiority in numbers, the French were repulsed at
every point; the English remained masters of the field; and this was the
first of a series of successes which led to the evacuation of Egypt and
the overthrow of all Napoleon’s hopes of Eastern conquest.
In 1809 we find the Welsh Fusiliers at Corunna, in Spain. It would be
foreign to our purpose to relate the events which preceded that battle;
suffice it to say, that Sir John Moore, after a series of brilliant
encounters with the enemy, was obliged to retreat. The Spaniards afforded
no assistance to the retreating army, which was reduced to the greatest
privations; officers and men suffered alike from hunger and fatigue;
it was not unusual for the soldiers to point to some young aristocrat
marching at the head of his company without shoes or stockings, and to
say, with grim humour, “There goes ten thousand a year.” On this, as
almost every occasion, the officers bore up better than the men, so great
is the influence which the mind has over the body. On reaching Corunna,
where they were about to embark for England, our men were attacked by
the French. Sir John Moore was prepared to receive them; the sick, the
cavalry, and part of the artillery were already embarked; the remaining
part of his forces were drawn up to meet the attack of the enemy. The
Welsh Fusiliers formed part of General Fraser’s division, which was
stationed in the rear at a short distance from Corunna. The enemy charged
again and again, but our men not only kept their ground and remained
unbroken, but actually forced them to retire at the point of the bayonet.
The battle began at mid-day, and at five o’clock in the afternoon the
enemy were foiled at every point, and our army occupied a more advanced
position than at first. The loss of the British was 800 killed and
wounded, including their gallant leader, who was struck to the ground
by a cannon-ball, and died in the hour of victory. His death has been
commemorated in lines familiar to all our readers, and it is satisfactory
to know that Soult, instead of insulting his ashes, caused a monument to
be erected to his memory. It is by such generous acts that nations prove
their manhood amid the fierce passions evoked by war.
The Welsh Fusiliers also took part in the reduction of Martinique, one of
the French West Indian islands, which was compelled to surrender after a
gallant resistance. In those stirring times a regiment seldom remained
long in one place, and in 1812 we find them in Spain, where they were
present at the battle of Albuera and the siege of Badajoz, which was
defended by the French with obstinate valour. Many of our men perished
in the breaches, and every species of missile was hurled upon them as
they attempted to scale the walls. “Never, probably, since the invention
of gunpowder,” says Colonel Jones, “were men more exposed to its action
than those assembled to assault the breaches.” For two hours, shells,
hand-grenades, and bags of gunpowder were hurled upon our men as they
crowded into the ditch; when they rushed up the breach their passage
was arrested by ponderous beams bristling with sword-blades, and loose
planks studded with sharp iron points, which tilted up the moment they
were trodden on, and precipitated the assailants into the ditch below.
Again and again our men rushed against the glittering sword-blades and
were shot down by the enemy from the walls above; the rear pressed on,
and tried to make a bridge of the writhing bodies of their slaughtered
comrades. About midnight 2000 men had fallen, and Wellington was about
to give orders to retire, when he received notice that Picton had
taken the castle by escalade. “Then the place is ours,” he exultingly
exclaimed, and sent word to Picton to retain the castle at all hazards.
The attack was continued, and next morning Philippon, the French general,
surrendered to Lord Fitzroy Somerset, better known to this generation
as Lord Raglan. We must draw the veil of sorrow over the fearful scenes
which were enacted by an infuriated soldiery when the devoted city fell
into their hands; for three days all discipline was at an end, and the
tumult only subsided when the rioters were exhausted with their excesses.
We cannot give the exact loss of the Welsh Fusiliers, but, in common with
all the other British regiments engaged in this siege, they suffered
severely.
The next memorable event in the Peninsular War was the battle of
Salamanca, which was fought on the 22nd of July, 1812. On the 16th of
June, Wellington overtook the French near the right bank of the Tormes,
the enemy retreating across the river. For several days both armies
remained encamped on the opposite banks without molesting one another,
and the most friendly intercourse sprang up between them. They were
in the habit of conversing together and exchanging provisions, as if
they had been on the best of terms. When the warfare was resumed, the
French officers said, on parting, “We have met and been for some time
friends; we are about to separate and may meet as enemies; as friends
we have received each other warmly; as enemies we shall do the same.”
Warm indeed was the reception which they gave to one another on the
blood-stained field of Salamanca. At first the French had the advantage,
but an unguarded movement on the part of Marmont, their general, having
caught the eagle eye of Wellington, he joyfully exclaimed, “At last I
have them,” and gave orders for a general charge. The French, remembering
their former promise, presented a bold front to their assailants, who,
pouring a destructive volley into the opposing columns, rushed upon them
with the bayonet. Such was the impetus of the English attack that the
close phalanx bent before it, swayed backward and forward like a ship
struck upon a heavy sea, then broke and scattered over the plain. The
French were completely routed, with the loss of 14,000 men. The victors
behaved with great humanity to the vanquished; many of the fugitives,
pursued by the cavalry, fled to the British lines for protection, which
was readily granted. The infantry covered their retreat, and protected
them from the sabres of the horsemen; once within their lines, they were
safe from injury and insult; not a single man was bayoneted, plundered,
or molested. It is pleasing to record such instances of humanity; it
shows that the exchange of hospitalities on the banks of the Tonnes
was not forgotten in the hour of battle. The Royal Welsh and the other
British regiments engaged in this battle were permitted to inscribe
Salamanca on their colours in memory of their victory.
The next year, on the 20th of June, the 23rd saw the Peninsular campaign
brought to a close by the battle of Vittoria. The French were commanded
by Jourdan, and the English by Wellington. Our troops were completely
victorious, and the expulsion of the French from Spain was one of the
fruits of their victory. The French fought resolutely till Picton gave
the word to charge, when our men bore down all opposition before them,
and spread death and consternation through the ranks of the enemy, who
fled with such precipitancy that they left all their artillery and
baggage behind. Joseph Bonaparte, placed by his brother Napoleon on the
throne of Spain, was present at the battle; he only escaped by leaving
his carriage and mounting a swift horse. The royal calash fell into the
hands of the 10th Hussars, who found in it all the portable valuables
of his regalia. The whole of his equipage and treasures fell into the
hands of the British. The booty was enormous; it comprised all that
could minister to the appetites or pleasures of a sensual monarch. The
most delicate wines and the rarest luxuries fell into the hands of our
soldiers, who exchanged many a joke at the expense of the luxurious
monarch as they regaled themselves with them; poodles, parrots, and
monkeys were among the captives of war. Grim old Peninsulars amused
themselves after the battle in getting up a sort of masquerade, in which
they appeared in the uniforms of French generals, or displayed the
most recent inventions of the Parisian mode on their somewhat ungainly
persons, and Wellington allowed them to indulge their grotesque humour.
And when it was reported to him that some of them had seized the French
military chest and were loading themselves with money, “Let them have
it,” he said; “they deserve it, though it were ten times more.” Among
the other spoil was the bâton of Marshal Jourdan, which Wellington sent
with his despatches to the Prince Regent: soon after this he received
the bâton of an English field-marshal along with a very handsome letter.
“The British army,” said the prince, “will hail it with enthusiasm,
while the whole universe will acknowledge those valorous efforts which
have so imperiously called for it.” While this victory made Wellington a
field-marshal, it procured for the Welsh Fusiliers the honour of adding
Vittoria to the other glorious names inscribed on their colours.
The battle of Vittoria was attended with the most important results.
The scattered remains of the French army were driven through the rugged
passes of the Pyrenees, and the British army advanced rapidly in the
direction of France. The enemy sometimes endeavoured to rally in their
retreat, but were successfully driven from the positions they occupied
by the impetuosity of the Welshmen and Highlanders, whose early training
specially fitted them to excel in this mountain warfare. The constant
success of the British army led many to expect that France would yield,
and allow Wellington to cross the frontier without further resistance;
but Napoleon, elated with his recent successes in Germany, appointed
Soult to the command of the army of the Pyrenees, and that able general
displayed such vigour and skill that there was some danger at first of
the British losing all the fruits of the great victory of the 20th of
June. On the 25th of July, 15,000 French troops attacked the British,
about 3000 in number, at the pass of Maya, and for ten hours our men
maintained the conflict, notwithstanding their inferiority in numbers.
When their ammunition was exhausted they hurled stones at their
assailants, who were arrested by the mass of dead and dying by which
the pass was blocked, and were at length repulsed by the aid of some
reinforcements. The pass of Maya will long be remembered in the annals of
the British army; our soldiers fought as bravely there as the Greeks did
at Thermopylæ.
We must omit the other stirring events of the Pyrenees, in all of
which the Royal Welsh acted a distinguished part, and enjoyed many
advantages over others unaccustomed to a mountainous country. They had
many extraordinary adventures, being sometimes enveloped in the mists
that shrouded the summits of the mountains, and brought into fierce
collision with the enemy, who were ignorant of their approach. After
the two battles of Lauroren, the tide of success turned against Soult,
who was almost taken prisoner at St. Estenau. Such were the skilful
arrangements of the English general here, that the French army would
have had to surrender had not three marauding British soldiers crossed
the ridge which concealed their comrades, and thus warned the enemy of
their danger. On such small causes do great events hinge! The cupidity of
three Englishmen saved the whole French army. On the 1st of August Soult
abandoned the Spanish territory, with the loss of 15,000 men; and on the
7th of September Wellington planted the victorious standard of Britain on
the soil of France. Seven thousand of the allies were buried among the
mountain passes of the Pyrenees, and the different regiments engaged were
allowed to preserve the remembrance of this campaign on their colours.
The Royal Welsh next appear at the battle of the Nivelle, where the
French, after obstinate resistance, were driven back, and the allies,
profiting by this success, crossed the river, and established
themselves between it and the sea. A succession of heavy rains rendered
all movements impracticable for a time, and Soult did all he could to
strengthen his position. Frost having set in, Wellington moved his forces
on the 14th of February, 1814, and, in the course of sixteen days,
constructed a bridge across the Adour, passed five large and several
small rivers, traversed eighty miles of ground, drove the enemy from
their strongest positions, was successful in one great battle and two
combats, took many prisoners, and forced Soult to evacuate Bayonne. We
can only enumerate his successes, and refer our readers to the history of
those times for minuter details. The great battle was fought at Orthès
on the 27th of February. At first, victory seemed to declare in favour
of the French, but the English general bided his time with imperturbable
calmness till a movement of the enemy placed them in his power. Every
point was carried; the French retired at first in an orderly manner,
till their left wing was attacked, when they were thrown into confusion,
and ran off at full speed. The English pursued them for three miles till
they reached Sault de Navailles, where scarcely any remains of Soult’s
army were to be seen. The loss of the enemy was estimated at 8000 men in
killed, wounded, and prisoners, while that of the allies did not exceed
1600. Here, as usual, the Welsh Fusiliers were foremost in the fray, and
their bravery was rewarded by the addition of Nivelle and Orthès to the
other historic names on their colours.
Then followed the bloody and needless battle of Toulouse. We need not
here stop to inquire who was the cause of that fearful carnage, or to
refute the foolish assertion that the French gained a victory. Such
a statement is inconsistent with the fact that Soult had to abandon
Toulouse and all his lines of defence, while Wellington attained the
object he had in view. It is said that Soult knew before the battle that
Napoleon had abdicated, and that his only motive for fighting was a
desire to retrieve his fame as a general; but we think no brave man—and
Soult was brave—would sacrifice the lives of thousands for so unworthy a
motive. After a furious contest the enemy were driven from the heights;
again and again they returned to the attack with a gallantry which
nothing but British valour could resist. At length they desisted from the
attempt, and the field of battle remained in possession of the allies.
That same evening Soult evacuated the city, and the following morning
the allies took possession of it. In the course of the day they received
official notice that Napoleon had abdicated. Then our soldiers began to
think of home and all its endearments; they had done enough for fame, and
a grateful country was waiting to welcome them to their native shores.
The soft peace march, “Home, brothers, home,” must have sounded sweetly
in the ears of the Royal Welsh and the other veterans, who, under the
command of their able leader, had liberated two kingdoms, fought eight
pitched battles against the bravest soldiers and most skilful generals
of France, reduced many fortresses by assault, and at length established
themselves in the two principal cities in the South of France. Britain
had issued from all her trials the most triumphant nation in the world,
and had welcomed back with acclamation the wearied soldiers who had done
so much to sustain her honour. Such men had a right to rest on their
laurels. Their rest was brief. The caged eagle escaped from Elba. The
veterans of the Peninsula had to buckle on their armour again. The Royal
Welsh took part in that brief but glorious campaign which was brought
to a close at Waterloo. Then for a period of forty years they had no
opportunity of displaying their courage. Now followed the Crimean war,
and deeds equalling “Greek and Roman fame,” which earned for some of them
the proud distinction of the Victoria Cross.
The gallant Welshmen gained their first Victoria Cross at the battle of
the Alma. Russell’s picturesque letters and Kinglake’s bewitching pages
have rendered many readers familiar with the chief incidents of that
engagement; and it is here unnecessary for us to dwell upon them, for
in future pages we shall relate the circumstances under which Colonel
(then Captain) Bell gained at that first Crimean fight the honourable
distinction of the reward “For Valour.”
But the roll of brave men in the Royal Welsh is not exhausted by the
mention of a single name. We are about to narrate the incident which
forms the subject of the accompanying engraving, copied with no mean
fidelity from that admirable collection of Mr. Desanges lately, in the
Crystal Palace, known as the Victoria Cross Gallery. The incident here
depicted occurred at the storming of the Redan on the 8th of September,
1855. Two hundred men of the Royal Welsh took part in that attack, and
their loss in killed and wounded was very great. After the men of the
23rd had retired, it was found that Lieutenant and Adjutant Dyneley, an
excellent young officer and a general favourite, was missing. It was
reported that he had been struck down in the heat of the engagement, and
some of the men described the spot where they had seen him fall. They
would gladly have assisted him if they could have done so, but soldiers,
while engaged, are expressly forbidden to leave their ranks for the
purpose of carrying the wounded off the field.
The Highlanders, when first raised, were constantly in the habit of
doing this; they could not stand by and see the sons of their chiefs
dying on the field of battle without attempting to assist them. No man
knew their character or habits better than the late Lord Clyde, and it
was in allusion to this practice that he spoke these simple words while
his men were still in column at the Alma with the enemy in front:—“Now,
men, you are going into action. Remember this: whoever is wounded—I
don’t care what his rank is—whoever is wounded must lie where he falls
till the bandsmen come to attend to him. No soldiers must go carrying
off wounded men. If any soldier does such a thing, his name shall be
stuck up in his parish church.”[2] The perfection of discipline is to
make every unit in a regiment or an army act in unison with the whole
like a piece of machinery, and it is evident that if every soldier were
to follow out his own will the result would be inextricable confusion.
It is hard for a man to see officer or comrade struck down by his side
on the field of battle without being allowed to assist him; but on
such an occasion he has no choice—the pleadings of humanity must yield
to the voice of duty; he may turn aside his head in sorrow, but he must
still advance. It was so with the Royal Welsh as they advanced against
the Redan; they saw their gallant young adjutant fall, but there was
the dark parapet in front, and their first duty was to gain that. And
when our men were hurled from the ramparts into the ditch, where they
were slaughtered without being able to offer any resistance, it was only
natural that all their thoughts should be concentrated on themselves, and
that the fate of young Dyneley should be forgotten. But it was different
when the attack was over: there was a general feeling of regret for one
whom all had loved. While they were lamenting his fate, it occurred to
some of the officers that he might not yet be dead, and, while they were
deliberating what should be done, Corporal Robert Shields volunteered to
go out to the front from the fifth parallel and bring the body in. It was
a daring act of courage, all the more deserving of admiration that it
was dictated solely by a feeling of humanity without any expectation of
reward. The difference of rank does not always prevent friendships from
springing up between officers and men, and young Dyneley had found the
way to the hearts of all who knew him. Corporal Shields was not blind to
the danger he incurred; he knew that he carried his life, as it were, in
his hand, but he was prepared to risk everything to save his officer.
In the Homeric age it would have been said that some invisible goddess
watched over him and turned aside every hostile blow. He groped his way
over the field, covered with the slain, till he reached the spot where
poor Dyneley lay. Our engraving represents the discovery of the body.
The poor lieutenant is lying on his back, still alive, but with the
tide of life ebbing fast away; the corporal, with sorrow and sympathy
depicted in every feature of his manly, bearded face, is bending over
him, with one hand outstretched and the other grasping his rifle. He
would willingly have raised the boyish figure in his arms and borne him
back to his comrades, but it was too late; all that he could do was to
hurry back in search of medical assistance. He passed through a heavy
fire of musketry unhurt, and reached the trenches, where he found Dr.
Sylvester, the assistant-surgeon of the regiment, who at once consented
to return to the spot where Dyneley lay. He was still alive, but human
skill could avail him nothing; all that the tenderest friendship could
do was done by Sylvester, who dressed his wounds and supported him with
stimulants. Shields returned to the trenches and persuaded some of his
comrades to accompany him and to assist in carrying off the body of the
dying adjutant. The Emperor of the French, on hearing of this heroic
action, conferred on Corporal Shields the Cross of the Legion of Honour,
and our Queen bestowed on him the Cross which bears her own name. No
one will grudge it to him or to Dr. Sylvester. Mere bravery may often
border on bloodthirstiness; but valour combined with humanity is the most
godlike of all virtues. Such a man as Corporal Shields is an honour to
the British army, and he deserves to receive honourable mention amongst
the most fearless of England’s soldiery.
An officer who is just, kind, and considerate will never find his men
ungrateful. Instances are on record where soldiers have laid down their
own lives to save those of officers they loved, and have thus sealed
their affection with their blood. On one occasion, when Lord Cornwallis
was giving orders to charge the French in Canada, a Highland soldier
rushed forward and placed himself in front of his officer, who asked him
what he meant. “You know,” said the Highlander, “that when I enlisted
to be a soldier, I promised to be faithful to the king and to you. The
French are coming, and while I stand here neither bullet nor bayonet
shall touch you, except through my body.” It was with difficulty that he
could be persuaded to resume his place in the ranks. An equally striking
proof of faithful attachment was exhibited at the siege of Bergen-op-Zoom
by the servant of an officer of the name of Fraser. The latter had
directed his servant to remain in the garrison while he conducted his men
to attack a battery belonging to the enemy. The night was pitch dark,
and the party had such difficulty in proceeding that they were obliged
to halt for a time. As they moved forward, Captain Fraser felt his path
impeded, and putting down his hand, seized hold of a plaid, the wearer of
which was grovelling at his feet. Imagining that it was one of his own
men trying to escape, he drew his dirk and tightened his grasp, when he
heard the voice of his servant imploring for mercy. “Why, what brought
you here?” “It was just my love for you,” said poor Donald. “But why
encumber yourself with a plaid?” “Alas! how could I ever show my face
to my mother,” she was Fraser’s foster-mother, “had you been killed or
wounded, and I not there to carry you to the surgeon or to Christian
burial? And how could I do either without a plaid to wrap you in?”
Our soldiers have not degenerated, and there are still in the ranks
of the British army men who want only an opportunity to show the same
courage which has already entitled their comrades to wear Victoria’s
Cross.
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