CHAP. VII. The persecution of the guardian of two angels. A Caçadore and his mounted followers. A chief of hussars in his trousers. A chief of rifles in his glory, and a sub of ditto with two screws in the neck.

In one of the first chapters of this book I not only pledged my constancy to my fair readers, but vowed to renew my addresses from time to time as opportunities offered. As my feet, however, have since trodden from one extremity of a kingdom to the other, and many months have, in the meanwhile, rolled away without giving me an opportunity of redeeming the pledge, I fear that my fidelity might be doubted if I delayed longer in assuring them that the spirit has all along been willing, but the subject fearfully wanting; for wherever I have wandered the angel of death has gone before, and carefully swept from the female countenance all lines of beauty, leaving nothing for the eye to dwell on but the hideous ruins of distress.

The only exceptions were our fellow travellers, for the country on our line of march, as already said, was reduced to a desert, and no one remained in it who had either wealth or strength to remove, and our regimental wife had deserted, but our gallant associates, the 43d and 52d regiments, had one each, who had embarked with them, and remained true to the brigade until the end of the war. One of them was remarkably pretty, and it did one's heart good to see the everlasting sweets that hung upon her lovely countenance, assuring us that our recollections of the past were not ideal, which they would otherwise have been apt to revolve themselves into from the utter disappearance of reality for so long a period.

The only addition to them which our division could boast, were two smart substantial looking Portuguese angels, who followed our two Caçadore regiments, and rode on mule-back under the especial protection of their regimental chaplain. These two were a continual source of amusement to us on the march whenever we found ourselves at liberty to indulge in it. The worthy father himself was quite a lady's man, (Portuguese,) he was a short stout old fellow, with a snuff-coloured coat buttoned up to the throat, which was quite unnecessary with him, seeing that he shaved and put on a clean shirt sometimes as often as once a fortnight. The round mealy-faced ball which he wore as a head was surmounted by a tall cocked hat, and when mounted on his bay pony in his Portuguese saddle, which is boarded up like a bucket, (the shape of his seat and thighs,) he was exactly like some of the cuts I have seen of Hudibras starting on his erratic expedition.

It was our daily amusement whenever we could steal away from our regiment a short time, for two or three of us to start with some design against the Padré and his dark-eyed wards. One of us would ride quietly up alongside of him and another on that of the ladies as if we wished to pass, but in wishing them the compliments of the season we of course contrived to get ourselves entangled in conversation, while a third officer of our party rode some distance in the rear in readiness to take advantage of circumstances.

The Padré was a good-natured old fellow, fond of spinning a yarn, and as soon as one of us had got him fairly embarked in his story, the other began gradually to detach one or both of the damsels from his side, according as the inequalities of the road favoured the movement. They entered into the frolic merrily, but still he was so much alive that we rarely succeeded in stealing one out of sight; but if we did by any accident, it was a grand scene to see the scramble which he and his pony made after the fugitives, and on recovering the one, his rage on his return to find that the other had also disappeared. After one of these successful expeditions we found it prudent never to renew the attack until his wrath was assuaged, and it never abode with him long, so that week after week and year after year we continued to renew the experiment with various success.

It is amusing to think to what absurdities people will have recourse by way of amusement when subjects for it are scarce. It was long a favourite one with us to hunt a Caçadore as we called it. Their officers as well as our own were always mounted, and when their corps happened to be marching in our front, any officer who stopped behind, (which they frequently had occasion to do,) invariably, in returning to rejoin his regiment, passed ours at a full gallop; and on those occasions he had no sooner passed our first company than the officers of it were hard at his heels, the others following in succession as he cleared them, so that by the time he had reached the head of the regiment the whole of our officers had been in full chace. We never carried the joke too far, but made it a point of etiquette to stop short of our commanding officer, (who was not supposed to see what was going on,) and then fell quietly back to our respective places.

I have often seen the hunted devil look round in astonishment, but I do not think he ever saw the wit of the thing, and for that matter I don't know that my readers will feel that they are much wiser, but it was nevertheless amusing to us; and not without its use, for the soldiers enjoyed the joke, which, though trifling, helped to keep up that larking spirit among them, which contributed so much towards the superiority and the glory of our arms. In times of hardship and privation the officer cannot be too much alive to the seizing of every opportunity, no matter how ridiculous, if it serves to beguile the soldier of his cares.

On the 1st of April we again closed up with the enemy on the banks of the Coa, near Sabugal. It was a wet muggy afternoon near dusk when we arrived at our ground, and I was sent, with the company which I had charge of, on picquet to cover the left front of our position.

The enemy held an opposite post on our side of the river, and I was ordered if they were civil to me not to interfere with them, but in the event of the reverse, to turn them over to their own side. My stomach was more bent upon eating than fighting that evening, and I was glad to find that they proved to be gentlemen, and allowed me to post my sentries as close as I pleased without interruption.

I found one of our German hussar videttes on a rising ground near me, and received an order from my brigadier to keep him there until he was relieved, and I accordingly placed a rifleman alongside of him for his better security, but after keeping him an hour or two in the dark and no relief appearing, I was forced to let him go or to share my slender allowance with him, for the poor fellow (as well as his horse) was starving. I have seen the day, however, that I would rather have dispensed with my dinner (however sharp set) than the services of one of those thorough-bred soldiers, for they were as singularly intelligent and useful on outpost duty, as they were effective and daring in the field.

The first regiment of hussars were associated with our division throughout the war and were deserved favourites. In starting from a swampy couch and bowling along the road long ere dawn of day, it was one of the romances of a soldier's life to hear them chanting their national war songs—some three or four voices leading and the whole squadron joining in the chorus. As I have already said, they were no less daring in the field than they were surpassingly good on out-post duty. The hussar was at all times identified with his horse, he shared his bed and his board, and their movements were always regulated by the importance of their mission. If we saw a British dragoon at any time approaching in full speed, it excited no great curiosity among us, but whenever we saw one of the first hussars coming on at a gallop it was high time to gird on our swords and bundle up.

Their chief, too, was a perfect soldier, and worthy of being the leader of such a band, for he was to them what the gallant Beckwith was to us—a father, as well as a leader.

He was one who never could be caught napping. They tell a good anecdote of him after the battle of Toulouse, when the news arrived of the capture of Paris and Bonaparte's abdication. A staff officer was sent to his outpost quarter to apprise him of the cessation of hostilities—it was late when the officer arrived, and after hearing the news, the colonel proceeded to turn into bed as usual, "all standing," when the officer remarked with some surprise, "Why, colonel, you surely don't mean to sleep in your clothes to-night, when you know there is an armistice?"

"Air mistress or no air mistress," replied the veteran, "by Got I sleeps in my breeches!"

We remained another day in front of Sabugal, and as it was known that Reynier held that post with his single corps unsupported, Lord Wellington resolved to punish him for his temerity.

The day dawned on the morning of the 3d of April, however, rather inauspiciously. Aurora did not throw off her night-cap at the usual hour, and when she could no longer delay the ceremony she shed such an abundance of dewy tears that Sabugal, with its steel-clad heights, remained invisible to the naked eye at the distance of a few hundred yards, which interfered materially with that punctuality in the combined movements so necessary to ensure the complete success of our enterprize. Leaving, therefore, to those concerned to account for their delays, my object in renewing this battle is to pay a last tribute to the memory of Sir Sidney Beckwith, the hero of that day.

He, as he had been directed, moved his brigade to a ford of the Coa, and was there waiting further orders, when a staff officer rode up, and hastily demanded why he had not attacked?

Beckwith was an actor of the immortal Nelson's principle—that if a commander is in doubt he never can do wrong in placing himself alongside of the enemy. We instantly uncorked our muzzle-stoppers, off with our lock-caps, and our four companies of riflemen, led through the river, (which was deep and rapid,) followed by the 43d, driving in the enemy's picquet which defended it. The officer commanding, left his sky-blue cloak fluttering in the breeze on the top of a furze bush, and I felt a monstrous inclination to transfer it to my own shoulders, for it was an article of which I happened, at that moment, to be in especial want; but as it was the beginning of a battle in place of the end of one, and I had an insurmountable objection to fight under false colours, I passed it by.

As soon as we gained the summit of the hill it became as clear as the mist that we were regularly in for it. Beckwith, finding himself alone and unsupported, in close action, with only hundreds to oppose to the enemy's thousands, at once saw and felt all the danger of his situation; but he was just the man to grapple with any odds, being in his single person a host—of a tall commanding figure and noble countenance, with a soul equal to his appearance—he was as Napier says, "a man equal to rally an army in flight."

Our four companies had led up in skirmishing order, driving in the enemy's light troops; but the summit was defended by a strong compact body, against which we could make no head; but opening out, and allowing the 43d to advance, they, with a tearing volley and a charge, sent the enemy rolling into the valley below, when the rifles again went to work in front, sticking to them like leeches.

The hill we had just gained became our rally-post for the remainder of the day, and, notwithstanding the odds on the side of the enemy, they were never able to wrest it from us. Our force was as well handled as theirs was badly, so that in the successive and desperate encounters which took place, both in advance and in retreat, we were as often to be seen in their position as they were in ours.

Beckwith himself was the life and soul of the fray; he had been the successful leader of those who were then around him in many a bloody field, and his calm, clear, commanding voice was distinctly heard amid the roar of battle, and cheerfully obeyed. He had but single companies to oppose to the enemy's battalions; but, strange as it may appear, I saw him twice lead successful charges with but two companies of the 43d, against an advancing mass of the enemy. His front, it is true, was equal to theirs, and such was his daring, and such the confidence which these hardy soldiers had in him, that they went as fiercely to work single-handed as if the whole army had been at their heels.

Beckwith's manner of command on those occasions was nothing more than a familiar sort of conversation with the soldier. To give an idea of it I may as well mention that in the last charge I saw him make with two companies of the 43d, he found himself at once opposed to a fresh column in front, and others advancing on both flanks, and, seeing the necessity for immediate retreat, he called out, "Now, my lads, we'll just go back a little if you please." On hearing which every man began to run, when he shouted again, "No, no, I don't mean that—we are in no hurry—we'll just walk quietly back, and you can give them a shot as you go along." This was quite enough, and was obeyed to the letter—the retiring force keeping up a destructive fire, and regulating their movements by his, as he rode quietly back in the midst of them, conversing aloud in a cheerful encouraging manner—his eye all the while intently watching the enemy to take advantage of circumstances. A musket-ball had, in the meantime, shaved his forehead, and the blood was streaming down his countenance, which added not a little to the exciting interest of his appearance. As soon as we had got a little way up the face of our hill, he called out, "Now, my men, this will do—let us shew them our teeth again!" This was obeyed as steadily as if the words halt, front, had been given on parade, and our line was instantly in battle array, while Beckwith, shaking his fist in the faces of the advancing foe, called out to them, "Now, you rascals, come on here if you dare!" Those he addressed shewed no want of courage, but, for a while, came boldly on to the tune of old trousers,C notwithstanding the fearful havoc we were making in their ranks; but they could not screw themselves up the long disputed hill—the 52d (two battalions) had, by this time, come into the line of battle, and were plying them hard on the right, while our rifles were peppering them on their front and left, and, as soon as they came near enough, another dash by Beckwith, at the head of the 43d, gave them the coup de grace. The fate of the day was now decided—the net which had been wove in the morning, and which the state of the weather had prevented being brought to a crisis as soon as was intended, now began to tighten around them—the 5th division crossed by the bridge of Sabugal, and the 3d, (I believe,) by a ford to the right—and Reynier, seeing no hopes of salvation but by immediate flight, very speedily betook himself to it, and, I believe, saved all that did not fall on the field of battle—a piece of good fortune of which his conduct that day shewed him undeserving, for, had not the extraordinary state of the weather caused the delays and mistakes which took place on our side, he could scarcely have taken a man out of the field.

While standing in our last position, awaiting the attack in our front, I was much amused in observing, on the opposite height, the approach of our 3d division, unnoticed by the enemy—a French column occupied the top of what seemed to be almost a precipice overlooking the river; but I observed some of the 60th rifles clambering up the face of it on all fours, and, to see their astonishment, when they poked their heads over the brink, to find themselves within a couple of yards of a French column! They, of course, immediately concealed themselves under the bank; but it was curious to observe that they were unseen by the enemy, who were imprudent enough either to consider themselves secure on that side, or to give all their attention to the fight going on between their comrades and us; but certain it is they allowed the riflemen to gather there in formidable numbers. As we advanced immediately, the intervening rising ground prevented my seeing what took place, but on crowning the opposite height, which the French had just evacuated, we found, by the bodies on the ground, that they had just received a volley from a part of the third division—and one of the most deadly which had been fired that day.

Our cavalry had been astray during the fight, but they afterwards made two or three ineffectual attempts to break in upon the enemy's line of retreat.

Immediately after the action, we drew up behind an old cow-shed, which Lord Wellington occupied for a short time, while it poured torrents of rain. Sir William Erskine, with some of his horsemen, joined us there, and I heard him say to the commander-in-chief that he claimed no merit for the victory, as it belonged alone to Sidney Beckwith! I believe his lordship wanted no conjurer to tell him so, and did ample justice to the combatants, by stating in his dispatch that "this was one of the most glorious actions that British troops were ever engaged in."

To those accustomed to the vicissitudes of warfare it is no less curious to remark the many miraculous escapes from wounds than the recovery from them. As an instance of the former, I may observe, that, in the course of the action just related, I was addressing a passing remark to an officer near me, who, in turning round to answer, raised his right foot, and I observed a grape shot tear up the print which it had but that instant left in the mud. As an instance of the latter I shall here relate, (though rather misplaced,) that, at the storming of Badajos, in April, 1812, one of our officers got a musket-ball in the right ear, which came out at the back of the neck, and, though after a painful illness, he recovered, yet his head got a twist, and he was compelled to wear it, looking over the right shoulder. At the battle of Waterloo, in 1815, (having been upwards of three years with his neck awry,) he received a shot in the left ear, which came out within half an inch of his former wound in the back of the neck, and it set his head straight again!

This is an anecdote which I should scarcely have dared to relate were it not that, independent of my personal knowledge of the facts, the hero of it still lives to speak for himself, residing on his property, in Nottinghamshire, alike honoured and respected as a civilian, as he was loved and esteemed as a gentleman and a gallant soldier.D

After the action at Sabugal our brigade was placed under cover in the town, and a wild night it proved—the lightning flashed—the winds howled—and the rains rained. The house occupied by my brother sub and myself was a two-story one, and floored after the manner of some of our modern piers, with the boards six inches apart, and transferrable, if necessary, to a wider range, without the trouble of extracting or unscrewing nails.

The upper floor, as the most honoured portion, was assigned to us, while the first was reserved for the accommodation of some ten or a dozen well-starved inmates.

We had scarcely proceeded to dry our clothes, and to masticate the few remaining crumbs of biscuit, when we received a deputation from the lower regions, craving permission to join the mess; but, excepting the scrapings of our haversacks, we had literally nothing for ourselves, and were forced to turn a deaf ear to their entreaties, for there was no making them believe we were as destitute as we seemed. It was one of those cruel scenes to which the seats of war alone can furnish parallels, for their wan and wasted countenances shewed that they were wildly in want.

The following day saw Portugal cleared of its invaders, and the British standard once more unfurled within the Spanish boundary.

The French army retired behind the Agueda, and our division took possession of a portion of its former quarters, Fuentes d'Onoro, Gallegos, and Espeja. There we enjoyed a few days repose, of which we stood in much need, it having been exactly a month since we broke up in front of Santarem, and, as the foregoing pages shew, it was not spent in idleness.