A NIGHT ATTACK.
We were encamped at Warburg, when, in September, we received orders
to hold ourselves in readiness to move on particular service, and at
an hour's notice--a troublesome communication, for we could scarcely
unharness by day or by night, and had to keep our horses almost
constantly saddled. At last came instructions to march, about
nightfall, on a dull and gloomy evening, the 5th of September, when,
with two regiments of foot (Maxwell's and the famous old 20th), the
Inniskilling, and Bock's Hanoverian Dragoons, Bulow's Jagers, and one
hundred and fifty Highlanders, we left the camp with all our tents
standing to make a night attack upon the town of Zierenberg, which
had been reinforced, and where Bourgneuf still commanded.
The forces there consisted of the Volontaires de Clermont and the
regiments of Dauphiné and Bretagne--in all about three thousand men.
Luckily, we were furnished with the password for the 5th
September--_Artois_; it had been brought over by a deserter, who
proved to be no other than the rascal Arnaud de Pricorbin, who had
come into Warburg about noon, and thus betrayed his comrades, who
passed their time almost careless of security, and having but slender
guards and outposts.
The town, he informed us, was still a place of no strength; and,
though surrounded by a dry ditch, that was shallow, and the wall
within it was crumbling with age and decay.
Led by Colonel Preston, the Scots Greys were to head the attack.
As we marched, the dark and obscurity of the autumn evening deepened
on the scenery. The duty was an exciting one, for the whole French
army was encamped at a short distance from the point of attack, and
we knew not the moment when we might find ourselves in a snare or
ambush; for the story of the deserter, as to the password, the real
strength of the force under Bourgneuf, and his dispositions for
defence, might all be a lure, though the fellow remained in the hands
of our quarter-guard as a hostage for the truth of his statements.
We crossed the river Dymel near the Hanse Town of Warburg, and saw
the brown chesnut-groves that border its banks, the clear stars, and
the crescent of the waning moon reflected in its current.
Ere long we saw the lights in Zierenberg and the fires of the French,
whole companies of whom were bivouacked in the streets of the little
town, where they made fuel of the furniture, the rafters, and floors
of such houses as shot or shell had previously made too ruinous for
occupation.
When within two miles of the place, the grenadiers of Maxwell, the
20th Regiment, and the little band of Highlanders, made a detour,
taking three separate routes, while we, the cavalry, took a fourth,
thus completely surrounding and cutting off those who were cantoned
in Zierenberg.
According to Pricorbin's information, which proved to be correct, a
regiment of French dragoons were bivouacked outside the town wall and
in front of the principal gate; and it was with them _we_ had first
to deal. We continued to advance in silence, all orders being passed
in whispers, and thus not a sound broke the stillness of the night,
but the monotonous tramp of our horses' hoofs, the occasional rattle
of our accoutrements, the clatter of a steel scabbard or a chain
bridle, till, unluckily, some of our horses began to neigh, and we
could distinctly hear some of the French chargers responding, for the
air was calm, still, and clear.
"Push on--push on!" was now said by all; "the alarm is given, and we
have no time to lose!"
The moon, which occasionally gave out weird gleams of silver light
between the masses of dark cloud that floated slowly on the upper
currents of air, was now luckily enveloped, and all the scenery was
intensely dark. Yet we could distinctly see the lights twinkling in
the town, and the glare of the night fires, which cast flashes of
lurid and wavering radiance upon the steep gables, the spire of a
church, and the undefined outlines of masses of building. The French
could see nothing of us; but the neighing of our nags was sufficient
to give them all an _alerte_, consequently, when we came within four
hundred yards of the town gate, the whole regiment of horse were in
their saddles to receive whatever might be approaching.
We were advancing in close column of troops as the way was broad and
open. The Inniskillings were in our rear; the light troop of ours
was in front of the whole, with Colonel Preston riding between
Douglas and me.
On the roadway, as we approached, we could see the black figure of a
single horseman posted.
"When he challenges, Gauntlet, reply in French," whispered the
Colonel; "say something to deceive him."
Preston had scarcely spoken, when the voice of the vidette rung out
clearly on the night--
"_Qui vive?_"
"Artois," I replied, while we all pressed forward at a trot.
"_A quel regiment?_" shouted the vidette, in great haste.
"Les Hussards de la Reine," said I, giving the name of Boisguiller's
well-known corps, which was in the camp at Corbach.
"_Très bien!_ replied the soldier, but the next moment he could hear
Preston's words of command, given sternly and low--
"Prepare to charge--_charge!_"
The Frenchman's carbine flashed redly through the gloom, almost in
our faces; the bullet whistled over our heads to the rear, where a
fearful cry told that it had found a fatal billet among the
Inniskillings; then wheeling round his horse, he galloped to the
rear, where his comrades were formed in column of squadrons.
Ere the echoes of his shot had died away on the night wind, we heard
the cheers of the 20th and the sound of the Highland bagpipe mingling
with the hoarse hurrah of Bulow's light troop, as the town was
assailed on three other points at once. Then the opening musketry
flashed redly in various quarters, and the gleam of sudden fires shot
upward in the murky air.
Sword in hand we burst, with the weight and fury of a landslip, among
the French cavalry, and drove them back, not so much by dint of edge
or point, as by the sheer weight of our men and horses. So sudden
was the shock, so irresistible our charge, that they scarcely made
any resistance, but were thrust pell-mell into the town, in the
narrow streets of which they were so intermingled with our men and
the Inniskillings that in many instances neither of us could use our
swords. For some minutes, at this crisis, I found myself completely
isolated and wedged among the French, some of whom actually laughed
at the whole affair.
Captain Cunninghame, of our first troop, in consequence of a blow
which had penetrated the back of his grenadier cap, fell backward on
his horse's crupper insensible, but could fall no further so dense
was the living press around him; and thus he remained until the place
surrendered.
Colonel Preston, whose horse was possessed of great spirit and fire,
pressed far beyond any of us; but before he could reach the
town-gate, it sprang over the bridge with him into the ditch--where
the brave old boy remained up to his thighs in mud, swearing and
sputtering, but in safety, until we extricated him about daybreak.
Some of the houses being set on fire lit up by their lurid glare the
horrors of the night attack. Taken completely by surprise, many of
the French were fighting in their shirts and breeches, and were
mingled in wild mêlée with the 20th and Highlanders, using their
bayonets and clubbed muskets, without time to load or fire, so
closely were they wedged together; but some who were in the houses
opened an indiscriminate fusilade on friends and foes. This so
greatly exasperated the nimble Highlanders, that in several instances
they stormed these mansions, and with dirk and claymore slew without
mercy all within.
Every inch of ground was disputed by death and blood. The yells,
cries, and hurrahs of the opposing combatants mingled with the clash
of weapons that glittered in the fires around them--fires that
reddened all the air; but the shouts of the French grew weaker as the
cheers of the British increased.
"Hurrah lor the Inniskillings!" cried we.
"Hurrah for the Scots Greys!" cried the Irish.
"Hurrah for Bulow's wild Jagers!" cried both regiments.
A French officer, minus hat, wig, and coat, was dragged roughly out
of a house by two furious Celts, who were jabbering and swearing in
their native Gaelic, as if they had not made up their minds whether
to kill or capture him, when he clung to my stirrup-leather, and
without attempting to use the sword in his hand, breathlessly
implored quarter.
I regarded his pale face with sudden and stern interest, for this
despairing suppliant was the commandant of the town, the Comte de
Bourgneuf.
I lost no time in disarming him, by snapping _his_ sword across my
saddle-bow, contemptuously as he had snapped mine, and desired the
Highlanders to keep him prisoner. He was dragged away, and I never
saw him again. It was enough; he had _recognised me_!
His whole force, being completely surrounded and hemmed in,
capitulated, but so many had perished in the attack that we brought
off only forty officers and four hundred rank and file, with the
colours of the regiments of Dauphiné and Bretagne, one of which I
captured in the count's quarters. These trophies we lodged in the
camp at Warburg, after losing but few men in the whole affair.
It was on that night's duty that I _last_ saw powder burned in the
Seven Years' War.
Our infantry were encamped under canvas in the immediate vicinity of
Warburg, the quaint old German streets of which presented a lively
picture of campaigning life, for every house had been converted into
a barrack; soldiers in British or Hanoverian uniforms appeared at all
the windows, lounging, laughing, and smoking, or pipeclaying their
belts or gaiters. Piles of muskets stood in long rows upon the
pavements. Here and there a sentinel trod to and fro upon his post,
indicating the quarters of a colonel or where the colours of a
regiment were lodged.
In the church were stalled our horses, and there stable duty and
religious service went on together; for, as wounded men died every
day in our hands, one seldom passed without a body being laid before
the altar muffled in a cloak, greatcoat, or rug, prior to interment
in the trench outside the gates.
After our return from the night attack at Zierenberg, I slept
profoundly on the bare floor of my billet, which was in an empty
house. I think one does generally sleep sound after enduring great
excitement or great calamity, for it is the _waking_ alone that
brings back the sense of grief or danger. Prior to that came dreams,
and again I seemed to hear the bayonet and sabre clashing, the shouts
and the wild work of last night: but from these I was roused about
raid-day by Tom Kirkton, our adjutant, who as yet was still accoutred.
"Well, Gauntlet, old friend," said he, with a peculiar smile; "so you
and I are to part at last?"
"How--what do you mean, Tom?"
"You have been chosen by the Commander-in-chief, on Colonel Preston's
recommendation (a dear old fellow, isn't he?) to convey to London,
and to the king's own hand, his despatches and the colours taken last
night; and his orders say, you must start in an hour."
"And I am to proceed--"
"By our rear. See, here is your route; by Arensburg to Wesel, and
thence down the Rhine to Nimeguen on the Waal; thence by boat to the
mouth of the West Scheldt, where some of our gun-brigs are sure to be
lying."
"Zounds! Tom--a long and tiresome journey; alone too! and the money?"
"Old Blount, the Paymaster-General, furnishes that. So come, rouse
thee, friend Basil--let us have a parting glass ere you go, my dear
boy."
There was an unmistakeable moisture and sad expression in Tom's clear
and usually merry eye as he spoke, for we had ever been the best of
friends and comrades.
Within an hour after this I had packed my valise, secured the French
colours and the Prince's despatches in a large saddlebag--had bade
adieu to our good old colonel,* to Tom Kirkton, Douglas, and others,
and departed with sincere regret. Hob Elliot and many of the
Greys--braver good, honest fellows--accompanied me to the town gate,
and the farewell cheer they gave me as I passed through the Infantry
camp rings yet in my ear and in my heart, as it did then when I waved
my cap, and said "God bless you!"
* He died at Bath, in 1785, a Lieutenant-General, and still Colonel
of the Scots Greys.--_Regimental Record_, p. 127.