CAMPAIGN OF 1813: BATTLE OF THE NIVELLE.
Our Division was soon after pushed forward to our right on a ridge
somewhat in advance, and fully looking upon the enemy’s position. His
right extended from St. Jean de Luz, his left was on the Nivelle, his
centre on La Petite Rhune[40] and the heights beyond that village. Our
Division was in the very centre opposite La Petite Rhune.
One morning Colonel Colborne and I were at the advance vedette at
daylight, and saw a French picquet of an officer and fifty men come
down to occupy a piece of rising ground between our respective advanced
posts, as to which the night before I and a French staff-officer had
agreed that neither should put a picquet on it. (Such arrangements
were very commonly made.) Colonel Colborne said, “Gallop up to the
officer, wave him back, or tell him he shall not put a picquet there.”
Having waved to no purpose, I then rode towards him and called to him.
He still moved on, so I galloped back. Colborne fell in our picquet,
ordered up a reserve, and fired five or six shots _over the heads_ of
the Frenchmen. They then went back immediately, and the hill became,
as previously agreed, neutral ground. I give this anecdote to show how
gentlemanlike enemies of disciplined armies can be; there was no such
courtesy between French and Spaniards.
A few days previously to Nov. 10, the Battle of the Nivelle, the
Division took ground on the ridge of hills in our occupation, and the
extreme right of the Division became the left. Gilmour, commanding the
1st Battalion of the Rifles, then in the 1st Brigade, had built a very
nice little mud hut about ten feet square with a chimney, fireplace,
and a door made of wattle and a bullock’s hide. When my wife rode
up, Gilmour had just turned out. The night was bitterly cold; it was
November in the Pyrenees. Gilmour says, “Jump off, and come into _your
own castle_, which I in perpetuity bequeath to you.” When I returned
from my Brigade and new line of picquets, etc., I found my wife as
warm and as snug as possible—dinner prepared for me and Tom Fane,
our horses all bivouacked, our cold tent pitched, and our servants
established in it; all was comfort, happiness, and joy, every want
supplied, every care banished. At night we retired to our nuptial
couch, a hard mattress on the floor, when a sudden storm of rain came
on. In ten seconds it came down through the roof of our black-earth
sods, and, literally in a moment, we were drenched to the skin and as
black as chimney-sweepers. The buoyant spirits of my wife, and the
ridiculous position we were in, made her laugh herself warm. We turned
the servants out of our tent, and never enjoyed the late comforts of
our castle again.
The enemy, not considering this ground strong enough, turned to it
with a vigour I have rarely witnessed, to fortify it by every means
art could devise. Every day, before the position was attacked, Colonel
Colborne and I went to look at their progress; the Duke himself would
come to our outpost, and continue walking there a long time. One day
he stayed unusually long. He turns to Colborne, “These fellows think
themselves invulnerable, but I will beat them out, and with great
ease.” “That we shall beat them,” says Colborne, “when your lordship
attacks, I have no doubt, but for the ease——” “Ah, Colborne, with your
local knowledge only, you are perfectly right; it appears difficult,
but the enemy have not men to man the works and lines they occupy. They
dare not concentrate a sufficient body to resist the attacks I shall
make upon them. I can pour a greater force on certain points than they
can concentrate to resist me.” “Now I see it, my lord,” says Colborne.
The Duke was lying down, and began a very earnest conversation. General
Alten, Kempt, Colborne, I, and other staff-officers were preparing to
leave the Duke, when he says, “Oh, lie still.” After he had conversed
for some time with Sir G. Murray, Murray took out of his sabretache his
writing-materials, and began to write the plan of attack for the whole
army. When it was finished, so clearly had he understood the Duke, I do
not think he erased one word. He says, “My lord, is this your desire?”
It was one of the most interesting scenes I have ever witnessed. As
Murray read, the Duke’s eye was directed with his telescope to the spot
in question. He never asked Sir G. Murray one question, but the muscles
of his face evinced lines of the deepest thought. When Sir G. Murray
had finished, the Duke smiled and said, “Ah, Murray, this will put us
in possession of the fellows’ lines. Shall we be ready to-morrow?” “I
fear not, my lord, but next day.” “Now, Alten,” says the Duke, “if,
during the night previous to the attack, the Light Division could be
formed on this very ground, so as to rush at La Petite Rhune just as
day dawned, it would be of vast importance and save great loss, and by
thus precipitating yourselves on the right of the works of La Petite
Rhune, you would certainly carry them.” This Petite Rhune was well
occupied both by men and works, and a tough affair was in prospect.
General Alten says, “I ‘dink’ I can, my lord.” Kempt says, “My Brigade
has a road. There can be no difficulty, my lord.” Colborne says, “For
me there is no road, but Smith and I both know every bush and every
stone. We have studied what we have daily expected, and in the darkest
night we can lead the Brigade to this very spot.” I was proud enough at
thus being associated, but no credit was due to me. “Depend on me, my
lord,” says Colborne. “Well then, Alten, when you receive your orders
as to the attack, let it be so.”
Just before starting on this night’s march, [9 Nov.], having had many
military arrangements to make before I got on my horse, I had got a
short distance when I remarked that, although I knew a proper tough
fight was in hand, I had forgotten to bid my “goodbye” to my wife,
which habit (on my part, at least) had rendered about as formal as if
going to London out of the country. Her feelings were acute enough
on such occasions, so I went into my hut, and avowed my neglect. She
looked very sad, and I said, “Hallo, what’s the matter?” “You or your
horse will be killed to-morrow.” I laughed and said, “Well, of two such
chances, I hope it may be the horse.” We parted, but she was very sad
indeed.
As we started for our position before the great, the important day
[Battle of Nivelle, 10 Nov.], the night was very dark. We had no road,
and positively nothing to guide us but knowing the bushes and stones
over a mountain ridge. Colborne stayed near the Brigade, and sent me on
from spot to spot which we both knew, when he would come up to me and
satisfy himself that I was right. I then went on again. In this manner
we crept up with our Brigade to our advanced picquet within a hundred
and fifty yards of the enemy. We afterwards found Kempt’s Brigade close
to our right, equally successfully posted. When Colborne and I rode up
to our most advanced picquet, of course by the rear, we found, to the
delight of us both, the Sergeant, Crowther, and his men, all sitting
round a fire, as alert as if on sentry themselves, with their rifles
between their legs, the sentry a few paces in their front. We had crept
up by ourselves. Without any agitation, they stood up very quietly to
reconnoitre us, when Colborne spoke, and commended their vigilance.
[I and] Tom Fane, Skerrett’s A.D.C., who nobly stayed with me rather
than go to the rear, lay down for about two hours, when I could sleep,
but Tom told me he could not. He had had a small flask of brandy, but,
what with the cold and the necessity of keeping it out, the brandy was
exhausted. About an hour before daylight, by some accident, a soldier’s
musket went off. It was a most anxious moment, for we thought the
enemy had discovered us, and, if they had not, such shots might be
repeated, and they would; but most fortunately all was still. I never
saw Colborne so excited as he was for the moment. The anxious moment
of appearing day arrived. We fell in, and our attack was made on the
enemy’s position in seven columns, nor did we ever meet a check, but
carried the enemy’s works, the tents all standing, by one fell swoop
of irresistible victory. Napier, the author of the _History of the
Peninsular War_, at the head of the 43rd, had his pantaloons torn by
the ball, and singed by the fire, of one of the enemy from the parapet
of their works. Such was the attack and such the resistance, that a
few prisoners whom we took declared that they and their officers were
perfectly thunderstruck, for they had no conception any force was near
them. The 4th Division had some heavy fighting on our right. _Vide_
Napier and the Duke’s despatch.[41] Ours was the most beautiful attack
ever made in the history of war.
The key of the enemy’s position was in our hands, and the great
line was our next immediate object. We were speedily reformed, and
ready for our attack on the enemy’s line-position and strong field
fortifications. In descending La Petite Rhune, we were much exposed
to the enemy’s fire, and when we got to the foot of the hill we were
about to attack, we had to cross a road enfiladed very judiciously by
the enemy, which caused some loss. We promptly stormed the enemy’s
works and as promptly carried them. I never saw our men fight with such
lively pluck; they were irresistible; and we saw the other Divisions
equally successful, the enemy flying in every direction. Our Riflemen
were pressing them in their own style, for the French themselves are
terrific in pursuit, when poor dear gallant (Sir Andrew) Barnard was
knocked off his horse by a musket-ball through his lungs.[42] When
Johnny Kincaid (the author), his adjutant, got up to him, he was
nearly choked by blood in his mouth. They washed it out for him, and he
recovered so as to give particular orders about a pocket-book and some
papers he wished sent to his brother. He did not want assistance; the
soldiers loved him; he was borne off to the rear, and, when examined
by Assistant-Surgeon Robson, it was found that the ball had not passed
through, but was perceptible to the touch. The surgeon had him held
up, so that when he made a bold incision to let the ball out, its own
weight would prevent its being repelled into the cavity of the chest.
The ball was boldly and judiciously extracted, no fever came on, and
in three weeks Barnard was at the head of a Brigade, with one wound
still open, and in the passage of the Gave d’Oleron he plunged into the
water, and saved the life of a soldier floating down the river.
But to the fight. Everything was carried apparently, and our Division
was halted. Some sharp skirmishing was going on, and Colborne and I
were standing with the 52nd Regiment, again ready for anything, on a
neck of land which conducted to a strong-looking star redoubt, the only
work the enemy still held, when Charlie Beckwith, the A.Q.M.G. of our
Division, came up with orders from General Alten to move on. “What,
Charlie, to attack that redoubt? Why, if we leave it to our right or
left, it must fall, as a matter of course; our whole army will be
beyond it in twenty minutes.” “I don’t know; your orders are to move
on.” “Am I to attack the redoubt?” says Colborne. “Your orders are to
move on,” and off he galloped. Colborne turns to me, and says, “What
an evasive order!” “Oh, sir,” says I, “let _us_ take the last of their
works; it will be the operation of a few minutes,” and on we went in a
column of companies. As we neared the enemy, Colborne’s brilliant eye
saw they were going to hold it, for it was a closed work, and he says,
“Smith, they do not mean to go until fairly driven out; come, let us
get off our horses.” I was just mounted on a beautiful thoroughbred
mare, my “Old Chap” horse being somewhat done, and I really believed
anything like _fighting_ was all over. I said nothing, but sat still,
and on we went with a hurrah which we meant should succeed, but which
the garrison intended should do no such thing. My horse was struck
within twenty yards of the ditch, and I turned her round so that I
might jump off, placing her between me and the fire, which was very
hot. As I was jumping off, another shot struck her, and she fell
upon me with a crash, which I thought had squeezed me as flat as a
thread-paper, her blood, like a fountain, pouring into my face. The
52nd were not beat back, but swerved from the redoubt into a ravine,
for they could not carry it.[43] While lying under my horse, I saw one
of the enemy jump on the parapet of the works in an undaunted manner
and in defiance of our attack, when suddenly he started straight up
into the air, really a considerable height, and fell headlong into the
ditch. A ball had struck him in the forehead, I suppose—the fire of our
skirmishers was very heavy on the redoubt. Our whole army was actually
passing to the rear of the redoubt. Colborne, in the most gallant
manner, jumped on his horse, rode up to the ditch under the fire of the
enemy, which, however, slackened as he loudly summoned the garrison to
surrender. The French officer, equally plucky, said, “Retire, sir, or I
will shoot you!” Colborne deliberately addressed the men. “If a shot is
fired, now that you are surrounded by our army, we will put every man
to the sword.” By this time I succeeded in getting some soldiers, by
calling to them, to drag me from under my horse, when they exclaimed,
“Well, d—— my eyes if our old Brigade-Major is killed, after all.”
“Come, pull away,” I said; “I am not even wounded, only squeezed.”
“Why, you are as bloody as a butcher.” I ran to Colborne just as he
had finished his speech. He took a little bit of paper out, wrote
on it, “I surrender unconditionally,” and gave it to me to give the
French officer, who laughed at the state of blood I was in. He signed
it, and Colborne sent me to the Duke. When I rode up (on a horse just
lent me), his Grace says, “Who are you?” “The Brigade-Major, 2nd Rifle
Brigade.” “Hullo, Smith, are you badly wounded?” “Not at all, sir; it
is my horse’s blood.” “Well.” I gave him the paper. “Tell Colborne I
approve.” The garrison began to march out just as my Brigade were again
moved on, and General Downie was left to receive it with his Spaniards.
The garrison was composed of the whole of the French 88th Regiment,
complete in every respect. The Duke was sorry we had attacked, for the
52nd lost many men, and it never was the Duke’s intention, as he saw
what Colborne had previously observed. Some discussion afterwards took
place as to the order Colborne received. However, I think now, as I did
then, _move on_ implied _attack_.
This was a most brilliant day’s fighting, and showed how irresistible
our army was. As the Duke foretold, the enemy had not men enough. We
were never opposed to a formed body. The whole army was in occupation
of their works, and when we penetrated, retired. A proclamation had
been issued to show the French inhabitants we made war on their army,
not on them, and never in an enemy’s country was such rigid discipline
maintained as by the British Army. It is scarcely to be credited.
The day after the battle our baggage moved up, and my wife joined
me, horror-struck at the state of my cocked hat, clothes, and only
half-washed face. She would not believe I was not awfully wounded, and
then reminded me of her prophecy, that either I or my horse would be
killed the following day.
A curious coincidence occurred in respect to this horse. Shortly
before the Battle of Salamanca [22 July, 1812] a great friend of mine,
Lindsay,[44] of the 11th Dragoons, came and prayed me to take it in
exchange for a magnificent brown mare I had bought from Charlie Rowan;
he had often tempted me, but I resisted, but upon this occasion I
yielded, so earnest was he for a Dragoon’s charger; and he gave me
sixty guineas to boot. In a few months he was killed off my gallant
mare on the Bridge of Tudela on the Douro, and now his mare was killed
under me as described. Lord Fitzroy Somerset bought his mare at the
sale; his lordship afterwards sold her to me, and she went with me to
Washington. I brought her back, gave her to a brother, and she bred
many foals afterwards.