CAMPAIGN OF 1813: ADVANCE TO VERA.
The night before we reached Pamplona [24 June], the enemy, rather
unexpectedly to us, drove in the picquets of my Brigade in a very sharp
skirmish, although we were as ever prepared, and the Division got under
arms. This convinced us that the whole army, except the garrison at
Pamplona, was in full retreat into France. It is a peculiar custom of
the French unexpectedly to put back your picquets when they are about
to retire; that is, when the ground admits no obstacle of bridge,
river, or village, intervening. The object of such forward moves I have
never heard satisfactorily given.
On this evening a stout French gentleman came in to our advanced post,
saying he wanted to see the Duke. I took him to General Vandeleur. He
dined with us, and a most jawing, facetious fellow he was. At first we
regarded him as a spy, which he afterwards told General Vandeleur he
was, and in the employ of the Duke. He could not proceed that night,
for we did not know in the least where head-quarters were, and the
night was excessively dark; so the French gentleman, whom I wished at
the devil, was given in charge to _me_. If he had had any inclination
to escape I defied him, for I put some of our old vigilant Riflemen
around him, so that not a man could get in or out of the room I had put
him in. We afterwards heard my friend was a man of great use to the
Duke, and one of King Joseph’s household.
The next day [25 June] we Light Division passed Pamplona, leaving it by
a very intricate road to our right, and were cantoned in the village
of Offala. It was necessary to keep a look-out towards Pamplona, and
my General, Vandeleur, and I, rode to look where to post our picquets.
I had a most athletic and active fellow with me as a guide, very
talkative, and full of the battle of Vittoria. He asked me what was the
name of the General before us. I said, “General Vandeleur.” I heard
him muttering it over to himself several times. He then ran up to the
General, and entered into conversation. The General soon called me to
him, for he could not speak a word [of Spanish]. “What’s the fellow
say?” “He is telling all he heard from the Frenchmen who were billeted
in his house in the retreat. He is full of anecdote.” He then looked
most expressively in Vandeleur’s face, and says, “Yes, they say the
English fought well, but had it not been for one General _Bandelo_,
the French would have gained the day.” “How the devil did this fellow
know?” says Vandeleur. I never undeceived the General, and he fancies
to this day his Brigade’s being sent to assist the 7th Division was
the cause of the Frenchmen’s remark. My guide, just like a “cute”
Irishman or American, gave me a knowing wink.
This very fellow turned out to be owner of the house my wife and
baggage and I got into—the General’s Aide-de-camp, as was often the
case, having shown her into one near the General. After I had dressed
myself, he came to me and said, “When you dine, I have some capital
wine, as much as you and your servants like; but,” he says, “come
down and look at my cellar.” The fellow had been so civil, I did not
like to refuse him. We descended by a stone staircase, he carrying a
light. He had upon his countenance a most sinister expression. I saw
something exceedingly excited him: his look became fiend-like. He and
I were alone, but such confidence had we Englishmen in a Spaniard,
and with the best reason, that I apprehended no personal evil. Still
his appearance was very singular. When we got to the cellar-door,
he opened it, and held the light so as to show the cellar; when,
in a voice of thunder, and with an expression of demoniacal hatred
and antipathy, pointing to the floor, he exclaimed, “There lie four
of the devils who thought to subjugate Spain! I am a Navarrese. I
was born free from all foreign invasion, and this right hand shall
plunge this stiletto in my own heart as it did into theirs, ere I
and my countrymen are subjugated!” brandishing his weapon like a
demon. I see the excited patriot as I write. Horror-struck as I
was, the instinct of self-preservation induced me to admire the deed
exceedingly, while my very frame quivered and my blood was frozen,
to see the noble science of war and the honour and chivalry of arms
reduced to the practices of midnight assassins. Upon the expression
of my admiration, he cooled, and while he was deliberately drawing
wine for my dinner, which, however strange it may be, I drank with
the gusto its flavour merited, I examined the four bodies. They were
Dragoons—four athletic, healthy-looking fellows. As we ascended, he
had perfectly recovered the equilibrium of his vivacity and naturally
good humour. I asked him how he, single-handed, had perpetrated this
deed on four armed men (for their swords were by their sides). “Oh,
easily enough. I pretended to love a Frenchman” (or, in his words,
‘I was an Afrancesado’), “and I proposed, after giving them a good
dinner, we should drink to the extermination of the English.” He then
looked at me and ground his teeth. “The French rascals, they little
guessed what I contemplated. Well, we got into the cellar, and drank
away until I made them so drunk, they fell, and my purpose was easily,
and as joyfully, effected.” He again brandished his dagger, and said,
“Thus die all enemies to Spain.” Their horses were in his stable. When
the French Regiment marched off, he gave these to some guerrillas in
the neighbourhood. It is not difficult to reconcile with truth the
assertion of the historian who puts down the loss of the French army,
during the Spanish war, as 400,000 men, for more men fell in this
midnight manner than by the broad-day sword, or the pestilence of
climate, which in Spain, in the autumn, is excessive.
The next day we marched a short distance to a beautiful village,
or town, rather,—Villalba, where we halted a day, and expected to
remain three or four. It was on a Sunday afternoon, and some of the
recollection of the Sunday of our youth was passing across the mind of
the lover of his family and his country—the very pew at church, the
old peasants in the aisle; the friendly neighbours’ happy faces; the
father, mother, brothers, sisters; the joys, in short, of home, for,
amidst the eventful scenes of such a life, recollection will bring the
past in view, and compare the blessings of peace with the horror, oh!
the cruel horror, of war! In the midst of this mental soliloquy, my
dear wife exclaims, “Mi Enrique, how thoughtful you look!” I dare not
tell her that my thoughts reverted to my home. Hers being a desolate
waste, the subject was ever prohibited, for her vivacious mind, and her
years of juvenile excitement, could never control an excess of grief if
the words, “your home,” ever escaped my lips.
My reverie was soon aroused by the entrance of a soldier, without
ceremony—for every one was ever welcome. “Sir, is the order come?”
“For what?” I said. “An extra allowance of wine?” “No,” he said, “for
an extra allowance of marching. We are to be off directly after these
French chaps, as expects to get to France without a kick from the
Light Division.” I was aware he alluded to General Clausel’s division
that was retiring by the pass over the Pyrenees, called La Haca. It is
most singular, but equally true, that our soldiers knew every move in
contemplation long before any officer. While we were in conversation,
in came the order; away went all thoughts of home, and a momentary
regret on quitting so nice a quarter was banished in the excitement of
the march.
In twenty minutes our Division was in full march to try and intercept
Clausel’s Division. That night we marched most rapidly to Tafalla, next
day to Olite, thence brought up our right shoulder towards Sanguessa.
This was a night-march of no ordinary character to all, particularly
to me and my wife. Her Spanish horse, Tiny, was so far recovered from
his lameness that she insisted on riding him. On a night-march we knew
the road to be difficult. In crossing the Arragon [30 June], although
the bridge was excellent, on this march by some singular accident
(it was very dark and raining) an interval occurred in our column—a
thing unprecedented, so particular were we, _thanks to Craufurd’s
instructions_—and the majority of the Division, in place of crossing
the bridge, passed the turn and went on a league out of the direction.
My Brigade was leading. Two Battalions came all right, and I stayed
more at the head of the column than was my wont, to watch the guides.
So dark and intricate was the road we were moving on, I proposed to the
General to form up, and see that our troops were all right. After the
two first Battalions formed, I waited a short time in expectation of
the next, the 2nd Battalion of the Rifle Brigade. I hallooed, seeing
no column, when a voice a long way off answered. It was that of the
most extraordinary character, the eccentric Colonel Wade. I galloped
up, and said, “Colonel, form up your Battalion, so soon as you reach
the Brigade.” “By Jesus,” he said, “we are soon formed; I and my
bugler are alone.” I, naturally somewhat excited, asked, “Where’s the
Regiment?” “Upon my soul, and that’s what I would like to ask you.” I
then saw some mistake must have happened. I galloped back in the dark
to the bridge, saw no column whatever, but heard voices far beyond the
bridge. The column, after passing it in the dark, had discovered the
error and were coming back. Meanwhile, my wife heard me hallooing and
came towards me. I had dismounted, and was leading my horse a little
way off the road up the left bank of the Arragon; the rain was falling
in torrents, the bank of the river gave way under me, and a flash of
lightning at the moment showed me I was falling into the bed of the
river about thirty feet below. I had firmly hold of my bridle—the
avalanche frightened my noble horse (the celebrated “Old Chap,” the
hunter that James Stewart gave me); he flew round and dragged me
from inevitable perdition. My wife and old West were close behind at
the moment, and she witnessed the whole, equally to her horror and
satisfaction. Then such a tale of woe from herself. The uneven ground
at night had so lamed her dear little horse, Tiny, that he could not
carry her. She got off in the rain and dark, herself still excessively
lame from the broken bone in the foot, and literally crawled along,
until the rocky road improved, and West again put her upon her
faithful Tiny. I could devote neither time nor attention to her. Day
was just beginning to break. I directed her to the bivouac, and most
energetically sought to collect my Brigade, which, with the daylight,
I soon effected. When I got back, I found my wife sitting, holding
her umbrella over General Vandeleur (who was suffering dreadfully
from rheumatism in the shoulder in which he had been wounded at the
storm of Ciudad Rodrigo), recounting to him her night’s adventures and
laughing heartily. The weather totally precluded any possibility of our
molesting Clausel, and we were ordered to march to Sanguessa, which we
did the following day, and Charlie Gore, General Kempt’s A.D.C., gave
a ball [1 July], where there was as much happiness as if we were at
Almack’s, and some as handsome women, the loves of girls of Sanguessa.
That night’s march was the most extraordinary thing which ever occurred
to our organized Light Division. We all blamed each other, but the fact
is, the turn of the road to the bridge was abrupt, the night dark,
the road so narrow that staff-officers could not ride up and down the
flank of the column; it may be regarded as “an untoward event.” From
Sanguessa we made rather long marches for the Valle of San Estevan,
through a most beautiful country covered in a great measure with
immense chestnut trees. After we had halted a day or two [7-14 July] in
this valley, of which the beauty is not to be conceived, we marched on
towards Vera by a road along the banks of the river Bidassoa. At Vera,
the enemy had fortified a large house very strongly, and their picquets
were upon its line. On our advance, we put back the enemy’s picquets,
but not without a sharp skirmish, and we held the house that afternoon.
In front of the mountain of Santa Barbara was a very steep hill, which
the enemy held in force, but a dense fog of the mountains prevented
us seeing each other. Colonel Barnard, with the 1st Battalion Rifle
Brigade, was sent to dislodge them [15 July]. They proved to be three
or four times his numbers. His attack, however, was supported, and as
he himself describes it, “I hallooed the fellows off in the fog.” We
had a good many men and officers, however, severely wounded. The next
day, or in the night, the enemy abandoned the fortified house of the
large village of Vera in their front, retired behind the village, and
firmly established themselves on the heights, while we occupied Vera
with some sick officers, our picquets being posted beyond. The enemy’s
vedettes and ours for many days were within talking distance, yet we
never had an alert by night or by day.