CAMPAIGN OF 1810—BATTLE OF THE COA.
Soon after this the French invested Ciudad Rodrigo, and regularly
commenced the siege. The Light Division (into which fell the three
regiments 43rd, 52nd, and two Battalions of Rifles, 1st and 3rd
Portuguese Caçadores, the latter under Elder, a most brilliant Rifle
officer), 1st Hussars, 14th Light Dragoons, 16th Light Dragoons
occupied Gallegos, Exejo, etc., our advanced post being at Marialva,
on the road to Ciudad Rodrigo. During the whole siege our alerts were
innumerable, and at Marialva we had several very smart skirmishes, but
so able were Craufurd’s dispositions, we never lost even a vedette.
The French were in the habit of patrolling over the Agueda with
cavalry and infantry, about 30 Dragoons and 200 foot. General Craufurd
determined to intercept one of these patrols [10 July], and [moved out
with] the cavalry, 1st Hussars, 14th and 16th Light Dragoons, and Light
Division. It may now be asked, Was it necessary to take out such a
force to intercept so small a party? Certainly. Because the enemy might
have crossed the Agueda to support the patrols. We were all moved to
where directed, the infantry were halted, some of the cavalry moved
on. At grey daylight the patrols of the enemy appeared, their Dragoons
some way in advance of the infantry. The patrol was very incautiously
conducted (not like our 1st Hussars), and the Dragoons were taken in
a moment. The infantry speedily retired to an eminence above the ford
and formed square. Craufurd ordered them to be attacked by the cavalry,
and several right good charges were made; but the French were steady,
the dead horses in their front became a defence, and our cavalry never
made the slightest impression. Craufurd never moved one of _us_. The
charges of cavalry ceased for a few seconds—the fields around were
high-standing corn. The gallant fellow in command gave the word, “Sauve
qui peut.” In a moment all dispersed, ran through the standing corn
down to the banks of the river, and were saved without the loss of a
man. The officer was promoted on his arrival in his camp.
Our loss was very considerable. Poor Colonel Talbot of the 14th
(commanding) killed, and a lot of men. I and Stewart, Adjutant of the
Rifle Brigade, asked leave to go ahead, and we saw it all. Indeed, it
was in sight of the whole division. Had two Companies of ours only been
moved to threaten the ford, the enemy would have laid down their arms.
Such a piece of soldiering as that morning presented the annals of war
cannot produce.[14]
While we were at a village called Valde Mula, in the neighbourhood of
Fort Concepcion, that most perfect little work was blown up [21 July].
It was the neatest fortification I ever saw (except the Moro in the
Havana subsequently), and the masonry was beautifully executed.
After the fall of Ciudad Rodrigo, which made a brilliant defence, our
advanced line fell back to the Dos Casas, and in front of Alameda we
had a brilliant affair with the French, in which Krauchenberg 1st
Hussars and McDonald Royal Artillery greatly distinguished themselves.
The 3rd Caçadores were this day first under fire, and behaved _nobly_.
After this our advanced posts were retired behind the Dos Casas to
cover Almeida. While Massena prepared his army to invade Portugal
and besiege Almeida, we were daily on the alert and had frequent
skirmishes. General Craufurd, too, by a variety of _ruses_ frequently
made the whole French army turn out.
In the early morning of the 24th of July (I was on picquet with Leach
and my Company that night) the enemy moved forward with 40,000 men. Our
force, one Brigade of Horse Artillery, three Regiments of cavalry, five
of infantry, were ordered by the Duke to remain as long as possible on
the right bank of the Coa, where there was a bridge over the river on
the road from Almeida into Portugal to Celerico and Pinhel, posting
ourselves between the fortress and the bridge, so as to pass over so
soon as the enemy advanced in force. In place of doing this, Craufurd
took up a position to our right of Almeida, and but for Colonel
Beckwith our whole force would have been sacrificed. Fortunately a
heavy rain had fallen, which made the Coa impassable except by the
bridge, which was in our possession, and the enemy concentrated his
force in one rush for the bridge [24 July].
During the Peninsular War there never was a more severe contest. The
43rd lost 17 officers and 150 men, my Regiment 10 officers and 140 men.
When we passed the bridge my section was the rear-guard of the whole,
and in a rush to drive back the enemy (with whom we were frequently
absolutely mixed), my brother Tom and I were both severely wounded,
and a Major Macleod, a noble fellow, afterwards killed at Badajos, put
me on his horse, or I should have been taken. The enemy made several
attempts to cross, but old Alister Cameron, Captain in the Rifle
Brigade, had posted his Company in a ruined house which commanded the
bridge, and mainly contributed to prevent the passage of the enemy, who
made some brilliant attempts. The bridge was literally piled with their
dead and they made breastworks of the bodies. On this day, on going to
the rear wounded, I first made the acquaintance of my dear friend Will
Havelock,[15] afterwards my whipper-in, who was joining the 43rd fresh
from England, with smart chako and jacket. I had a ball lodged in my
ankle-joint, a most painful wound. We were sent to Pinhel, where the
3rd Division was seven leagues from the action, the nearest _support_
(?). Sir Thomas Picton treated us wounded _en princes_.
The wounded were ordered to the rear, so as to embark on the Mondego
at Pinhel. In collecting transport for the wounded, a sedan chair
between two mules was brought, the property of some gentleman in the
neighbourhood, and, fortunately for me, I was the only person who
could ride in it, and by laying my leg on the one seat and sitting
on the other, I rode comparatively easy to the poor fellows in the
wretched bullock-cars, who suffered excruciating agony, poor brother
Tom (who was very severely wounded above the knee) among the rest. This
little story will show what wild fellows we were in those days. George
Simmons’ (1st Rifles) bullocks at one stage had run away. As I was the
spokesman, the surgeon in charge came to me in great distress. I sent
for the village magistrate, and actually fixed a rope in my room to
hang him if he did not get a pair of bullocks (if the Duke of W. had
known he would have hung _me_). However, the bullocks were got, and
off we started. The bullocks were not broken, and they ran away with
poor George and nearly jolted him to death, for he was awfully wounded
through the thick of the thigh. However, we all got down to Pinhel [31
July], and thence descended the Mondego by boats, landing every night.
At one house a landlord was most insolent to us, and Lieut. Pratt of
the Rifles, shot through the neck, got very angry. The carotid artery
must have been wounded, for it burst out in a torrent of blood, and he
was dead in a few seconds, to our horror, for he was a most excellent
fellow. On the same bed with me was a Captain Hull of the 43rd Regiment
with a similar wound. I never saw any man in such a funk.
On our reaching the mouth of the Mondego, we were put on board a
transport. In the ship with me was a stout little officer, 14th Light
Dragoons, severely wounded, whose thigh afterwards disgorged a French
6-lb. shot. On arrival in Lisbon [7 Aug.] we were billeted in Buenos
Ayres, poor Tom and I in awful agony in our miserable empty house.
However, we got books, and I, although suffering, got on well enough.
But poor Tom’s leg was in such an awful state he was sent home. George
Simmons’s wound healed.[16] My ball was lodged on my ankle-joint,
having partially divided the _tendo Achillis_. However, we heard of the
army having retired into the celebrated lines of Torres Vedras, and
nothing would serve us but _join the Regiment_. So our medical heroes
very unwillingly sent us off to Belem, the convalescent department
under Colonel Tucker, 29th Regiment, a sharp fellow enough. When I,
George Simmons, and Charlie Eeles, 3rd Battalion, just arrived sick
from Cadiz, waited on him to express our desire to join, he said, “Oh,
certainly; but you must be posted to do duty with convalescents going
up the country.” I was lame and could not walk. George Simmons cantered
on crutches, and Charlie Eeles was very sick. However, _go_ or _no
go_, and so we were posted to 600 villains of every Regiment in the
army under a long Major Ironmonger of the 88th (afterwards of Almeida
celebrity, when the garrison escaped). We marched in a day [7 Oct.]. On
the first day’s march he pretended to faint. George Simmons, educated a
surgeon, _literally_ threw a bucket of water over him.[17] He recovered
the faint, but not the desire to return; and the devil would have it,
the command devolved on me, a subaltern, for whom the soldiers of other
corps have no great respect, and such a task I never had as to keep
these six hundred rascals together. However, I had a capital English
horse, good at riding over an insubordinate fellow, and a voice like
thunder. The first bivouac I came to was the Guards (these men were
very orderly). The commanding officer had a cottage. I reported myself.
It was raining like the devil. He put his head out of the window, and I
said, “Sir, I have 150 men of your Regiment convalescent from Belem.”
“Oh, send for the Sergeant-major,” he very quietly said;—no “walk in
out of the rain.” So I roared out, “We _Light Division men_ don’t do
duty with Sergeant-majors, nor are we told to wait. There are your
men, every one—the only well-conducted men in 600 under my charge—and
these are their accounts!” throwing down a bundle of papers, and off
I galloped, to the Household man’s astonishment. That day I delivered
over, or sent by officers under me, all the vagabonds I had left. Some
of my own men and I reached our corps that night at Arruda, when old
Sydney Beckwith, dear Colonel, said, “You are a mad fool of a boy,
coming here with a ball in your leg. Can you dance?” “No,” says I; “I
can hardly walk but with my toe turned out.” “Can you be my A.D.C.?”
“Yes; I can ride and eat,” I said, at which he laughed, and was kind as
a brother; as was my dear friend Stewart, or Rutu, as we called him,
his Brigade Major, the actual Adjutant of the Regiment.
That very night General Craufurd sent for me, and said, “You have
come from Sobral, have you not, to-day, and know the road?” I said,
“Yesterday.” “Well, get your horse and take this letter to the Duke
for me when it is ready.” I did not like the job, but said nothing
about balls or _pains_, which were bad enough. He kept me waiting about
an hour, and then said, “You need wait no longer; the letter won’t
be ready for some time, and my orderly dragoon shall take it. Is the
road difficult to find?” I said, “No; if he keeps the chaussée, he
can’t miss it.” The poor dragoon fell in with the French patrol, and
was taken prisoner. When the poor fellow’s fate was known, how Colonel
Beckwith did laugh at my escape!
At Arruda we marched every day at daylight into position in the hills
behind us, and by the ability of Craufurd they were made impregnable.
The whole Division was at work. As Colonel Beckwith and I were standing
in the camp one day, it came on to rain, and we saw a Rifleman rolling
down a wine-cask, apparently empty, from a house near. He deliberately
knocked in one of the heads; then—for it was on the side of a rapidly
shelving hill—propped it up with stones, and crept in out of the rain.
Colonel Beckwith says, “Oh, look at the lazy fellow; he has not half
supported it. When he falls asleep, if he turns round, down it will
come.” Our curiosity was excited, and our time anything but occupied,
so we watched our friend, when in about twenty minutes the cask with
the man inside came rolling down the hill. He must have rolled over
twenty times at least before the rapidity disengaged him from his
round-house, and even afterwards, such was the impetus, he rolled over
several times. To refrain from laughing excessively was impossible,
though we really thought the noble fellow must be hurt, when up he
jumped, looked round, and said “I never had any affection for an empty
wine-cask, and may the devil take me if ever I go near another—to be
whirled round like a water-mill in this manner!” The fellow was in a
violent John Bull passion, while we were nearly killed with laughing.
When Massena retired, an order came to the Light Division to move on De
Litte, and to Lord Hill to do the same on our right at [Vallada?]. This
dispatch I was doomed to carry. It was one of the utmost importance,
and required a gallop. By Jove, I had ten miles to go just before dark,
and when I got to Colborne’s position, who had a Brigade under Lord
Hill, a mouse could not get through his works. (Colborne was afterwards
my Brigadier in the Light Division, and is now Lord Seaton.) Such a job
I never had. I could not go in front of the works—the French had not
retired; so some works I leaped into, and led my noble English horse
into others. At last I got to Lord Hill, and he marched immediately,
night as it was. How I got back to my Division through the night I
hardly know, but horse and rider were both done. The spectacle of
hundreds of miserable wretches of French soldiers on the road in a
state of _starvation_ is not to be described.
We moved _viâ_ Caccas to Vallé on the [Rio Mayor], where our Division
were opposite Santarem. The next day [20 Nov.] the Duke came up and
ordered our Division to attack Santarem, which was bristling on our
right with abattis, three or four lines. We felt the difficulty of
carrying such heights, but towards the afternoon we moved on. On the
Duke’s staff there was a difference of opinion as to the number of the
enemy, whether one _corps d’armée_ or two. The Duke, who knew perfectly
well there were two, and our move was only a reconnaissance, turned to
Colonel Beckwith. “Beckwith, my Staff are disputing whether at Santarem
there is one _corps d’armée_ or two?” “I’ll be d——d if I know, my Lord,
but you may depend on it, a great number were required to make those
abattis _in one night_.” Lord Wellington laughed, and said, “You are
right, Beckwith; there are two _corps d’armée_.”[18] The enemy soon
showed themselves. The Duke, as was his wont, satisfied himself _by
ocular demonstration_, and the Division returned to its bivouac. Whilst
here, Colonel Beckwith was seized with a violent attack of ague.
Our outposts were perfectly quiet, although sentries, French and
English, were at each end of the bridge over the Rio Mayor, and
vedettes along each bank. There was most excellent coursing on the
plains of Vallé, and James Stewart and I were frequently out. Here I
gave him my celebrated Spanish greyhound, Moro, the best the world ever
produced, with a pedigree like that of an Arab horse, bred at Zamora
by the Conde de Monteron; but the noble dog’s story is too long to
tell here. In one year Stewart gave me him back again to run a match
against the Duke of Wellington’s dog. But the siege of Ciudad Rodrigo
prevented our sports of that description. Colonel Beckwith going to
Lisbon, and I being his A.D.C., it was voted a capital opportunity for
me to go to have the ball cut out from under the tendon Achillis, in
the very joint. I was very lame, and the pain often excruciating, so
off I cut.
Soon after we reached Lisbon, I was ordered to Buenos Ayres to be near
the surgeons. A board was held consisting of the celebrated Staff
Surgeon Morell, who had attended me before, Higgins, and Brownrigg.
They examined my leg. I was all for the operation. Morell and Higgins
recommended me to remain with a stiff leg of my own as better than a
wooden one, for the wounds in Lisbon of late had sloughed so, they were
dubious of the result. Brownrigg said, “If it were my leg, out should
come the ball.” On which I roared out, “Hurrah, Brownrigg, you are the
doctor for me.” So Morell says, “Very well, if you are desirous, we
will do it _directly_.” My pluck was somewhat cooled, but I cocked up
my leg, and said, “There it is; slash away.” It was five minutes, most
painful indeed, before it was extracted. The ball was jagged, and the
tendonous fibres had so grown into it, it was half dissected and half
torn out, with most excruciating torture for a moment, the forceps
breaking which had hold of the ball. George Simmons was present, whose
wound had broken out and obliged him to go to Lisbon.[19] The surgeon
wanted some linen during the operation, so I said, “George, tear a
shirt,” which my servant gave him. He turned it about, said, “No, it
is a pity; it is a good shirt;” at which I did not —— him a few, for
my leg was aching and smoking from a wound four or five inches long.
Thank God Almighty and a light heart, no sloughing occurred, and before
the wound was healed I was with the regiment. Colonel Beckwith’s ague
was cured, and he had joined his Brigade before I could move, so when I
returned to Vallé he was delighted to see his A.D.C.