CAMPAIGN OF 1814: AT GÉE, NEAR AIRE—BATTLE OF TARBES—BATTLE OF
TOULOUSE—END OF THE WAR.
On our advance [9 March, etc.], we were for some days at a village
called Gée, near Aire, where the 2nd Division, under Sir W. Stewart,
had a brilliant little affair.
But I must first interpose an anecdote. One of his A.D.C.’s, his
nephew, Lord Charles Spencer, a Lieutenant of the 95th Regiment, was
mounted on a very valuable horse which he had paid more for than he
could afford, contrary to the advice of Sir William. In driving the
French through the town, Lord Charles’s horse was shot on the bank of a
large pond, into which he himself was thrown head foremost. (The fire
at this moment was very heavy, and in a street more balls take effect
than in the open.) Sir William very quietly says, “Ha, there goes my
poor nephew and all his fortune,” alluding to the price he paid for his
horse.
I have often heard Colonel Colborne (Lord Seaton) affirm that if he
were asked to name the bravest man he had ever seen (and _no one_ was
a better judge), he should name Sir William Stewart. Although he gave
me my commission, I never saw him under fire. If he exceeded in bravery
my dear friend, Sir Edward Pakenham, he was gallant indeed. Pakenham’s
bravery was of that animated, intrepid cast that he applied his mind
vigorously at the moment to the position of his own troops as well as
to that of the enemy, and by judicious foresight ensured success, but
he never avoided a fight of any sort.
The village of Gée was to the right of the high-road to Toulouse, the
River [Adour] running to our right. The Cavalry were posted on the main
road, their advance vedettes looking on to the village of [Tarsac?]
where the enemy were very alert and obstinate in resisting our approach.
On the day the army advanced,[49] the French Cavalry made a fierce
resistance in the village, and when driven out, made some desperate
charges on the chaussée, in one of which the officer in command was
cut down while gallantly leading his Squadron. An officer of our 15th
Hussars (I think Booth), having admired his gallant bearing, dismounted
to his assistance. He said he believed he was not mortally wounded,
and he requested to be carried to the Chateau in the village he had
so gallantly fought for, where his father and family resided. This
peculiar tale may be relied on, like everything else, as I hope,
which I have asserted. For several days it was the usual topic of
conversation, and when any one came from the rear, inquiry was always
made if the French Captain who was wounded and in his fathers house,
(we never knew his name), was doing well. We learnt afterwards that he
perfectly recovered, but the sword wound had stamped him with a deep
scar.
At Gée we had several alerts, and our baggage for some successive days
was loaded for hours. On one of these occasions the old housekeeper of
a large house which Barnard occupied, and whom he had paid for many a
fat fowl and fish out of tanks, etc., came into the room where my wife
remained waiting to join the troops, seized my wife and vowed she would
put her to death, grasping her with a fiend-like strength. Fortunately,
at this moment my servant returned to say the Division were not to
march, and rescued my poor affrighted and delicate wife. We afterwards
learnt that this violent woman, if anything excited her, was afflicted
with temporary insanity, and she had been put in a rage below, and came
up to vent her spleen on my poor wife. We were in this house for two or
three days after, but my wife had been so alarmed she would never allow
her servant to quit her. The latter was a powerful woman of the 52nd,
rejoicing in the name of Jenny Bates.
While in this village, Charlie Beckwith, the Q.M.G., came to me and
said, “Harry, I want a Company for picquet immediately.” I named the
Corps, 1st Battalion 95th, who had one ready accoutred in waiting,
as we always had in positions subject to alerts. It was out in five
minutes, and Charlie Beckwith marched to point out where the officer
commanding was to post it. I invariably went out with every picquet
when possible. On this occasion I had other duty. In the afternoon
I got on my horse to look for my picquet. I met Charlie Beckwith in
the village. He said, “I will ride with you.” We did not find the
picquet where we expected—on our side of a bridge (beyond which was
a comfortable village). Having heard no firing, we were not alarmed
for the safety of the Company, still we could not find it. We rode to
the bridge, the object of the officer’s watch, saying, “There will
surely be a sentry upon it.” We rode up and found one certainly, but on
the enemy’s side. We asked where the Company was. The vedette was an
Irishman. “By Jasus, the Captain’s the boy. It was so rainy and cold on
the plain, he harboured us all comfortably, like the man that he is,
in the village.” The French were in the habit of patrolling into this
village in force, and, although the Captain had so posted himself as I
do believe he would have been able to hold his own until the Division
came up, it would have cost us a fight to rescue him from the far side
of the bridge, which he ought never to have crossed. So the Captain
got a blowing-up, and the Company had to make their fires in a cold,
wet, and miserable bivouac. I never had a picquet out from the Brigade
without visiting it so as to judge how it was posted, and how to
withdraw it either at night or in case of abrupt necessity.
We had also a sharp skirmish at Vic Begorre, but the brunt of it fell
on the 3rd Division, where one of the most able officers got himself
killed where he had no business to be—Major Sturgeon, of the Staff. I
hold nothing to be more unsoldierlike than for officers well mounted
to come galloping in among our skirmishers. The officers of companies
have always some little exertion to restrain impetuosity, and your
galloping gentlemen set our men wild sometimes. We Light Division,
while ever conspicuous for undaunted bravery, prided ourselves upon
destroying the enemy and preserving ourselves; for good, light troops,
like deer-stalkers, may effect feats of heroism by stratagem, ability,
and cool daring.
At Tarbes [20 March] we fell in with the enemy, strongly posted,
but evidently only a rear-guard in force. The Duke made immediate
dispositions to attack them, and so mixed up did we appear, that we
concluded a large number of the enemy must be cut off. The Light
Division, however, alone succeeded in getting up with them. Our three
Battalions of the 95th were most sharply engaged. Three successive
times the enemy, with greatly superior force, endeavoured to drive
them off a hill, but the loss of the enemy from the fire of our Rifles
was so great that one could not believe one’s eyes. I certainly had
never seen the dead lie so thick, nor ever did, except subsequently at
Waterloo. Barnard even asked the Duke to ride over the hill and see
the sight, which he consented to do, saying, “Well, Barnard, to please
you, I will go, but I require no novel proof of the destructive fire of
your Rifles.”
At this period we lived capitally. It was delightful to see one of our
soldiers with a piece of cold bacon, slicing it over his bread like an
English haymaker.
We had at this time exceedingly wet weather. Notwithstanding the
fulness of the Garonne, however, after a feint or two and some skilful
demonstrations to deceive the enemy, the Duke succeeded [4 April]
in throwing over the 3rd, 4th, and 6th Divisions with as much ease
as he had previously overcome what seemed to others insurmountable
difficulties. These Divisions were strongly posted under Marshal
Beresford as a _tête du pont_. They were barely established on the
opposite side when such a torrent of rain fell, our bridge could
not stem the flood. It was hauled to the shore, and, of course, our
communication cut off. Marshal Beresford had every reason to apprehend
an attack, for the enemy, being in his own country, possessed perfect
information, and would know the moment the bridge was impassable.
The Marshal wrote very strongly to the Duke, who was ferried over in
a little boat with one or two of his Staff, while their horses swam
across. His Grace quickly but narrowly examined the position, which
was excellent, behind a very difficult ravine. “Beresford,” said the
Duke, “you are safe enough; two such armies as Soult’s could make no
impression on you. Be assured, he is too clever a General to attempt to
drive you into the river.” Our Division was immediately opposite the
bridge, but on the left, or opposite bank, to the Marshal. The river
soon subsided sufficiently to enable us to relay the bridge, and at
daylight on the 10th of April the Light Division crossed, followed by
the remainder of the army, except Lord Hill’s corps, which was posted
on the Pyrenees side of Toulouse. It was evidently the Duke’s intention
to attack Soult’s position this day. Nor were we long on the march
before each general officer had his point of rendezvous designated.
The battle of Toulouse [10 April] has been so often fought and
refought, I shall only make two or three remarks. Sir Thomas Picton,
as usual, attacked when he ought not, and lost men. The Spaniards
made three attacks on a very important part of the enemy’s position
defended by a strong redoubt. The first was a very courageous though
unsuccessful attack; the second, a most gallant, heavy, and persevering
one, and had my dear old Light Division been pushed forward on the
right of the Spaniards in place of remaining inactive, that attack of
the Spaniards would have succeeded. I said so at the moment. The third
attempt of the Spaniards was naturally, after two such repulses, a
very poor one. At this period, about two o’clock in the afternoon, the
Duke’s Staff began to look grave, and all had some little disaster to
report to His Grace, who says, “Ha, by God, this won’t do; I must try
something else.” We then saw the heads of the 4th and 6th Divisions
coming into action immediately on the right flank of the enemy, having
been conducted to that particular and vulnerable spot by that gallant,
able, and accomplished soldier, my dear friend, John Bell, A.Q.M.G.,
4th Division.
I must record an anecdote of John. He was mounted on a noble English
hunter, but the most violent and difficult horse to manage I ever
rode to hounds, and would of course, in a fight, be equally so. This
animal knew by the mode in which she was mounted whether her rider was
an artist or not, and in a moment would throw her rider down by way
of fun. Colonel Achmuty, a noble fellow, would ride John Bell’s horse
awkwardly, and she would then plunge like a devil, but if _ridden_, she
was as quiet as possible. John Bell had on this horse a very large and
high-peaked Hussar saddle, with his cloak strapped on the pique before,
a favourite mode of General Robert Craufurd, who indeed gave Bell the
identical saddle. Over this pique Craufurd’s black muzzle could barely
be discovered (he was a short man), so entrenched was he. In conducting
their Divisions, the Staff officers moved on small roads through a
country intersected by deep and broad ditches full of water. Many of
them attempted to ride on the flanks, but no one succeeded but Bell on
his fiery horse. At one ditch John Bell was fairly pitched over the
pique on to the neck of his horse, a powerful mare six feet high. “Oh,”
says John, in telling this story, “Ah, to get there was extraordinary,
but wait! The horse tossed up her head, and by some violent exertion
pitched me over the pique back again to my saddle.” “Oh, John!” I
exclaimed, “how is that possible?” “With that, Harry, I have nothing to
do.”
But to the fight. The 4th and 6th Divisions were brought up in most
gallant style, carrying redoubt after redoubt, which were ably defended
by the enemy. It was the heaviest fighting I ever looked at, slow
owing to the redoubts. The ground was gained step by step, and so was
the battle of Toulouse. Our Cavalry lost a brilliant opportunity of
distinguishing themselves and punishing the rearguard of the French.
This battle appeared to me then, and does the more I reflect on it, the
only battle the Duke ever fought without a weight of attack and general
support. It was no fault of the Duke’s. There are fortunate days in
war as in other things. Our attacks were commenced by that of the 3rd
Division; then came those of the Spaniards, in which the Light Division
did not support as the 4th Division supported us at the heights of
Vera. Thus, until the afternoon, we literally had done rather worse
than nothing. The success of this battle is to be attributed mainly
to the 4th and 6th Divisions, but I will ever assert that the second
attack was most heavy and energetic, and would have succeeded if my
dear old Division had been shoved up. As a whole, the French lost a
great number of men and were thoroughly defeated. The French have now
agitated a claim to the victory, which they are as much borne out in as
they would be in claiming the victory at Waterloo.
The next day [11 March] various were the reports flying about camp
as to peace, etc. In the afternoon I was posting a picquet, and in
riding forward no nearer than usual to a French sentry, the fellow most
deliberately fired at me. I took off my cocked hat and made him a low
bow. The fellow, in place of reloading his musket, presented arms to
me, evidently ashamed of what he had done.
Peace was soon made known. The French moved out of Toulouse, and we
occupied it. (The most slippery pavement to ride over in Europe is that
of the streets of Toulouse.) My Division was most comfortably cantoned
in the suburbs. I and my wife, and two or three of my dear old Rifle
comrades—Jack Molloy and young Johnstone (not the Rifle hero of Badajos
and Ciudad Rodrigo, old Willie)—had a delightfully furnished château.
We got a French cook, and were as extravagant and wanton in our ideas
as lawless sailors just landed from a long cruise. The feeling of no
war, no picquets, no alerts, no apprehension of being turned out, was
so novel after six years’ perpetual and vigilant war, it is impossible
to describe the sensation. Still, it was one of momentary anxiety,
seeing around us the promptitude, the watchfulness, the readiness with
which we could move and be in a state of defence or attack. It was so
novel that at first it was positively painful—at least, I can answer
for myself in this feeling. I frequently deemed the old Division in
danger, who had never even lost a picquet, or, to my recollection, a
sentry, after so many years’ outpost duty.
We had one melancholy duty to wind up our period of war—the funeral of
poor Colonel Coghlan, 61st Regiment. The officers of the army attended,
the Duke himself as chief mourner. Many is the gallant fellow we had
all seen left on the field or with some trifling ceremony consigned to
his long home; but this funeral, in the midst of a populous city, in a
graveyard, after a ceremony in a Protestant chapel, where the corpse
was placed, in the custom of our home and infancy, while the service
was read by a clergyman, after death in the last battle, and nearly at
the end of it, too—all so tended to excite our comrade-like feelings,
it positively depressed us all, for the love a soldier bears another
tried and gallant soldier is more than fraternal.
Toulouse, a royalist city, soon rushed into the extravagant and
vivacious joy of France. We had theatres, balls, fêtes, etc., until
the army moved into regular cantonments. There we had plenty of room
and quarters, no squabbling about the shade of a tree in bivouac, or
your stable being previously occupied by cavalry or artillery horses.
Abundance of food, drink, and raiment, and the indolence of repose,
succeeded the energetic and exciting occupation of relentless and cruel
war. I had a safeguard in a lovely young wife; but most of our gallant
fellows were really in love, or fancied themselves so, and such had
been the drain by conscription of the male population, you never saw
a young Frenchman. The rich and fertile fields in this part of France
were cultivated by female exertion.
My Division went to Castel Sarrasin [towards the end of April]. This
place is situated on the Tarne, which divides it from Marsac, where
were a body of French troops; but, as they seldom came to visit us,
we seldom encroached upon them, for the Napoleonist officers were
brutally sulky and so uncivil, John Bull could not put up with it
with impunity. This part of France is a garden, and the views, trees,
beautiful rivers, etc., and the idleness rendered it a perfect Elysium.
I say “idleness;”—because it was so totally novel, it was amusing.
Fortunately—for we were _nine months_ in arrear of pay—money was so
scarce that a trifle of ready money produced a great deal. Among the
rich inhabitants money was never seen, any more than young men. Rents
were paid in produce, wages in kind, purchases made by barter. Oh,
dear John Bull, grumbling, still liberal John Bull, had you witnessed,
felt, and suffered all this, and then had the best rooms in your house
occupied by soldiers (for, however orderly, there is much riot and
fun ever going on amongst them), you would now wear the yoke of the
national debt as a light burden!