Volume 2 — RECOLLECTIONS OF THE LAST CAMPAIGN IN THE PENINSULA.

After four years of indefatigable exertions—doubt and disaster—success and glory—sickness and privation—hope and delight—the British army began to prepare for the promising campaign of 1813, under a chief whose military talents had riveted the confidence alike of his soldiers, as the citizens of that empire, for whose weal—for whose glory—for whose existence as a mistress of the world, he had shared in all the privations and sufferings of his troops, and was ready still to endure even to death, or crown his country’s hopes with success in that mighty and awful strife which engaged her so long. The winter had passed, and the early spring of Portugal had brought to that country reinforcements, money, and equipments, the want of which had but too frequently impeded the success of our army in the Peninsula. Transports were continually floating up the sunny Tagus, with their red-cross flags waving from the masts—their decks covered with glittering accoutrements, and hearty soldiers: fresh detachments and fresh regiments were daily filing off the public squares of Lisbon, to join the grand army; while the eyes of the often disappointed Portuguese followed them with patriotic hope, and their hearts and tongues ejaculated wishes for their success. The road from Lisbon to Coimbra and Vizeu, which had so often withered under the wasteful tread of war, now glistened with groups of laughing soldiers and brightening prospects; even the ruined towns of Condexia and Pumbal lost their appearance of despair, and assumed a faint aspect of hope—such as the dying feel from leech’s promises. The inhabitants everywhere were kind, the season was propitious, and the soldiery seemed to have caught a spirit of confidence which reacted on the people; and if it did not entirely remove their doubts and fears, it tended considerably to advance their hopes of success, and to tranquillize their long-disturbed minds. The arrival of the Hussar brigade at Lisbon affected the Portuguese more than any of the other warlike preparations—it was a cordial to their feeble spirits. This brigade consisted of the 10th, 15th, and 18th Hussars; and certainly its appearance was sufficient to encourage them highly;—the genius of romantic chivalry never imagined a more warlike and beautiful body of horse—their perfect discipline—their splendid equipments—their health and spirits—the true British halo which seemed to glisten around them—all conspired to elevate the Lisbonians almost to a certainty of success in the approaching campaign.

At no period of the war was there more cause for strong hope in the Portuguese than at this time: all the fortresses in their frontier-towns were in our possession—those provinces of Spain which were the favourites of Soult’s army evacuated—Souchet just defeated by Sir John Murray in the South—and Buonaparte ably opposed by the Russians; but the Portuguese had been so often led astray by flattering prospects, that nothing short of entire success could wholly convince them that they were secure from the persecutions of the French.

On the 20th of April I found myself at Oporto, having marched from Coimbra for the purpose of joining the left, or third column of the army, under the command of Sir Thomas Graham; which was destined to enter Spain by Tras os Montes. This column consisted of the first, third, and fifth divisions, together with the first cavalry division. The second, or centre column, was under the immediate command of his Grace the Duke of Wellington; and consisted, I believe, of the fourth, sixth, seventh, and light divisions: this was to advance to Salamanca. The first, or right column of the army, under the command of Lord Hill, was to proceed along the Tagus toward Toledo. Thus all the forces under the command of the Duke of Wellington were divided into three powerful columns; and so disposed as to be available at several points of attack.—A finer army—better officered and better equipped, from the massy ponton to the tent peg, never took the field; and none ever acquitted themselves there more creditably.

In sketching what I remember of this memorable campaign, it cannot be expected that I should display the pen of the historian; if I did so, I must of necessity draw from other sources than my own observation and the narratives of my brother-soldiers: but to this I do not pretend; what I recollect to have witnessed, or have been told by eye-witnesses, is all I offer to my readers:—an individual on a campaign, as a narrator of what occurred before him, ought not—could not consistently, do more: this I will attempt, so far as I conceive the matter may be interesting; I will describe my humble share in the glories of the army, and note those things only which, in my progress with it, appeared to me not unworthy of remark: I will do so with truth; and if I omit occasionally the notice of some particulars of interest, familiar to the memory of some who served with me, it can only be from want of more acute recollection. I have no doubt forgotten many a town, and wood, and valley, and blue mountain, which lay on my way, and many a circumstance also; however, enough remains to afford my mind a vivid picture of that eventful march,—to me, highly interesting and delightful, notwithstanding the fatigues which frequently attended it; and I trust that what I do remember of it will not be uninteresting to my readers.

I will mention an incident which happened to me when I arrived at Oporto; and the motive I have in touching on so trifling an occurrence is, that an opinion as to the French influence in Portugal, even at that promising time, may be in some measure drawn from it. I arrived at Oporto about five o’clock in the evening, and received a billet upon a respectable house for myself, my servant, and two horses. The master of this house was a rich lawyer; and although I learnt that quarters were very indifferent in the town, yet the appearance of the house inspired me with the hope that I should be enabled to make a better report on this subject, as far as regarded myself.

The outward gates of the house were open, and I walked up a wide staircase: having knocked at a large door, I was admitted by a cross-looking woman, who in answer to my question of whether the gentleman of the house was at home, replied, with a shrug of the shoulders, “Nao esta in caza” (not within). I explained the nature of my visit, producing the paper which authorised it; and immediately the countenance of the dame wore the most vinegar aspect: “Nao esta quartelia, Senhor, nada, nada, nada” (no room, none, none.) This I knew must be false, from the size of the house, as well as from my knowledge of the disposition of many of the Portuguese to shift off the trouble of accommodating English officers. However, I was determined to act only through the authorities; for the Commander of the forces was very scrupulous upon this point, and justly so; for many officers during former campaigns had acted rather despotically in their quarters, and occasioned reports of such a nature as to call forth a general order upon the subject, the effects of which were sorely felt by those officers whose conduct was peaceable and conciliating. Consistent with the spirit of this order, I left the old Donna, telling my servant he was to remain, and returned to the Portuguese authorities, who gave me the billet. On describing my reception, one of them burst out into exclamations of rage, declaring that the person on whom I was billeted was a liar and a favourer of the French. “He had room enough in his house for four French officers,” said he; “and if he does not find accommodation for you, Sir, in every way befitting a British officer, I will send him a dozen of Portuguese soldiers.” He then wrote a note to the lawyer, and requested me to take no excuse from him, but to order my servant to carry my luggage at once into the house. I pursued the directions given,—ordered my boy to unload and place my panniers, &c. in the house, and proceeded up stairs myself. The door was opened, and without ceremony I walked into the principal room of the house, where I discovered the lawyer in a fever of anxiety. He was a little smoke-dried man, of about fifty years of age, dressed in a spotted robe de chambre, and powdered in the highest style of professional ultraism. His fever increased to a paroxysm when he saw me in the heart of the garrison, for he never expected such a surprise; he reiterated the words of the old woman with a grin, (which he thought was a smile)—an attempt at polite denial—a widening of the mouth into a sort of imitation-smile, in which his little eyes took no part; in them could be seen the splenetic rage which would have burnt me into a cinder, if it had possessed the power. He declared that he could not accommodate me, nor any other officer; and had I been weak enough to parley with him civilly on the subject, his presumption would have increased more rapidly than it did; but I coolly threw myself down upon his splendid sofa, and desired him to read the note which I brought from the magistrates. He read it, and after a pause and a protracted shrug of the shoulders, muttered something of the great inconvenience he should be put to by having an officer billeted on him; but that he supposed he must put up with it; and begged that I would walk down to a room which he had below. I followed him; and after a tedious hour’s search for keys, he succeeded in opening an apartment, into which I followed him. Here, he said, he would put a bed on the floor,—the only bed he had; and that he would also send down two chairs and a table; hinting, at the same time, that Lord Wellington’s orders were that no other furniture was in any case to be supplied, except by the voluntary act of those on whom officers were quartered. An adequate idea of the apartment it is scarcely possible to give: it had been a sort of lumber-room, I suppose, for some centuries back—covered with cobwebs—damp, dirty, and dark—not an atom of any kind of moveable;—on the ground floor, too! and, contrasted with the superior accommodation given to officers by the Portuguese generally, it had the effect of exciting my indignation against the little lawyer to such a degree, that had it not been for the respect I bore for the orders of Lord Wellington, I believe I should have punished the insolent old rogue on the spot, by the application of my whip to his parchment skin. I paused a little; then took the key out of the door; and, nodding ironically to my patrao, I said, “esta bon”—“it will do very well.” I then went out, and ordered my servant to lead in both the horses:—there was scarcely a stable to be got in Oporto for love or money; and the thought struck me, that I could not only provide myself with a tolerable substitute for such accommodation, but punish the little hater of the English as he deserved.

The horses were brought into the apartment forthwith, to the astonishment, confusion, and intense mortification of the lawyer. Neither my servant nor myself could refrain from laughter at the picture. The little gentleman’s hands clasped in the fervency of his raging astonishment; his frame trembling with passion,—the old dame exclaiming loudly at the door, “Ai! Jesus, Maria, Joze!” and the animals (as all horses will after a journey,) relieving themselves by those actions, which in a parlour may seem out of place and highly laughable, but in a stable “quite correct.” The scene can only be imagined perfectly by those who saw it. The lawyer now lost all patience, and gave way to the most violent and unbounded rage. He called me “heretic Englishman,” and openly proclaimed his hatred of Great Britain and love of France; he stamped, raved, and ejaculated; but I coolly told him to walk out, or that I would lock him in with the horses, as I could not remain longer in my stable. He obeyed with a scowl and a curse; while I thanked him in the most polite manner for the accommodation his house had afforded me, and went back to the magistrates, to whom I related the affair. Their enjoyment of the joke was little less than mine; they advised me to keep the room as a stable while I remained at Oporto (which I did), and gave me another billet for myself, upon a house opposite to the lawyer’s, where I received the most hospitable attention for the few days I remained in the town; and had the pleasure of nodding at old parchment every morning as he went out of his house; which civility he never thought proper to notice, except by a frown, peculiar to his Jacobinical countenance.

As nearly as I can recollect, it was on the twenty-third of May, that our column commenced its march from its cantonments. Illness, brought on by overheating myself in an excursion of pleasure up the Douro, prevented me from marching on the appointed day. By the desire of the medical officer, I remained behind—having been bled but more than one day I would not stay, and although still unwell, persisted in my intention of moving, and mounted for the road.

The weather was very hot when I set out; and having been advised by the surgeon not to fatigue myself, if possible, on the march, until I had perfectly recovered, I pursued my route at one day’s march behind the army, without attempting to gain on it; but had I been in perfect health, I could not have overtaken it, for my baggage horse could not have travelled more than about fifteen or twenty miles a day—the average distance of each march of the army; and this is quite enough, considering the wretched roads over which the animals had to go, together with the great heat of the climate.

I proceeded in the track of the army, by Amarante, Villa Real, Mirandella, and Oitero the frontier town, without beholding a military uniform, and just as if I had been travelling for amusement. The inhabitants of the considerable towns were hospitable and cheerful: from all of those to whom I spoke, I heard the highest encomiums on the army which had but the day before delighted them with its grand appearance. The villages in the province of Tras os Montes presented but little of the power or of the will to afford hospitality to the stranger; many of the houses were shut up and deserted, while those which were inhabited were stripped of almost every accommodation. This arose from the fear which the poor of that province entertained of a passing army, whether friends or foes—they had retired on the approach of ours, as they were often in the habit of doing from the French, and had not returned when I passed. As a proof of the feelings they entertained for the safety of their provisions, &c., I will mention a circumstance in which I was concerned. I had taken possession of a cottage, in a miserable village, between Villa Real and Mirandella; it was inhabited by an old woman, her married daughter, and two little boys: they received me with great civility. I, as usual on the march, enquired whether any sort of provisions in the village could be purchased; and was told that I could not—all was gone—they had been destroyed by the French. I asked if I could not find a fowl, or a few eggs? No, all was gone;—“nada, nada, nada.” I therefore ordered my servant to prepare some chocolate and cold beef, on which I was about to sit down to dine, when I heard a cock crow as if under ground;—the countenances of my hostess and her daughter changed. “Very odd!” thought I:—the cock crowed again:—the greatest confusion was evident in the old woman’s face—she bustled about—threw down a stool—slapped the door, and made every kind of noise possible; but the cock crowed a third time; when my servant, who was a droll Portuguese, without further ceremony addressed the old woman, pointing at the same time to a huge old chest which stood on one side of the room, “La esta o gallo, Senhora,” (there is the cock) said he; and then removed a small chest from the top of the large one—opened the lid; when out flew the tell-tale bird, followed by seven of his hens, delighted, no doubt, as much with his release as their mistress was mortified. I, however, relieved the old lady’s embarrassment, by putting a couple of crucadas novas (about four and sixpence) upon the table: the sight of the money settled the business, and she, without hesitation, gave me two of her prisoners—fine fat hens—assuring me that she had lost many by the soldiers; and fearing another loss from me, she had determined to pack up her poultry in the chest: many had bought fowls from her before, but forgot to pay for them. I passed a pleasant evening and night at this poor cottage, and the whole family gave us a loud “Viva os Inglezas!” at parting next morning.

The country through which I passed was highly picturesque—it was beautiful to look at, but most tiresome to travel over: in general the roads are more like craggy beds of rivers than passages constructed for communication and the benefits of commerce. I remember that the very morning I left the old woman’s cot, it was no more than eight o’clock when I came in sight of the town at which I was to halt. I was on the top of a mountain: beneath me was a river, winding through a fertile valley, on the opposite side of which stood another mountain, apparently not a mile from me; and at the base of the latter was the town, the bells of which I could hear ringing; yet it was five o’clock in the afternoon before I entered it, although I never halted—so intricate and difficult was the winding and steep road I had to pass over. Having mentioned this, I am reminded of a circumstance that occurred as soon as I entered the town, which gave a melancholy proof of the besotted slavery in which the minds of the Portuguese peasantry are held by their clergy. An alarm had been given; the bells were all set in furious motion; every body was running through the streets towards one place. I left my servant with the horses, and proceeded along with the scattered crowd. Every face was woe-begone—as though some dire calamity, such as fire or earthquake, had occurred. The numbers of the people increased as I advanced. We arrived at the principal church: I pushed my way into it, and there the most piteous lamentations assailed my ears. The church was filled with people—all on their knees; tears were streaming down the old people’s cheeks, and the crowd beating their breasts in sorrow. The cause of this mourning was not an earthquake, though it was a conflagration. However, it was neither the church nor the priest that was burnt; but the doll-dressed figure of the Virgin Mary, which had caught fire from the carelessness of the church-clerk, in allowing a lighted candle that he held to touch her holy petticoat!—the satin had blazed; but the flames were soon extinguished, and the damage done was happily confined to the melting of one of her ladyship’s wax fingers, scorching her left cheek, discolouring several tinsel ornaments, and seriously injuring the outer-petticoat. For this the town was thrown into confusion, and the streams of its grief let forth! What crowned the farce, was a young, ignorant-looking priest haranguing the mob upon the calamity; pointing with apparent intensity of sorrow at the burnt hand; kissing it and imploring his dupes to join him in his grief; no doubt with a view that they should join him afterwards in raising funds for re-dressing the Virgin. Such is the deplorable ignorance of the people of a fine country! Yet there is a strong party in Europe, who seek to shut out from them the glorious rays of a liberal constitution, and therefore every chance of enlightenment! But, thank Heaven! there are others who will spread the light amongst them:—the torch of British Liberty now burns over their heads; and they keep their eyes on it, in spite of the “holy” and hateful fogs that are ever rising around them.

I entered Spain from Oitero. In crossing from the one country to the other a thin wood intervenes, and for six or seven miles through it, neither house nor hut is to be seen: it is level ground, and covered with brush-wood. A few goats and their herdsman were all the living things I saw while crossing it: not a bird flew over me.

At the first village which I entered in Spain, I met with some British soldiers (detached) with a commissariat officer, who informed me that the centre column of the main army had entered Salamanca, headed by Lord Wellington, and that the French were retreating everywhere, without making any opposition. Next day I pushed on in hopes of overtaking the troops belonging to my division, and now the country forming a fine level, I was enabled to increase my speed. At length I could descry the wide and sweeping track of the advancing armies—in the abstract, melancholy to contemplate! The country was chiefly covered with a luxuriant crop of corn, over which the immense column of the army passed, with its baggage, artillery, and cattle:—the traces of the cavalry—of the infantry—and of the cannon, could be distinctly and plainly distinguished from each other; and although their road was through the high and firm corn, the pressure upon it was so great that nothing but clay could be seen, except at the verges of the tracks, where the broken and trampled wheat was less over-trodden. Then there was as much cut down for forage as destroyed by feet; the mark of the rough sickle of the commissaries, the dragoons, and the muleteers, were in patches all around, disfiguring the beautiful waving ocean of yellowing corn—ocean indeed—nothing can give so just an idea of its expansion: the corn in that country, does not grow in fields enclosed like our English, but over the whole face of the land, making one wide plain of vegetation, sprinkled at various distances with little villages, which look like heaps of red tiles to the distant eye of the observer: I have counted not less than twenty-two villages within one circular view. Such was the country, nearly all the way to Palencia.

On the third day after I entered Spain, I overtook the rear of the column—I think it was the fourth division—and continued to march with it. Here I had an opportunity of seeing the Portuguese troops in a large body; and they afforded me subject for delightful reflection. I could not help thinking what different beings they appeared, and under what different circumstances they were placed, from their state and prospects about three years before, when I first saw them in the field, a short time after the battle of Busaco: then a more wretched-looking set of creatures never were beheld—the predatory Arabs were not worse clothed, worse disciplined, or worse fed; there was neither uniformity in dress, nor equipment for comfort—threatened by a rapacious enemy, then in the heart of their hapless country—harassed by partial defeat—their only hope resting on their handful of gallant defenders, the British soldiers:—how different did they appear now!—orderly, cheerful, healthy, well disciplined, well armed; their polished accoutrements glistening in the sun; their utensils for comfort all neatly packed upon their backs; tents on their mules; provisions with their commissary: not shut up in a niche of their plundered country, menaced and insulted, but proudly marching towards the heart of Spain—of France (as it turned out)—their hated invaders in their turn flying before their regenerated ranks; the British by their side, and leading them on after the bloody and successful struggles of three years. Oh! it was a sight that could not be seen and reflected upon, without a bounding of the heart! And their cheers, as their clean blue columns passed through the Spanish towns, spoke to the slave’s breast, a magic tongue. Proud indeed may those feel, whose indefatigable exertions brought the soldiers of Portugal to the pitch of perfection in which they then were, and grateful may be that nation to protecting England for those mighty services. “Liberty!” was the cry through the ranks, and “Liberty!” was the cry from the crowd, as they passed through the towns of Portugal and Spain. Their songs were embued with their sentiments of patriotism; and they sung them often as they went: their musicians cheered and nourished this feeling, and their national air “Vencer ou morir,”5 as sung by a number of them, when they encamped on the frontier of France, with the French in their front, preparing for battle, was, from its patriotic sentiments and martial yet melancholy music, one of the most soul-stirring anthems that ever flowed from the patriot’s heart:—Portogallo, the composer of it, may fairly claim a portion of the laurels which were gained by his countrymen in every action fought after it became popular. I have heard it boldly played in the teeth of the enemy by the Portuguese bands; and I marked the countenances of the listeners with delight: it made all Portuguese hearts pant for the fight, and swell with revenge for the injuries of their trampled country; and as the voices joined the music, “Vencer ou morir” was not sung without meaning.

I have written English words to the air, and perhaps they may not be unacceptable here:—

PORTUGUESE NATIONAL SONG.

I.

II.

III.

The power of music combined with poetry, seems more gigantic when applied to the struggles of a people for liberty—or in other words—to exalt the passion of patriotism, than any other emotion of the heart; perhaps, because the passion itself is more susceptible of excitement than others. The songs of every nation speak more strongly the character of the particular people to which they belong, than any thing that can be written by the pen of the commentator or the historian. It was a great statesman who said “Give me but the power to write the songs of a nation, and I will govern them;” an observation in my mind, of no less strength than truth. The war-songs of every people are part of their arsenal; and by no means the least in power. The Scotch pipes have done nearly as much as the claymore. An instance of this occurred with the late gallant Colonel Cameron of the 42d. The piper was detached from the corps by the order of the General at an engagement in Holland—the men went into action without him;—they charged, and were repulsed. The General, on the evening of the same day, said to the Colonel, “Don’t boast of your 42d again.” To this censure Colonel Cameron replied, “General, you are to blame—you took our arms from us.”—“How?”—“You took the pipes from us: let us have them, and we’ll prove the 42d worthy of the highest boast.” This was done; the regiment had an opportunity next day of charging with the pipes behind them, and they covered themselves with glory. The Irish too, at the storming of Badajos, carried the breach to the tune of “Garryowen,” played by their own band under the most destructive fire. The power of national song was so feared by Buonaparte, that he forbade the Swiss air “Le Ranz des Vaches” in his army, lest the natives of that country should desert. It was stated in the French National Assembly that the Marseillois Hymn brought a million of recruits to the army; and certainly it might be said that Dibdin’s songs did more for the British navy than the whole of the press-gang. The anthem of “God save the King” every body values, yet none have said, (although I believe it to be truth) that it is a strong bulwark of the throne—that it throws a sublimity—a grandeur—a general respect around royalty; excites the warmest sentiments of devotion, and secures unconscious attachment. The national hymn of Portugal is strongly expressive of that mixture of melancholy and martial boldness of sound which inspires the hearer to meditate revenge for injuries done; and, as the Spaniards suffered in a similar way to the Portuguese, their national song carries with it a sentiment precisely similar to that of Portugal. This song was not composed during the days of Ferdinand, but while the nation was struggling, in concert with the British, for liberty; and every Guerilla sung it—every peasant sung it—every child sung it. Its title is, “A la Guerra Espaniolas;” the Spanish words of it are simple, but strong; and the music, like the national air of the Portuguese, is truly beautiful. The following are English words, written for it among the mountains of Biscay; and to those of my readers who know the air, perhaps they will be acceptable.

THE SPANISH NATIONAL SONG.

I.

II.

In death our sons are sleeping Our homes in ruin laid; Our daughters o’er them weeping, Alone—forlorn—betrayed! In vain is Britain’s bravery, To rid you of your slavery; In vain her heroes bleed—her arms resound, Unless the fire Of Freedom’s ire Burn every heart around. To the war—to the war, ye Spaniards! The hour is nigh To break your chain; Your rights to gain. Live free—live free,—or die! —But enough of music: let us now march on without it.

I proceeded with the fourth division, and arrived after two marches, at the high banks of the Esla: there it was that I beheld the concentrated army—at least the greatest part of it. Some of the troops had passed the river and “opened the ball” with the enemy on the opposite bank: their rear guard had a brisk engagement with our advanced cavalry, and the 10th Hussars had the honour to draw the first blood of the campaign—they “astonished” the French Dragoons not a little. After this brush the enemy continued their retreat rapidly, in the direction of Burgos.

The crossing of the Esla by the army, as I beheld it, was one of the most impressive, magnificent, and beautiful sights that was ever presented: I will describe it briefly, from my memory, upon which it is indelibly delineated.

The river Esla, at the point where the army crossed, is in breadth equal to the Thames at Richmond or Windsor; high banks—or rather hills—rise abruptly on either side, for the most part covered with short trees and underwood: the approaches to the river are by even pathways winding down each side of it. When standing on that bank where first I saw the river, the water appeared to be about three hundred yards below me, and its course bending so as to exclude a farther view of it than the segment of a circle of about a mile in length. On my left, where the river began to appear, and where the hill on which I stood pushed itself forward and terminated in an overhanging rock, the ponton was placed—immense boats at regular distances, and well planked, so as to form a passage of about twenty feet in breadth, railed on each side compactly: so admirable a bridge it was, that one would suppose it to have been a permanent rather than a temporary erection, which could be at a moment removed and carried wherever the army went. Over this passed the troops, with the exception of some cavalry who forded at another part, and five of whom (Germans) were swept away by the current in crossing. An idea may be formed of the vast quantity of soldiers, muleteers, women, horses, mules, artillery stores, equipage, and baggage, which covered the hills near the ponton, when I say, that I was from ten o’clock in the morning until five in the afternoon, before it came to my turn to pass the water; and all this time the bridge was filled with columns of men. We who waited for our turn, sat on the hill under the trees, eating cold beef and biscuit, chatting, and admiring the splendid scene. The day was as bright as the sun; a general hilarity spread over every countenance; the Spanish and Portuguese muleteers cracked their loud jokes with the soldiers—laughed and sung—ate their rations, and toasted their friends in grog. To add still more interest to the scene, many elegant English ladies—wives of the officers—were to be seen upon the rock which overhung the river, with their gay parasols and waving feathers, while immediately below was the bridge with its moving mass—horse—foot—artillery—baggage—and followers:—a little above this, and still beneath the ladies, were groups of bullocks swimming across the river, and with difficulty gaining the opposite bank, owing to the power of the current; while others were climbing the opposite hills, refreshed and relieved from the dust of their day’s travel, by the cool water from which they had just emerged. The distant and lessening line of troops as it winded upwards to the plain above, and broke into several divisions to take up ground for the night, added an admirable perspective background to the picture. Then arose the hum of the crowd—the loud command—the laugh—the mingling of different languages—the lowing of oxen—the neighing of horses, and the braying of the less noble animals—the clear sky—the bright sun—the crystal river, overhung and darkened in the distance by bold rocks, on which the wondering goatherd lay as his goats carelessly browsed—it was a scene never to be forgotten. Every soldier saw at a glance the collective strength of the great military machine of which he formed a part—all beneath his eye, as it were in a theatre: this heightened the glow of pride within him, and elevated his spirit with the buoyancy of glorious hope—all was cheerfulness, and the army looked more like conquerors, than men about to enter into a bloody and doubtful contest. I spent seven hours in admiring, and then crossed in my turn the ponton; took up my quarters for the night, with my horses, under a shed; and slept as soundly as the Prince who was cast into a seven years’ sleep by a fairy.

The morning was only opening her eyes, when the drum beat and we turned out: the fires of the night were expiring; around many of which groups of soldiers were assembled, packing up their knapsacks and fixing their accoutrements. The moving to and fro of military figures, all over the level ground, before me—the tingling of the mules’ bells—the drums at various distances—the early birds chirping—the horses champing their barley—the men biting their biscuit—the increasing hum and the coming daylight—by degrees, dissipated the heaviness which naturally succeeded to a short field sleep, and the cheerfulness of the preceding day was restored throughout.—The column was in motion; and the field, where thousands crowded, was, in a few minutes, as naked and silent as a desert.

At this ground we had expected a desperate fight; but with the exception of a brush with our Hussars, the enemy showed no wish to trouble us. The soldiers now became still more elevated with a confidence in success; and the wishful cry which every where along the march had resounded in their ears, from the inhabitants, “Vamus a Francia!”—“(Away to France!)” was considered as about to be realized; yet most of the army expected that we should first have a desperate struggle at the Ebro.

We marched by Aguilar to Palencia; our light cavalry by Zamora and Toro: the right and centre columns of the army, with Lord Wellington, passed through Salamanca to Valladolid—the whole directing their march to Burgos. At Palencia I first saw the ponton boats in their carriages: they were drawn by oxen; each boat had a carriage to itself, and each carriage was drawn by from twelve to sixteen. The boats were reversed—or bottom uppermost—and seated on them were the pontoneers, dressed in naval uniform; these were men specially employed to launch the boats, form the bridge, and, in short, to conduct that service through all its branches. I had but a faint idea of the extreme ponderosity of warlike machinery until I beheld these boats upon their carriages: the battering rams of the Romans were go-carts compared with the ponton train on the march: the Spaniards, as they passed, threw up their eyes in an ecstasy of admiration at the sight of them, and cheered loudly while they were in view. Over those boats were to pass to France, which they feared and hated, the invading and delivering armies—over them the cannon that was to thunder their victory:—this thought was enough to make them cheer, and their “vivas!” were well answered by the troops that followed.

I remained at Palencia until the evening of the day on which the pontons passed through it; and there I accidentally met with a young officer, whose subsequent greatness I little thought then depended so on the success of our campaign, as it afterwards turned out. This officer was Captain De Grammont, then of the 10th Hussars, but now his Grace the Duc de Guiche. He is a part of the royal family of France, aid-de-camp to the Duke d’Angoulême, and high in favour at the Tuilleries. When I saw him at Palencia, he appeared one of the finest models of a young Hussar chief I ever beheld: he wore his beard, which curled upon his chin; his regimentals were sufficiently field-rubbed to have lost that very bright gloss which distinguished them on the parade at home; and there was a melancholy cast about his countenance and manner, which, from being mixed with the most affable address, made a strong impression upon me—particularly when I learnt his true situation. He was engaged against his countrymen—but for his country’s rights; and he had only a day or two before met them in the charge. It was his troop that spilled the first French blood of that campaign, and it was his subaltern who gave the first wound. He described the charge to me: it was thus:—The French having crossed the Esla, a strong guard covered their retreat, and the 10th Hussars attacked their rear, which was defended by light dragoons. In advancing to the charge, the Subaltern of Captain De Grammont, Cornet Fitzgerald—a lad of only sixteen years of age—happened to have been somewhat in advance of the troop, owing to the mettle of his horse: the Cornet’s servant rode beside him in the ranks, and determined to protect his master. The French dragoons came on gallantly; their swords were nearly as long again as those of our Hussars; and a ferocious looking Sergeant was coming at full gallop—right in front of the Cornet: in vain was the young officer called on to pull in his horse—on he went, his servant closing up to him in order to avert the steel of the opponent: a moment more and the long straight sword of the French dragoon would have been cased in the youth’s breast; for the servant’s horse could not head his master’s. The Captain expected to see him fall; but just as the point of the weapon approached, the cornet grasped his pistol—fired—and down the dragoon tumbled from his saddle! This was but an instant before the remainder of the hussars were mixed with their opponents; and in a few minutes more, they were pursuing them as fugitives, killing, wounding, and taking many of them. I remembered having seen this heroic youth at Lisbon, when the regiment landed there: he was a mere stripling, with light hair, and rosy cheeks—anything but the man destined to kill the first Frenchman on the campaign; and I still more admired him when I heard that he was a son of the celebrated Lord Edward Fitzgerald, and cousin to the present Duke of Leinster. I met Captain De Grammont afterwards, at the close of the campaign, and he assured me joyfully, that he had had the pleasure, the day before, of looking from the Pyrenees, while on piquet, at the lawful estates of his family; and only a very few months after this, I had the gratification of seeing him enter the town of Bordeaux as a Duke, and on the staff of his lawful Prince, the Duke d’Angoulême. This officer, although born in France, is in language and manners a perfect English gentleman, from having been since his infancy in England. He received his commission in the 10th Hussars when very young, and remained in the regiment until the restoration of the Bourbons. Should we yet go to war with France, I should be sorry to see the gallant soldier arrayed against us, and I am sure it would be no pleasurable office to himself.

We moved on the left of Burgos, which city the French, contrary to our expectation, had not shut up, but quickly abandoned at the approach of the British. I slept in the house of an intelligent peasant, about two miles from the fortress, and of course the war was the subject of our chat. I found the man very communicative: he had the fullest hope of our success, and gave it as his opinion, that the French would not stand at the Ebro. He talked of the time when the British were before on his ground; and showed me in his fields some of their bones—bleached white and dry: he informed me that a great number of our army perished there. This man, from his apparent acquaintance with the events of the war in Spain, I have no doubt had taken an active part in it—perhaps on the French side; for if it had been on the other, he most probably would not have made it a secret in our conversation; however, many of the Spaniards sided with the strongest party, and now that the British held the sway, this peasant was their warmest well-wisher.

We proceeded through Villa Diego towards the Ebro, and came in sight of that river from the plain—or high table land—over which I had been travelling ever since I had left Portugal. The advanced troops had passed the river that morning without opposition, for the French had continued their retreat. The view of the valley—or rather amphitheatre—at the bottom of which the Ebro runs, astonished me by its beauty: for several days I had been accustomed to little variation of scenery—all level country; and now the bosom of luxuriant and romantic nature suddenly presented itself to my sight, as if it were done by magic. Half a dozen steps brought me from a view of mere sky and corn plains, to a scene of the most splendidly varied character—a deep valley, or rather hollow, of about ten miles in circumference, surrounded by woody mountains, except at that part directly facing me. This part opened, and there the eye might travel over blue hills, until the more distant could not be distinguished from the light clouds of the horizon. In this circular valley, every variation of rural beauty was to be seen—cultivated fields—luxuriant foliage—bubbling streams—winding paths—villas, and farm-houses. At the bottom ran the Ebro,—in this place a river of no great breadth; and here the main body of the liberating army had crossed a few hours before me.

The line of march now lay along a small branch of a river, which watered the foot of high and bold rocks, shelved and wooded in the most picturesque manner; trees, rooted over trees, hung out in grotesque attitudes, or dipped downwards, as if seeking the black and clear water beneath—thick moss, streaming underwood, wild flowers, and massy trunks, mingled to beautify the first day’s march after we crossed the Ebro:—this repaid me amply for the toil of the preceding days.

I remained an hour behind the division, to refresh my horses—they having been nearly knocked up; and it was at this place I perceived the first effects of fatigue in some of the soldiers. The army had, for the preceding march, pressed onwards more rapidly than before, and the weather had become very hot; several men, therefore, lagged behind, and I met eight or ten of them sitting by the side of the river—some only severely blistered on the feet from walking, but others extremely ill. There was no depôt nearer than Valladolid—about ninety miles distant; for the army’s advance was so rapid and so unexpected, that no time could be allowed for considerations of this kind; and the soldiers, if left behind, would have fared but miserably indeed—particularly those who were ill there. I, without hesitation, laid an embargo upon a sort of cart, which was drawn by two horses, and which happened, fortunately, to be near; in this vehicle I directed the men to place themselves and their kits, which they had unbuckled from their backs, and dispatched them to continue their march. I also desired the men not to permit the carter to return until they overtook their division. “All is fair in war,” says the unamiable adage: it was a hard case for the Castilian carter, but for the poor disabled soldiers it would have been a still harder; and I thought I could not do better, under the circumstances, than to oblige the peasant, who seemed well-fed and hearty, to do “the state some service,” whether he was so disposed or not.

Our march was now ten times more a march of pleasure than it had been before we crossed the Ebro, although it did not long hold that character: there was soon something for the army to do besides to admire the scenery, sing songs, and smoke cigars. Each day’s march was concluded about twelve or one o’clock, and the men encamped or bivouacked usually on some open glade, near or in a small wood; or perhaps in a valley by a river: here they unbent from the toils of the morning, and escaped the meridian heat of the sun, within their tents, or beneath the thick foliage with which nature so profusely stocked the country. A considerable distance right and left of the road, where the army encamped each day, was changed from the silence in which it had so long dwelt, to the hum and bustle of a populated city. The first thing done, on arriving at the ground for encampment, was to cook:—rations were served out; wood, water, and fire, made ready: and while the meat was boiling—or broiling, more frequently, upon a wooden spit—the men would sit together in groups on the grass, and chat. After dinner, they employed themselves for a short time in washing both themselves and their linen in the neighbouring streams—cleaning their arms, clothes, &c., and then a pipe and a cup of grog prepared the way for a sweet and sound sleep on the turf.

A description of the manner in which I have seen bullocks slaughtered on the march, may not be uninteresting. We had our own butchers,—men from the ranks; but, in general, the oxen were slaughtered by Spaniards or Portuguese: and, in my mind, their mode of depriving a bullock of life is by far the most expeditious; it certainly gives little, if any, torture to the animal. They, having tied a noose about the horns of the beast, drew the end of it round a tree, and secured the head close to it; then instantly pushed a sharp-pointed knife down between the back of the skull and the first vertebræ of the neck: this was no sooner done than the animal was dead: the veins of the neck were then opened, and the blood flowed.

In the division with which I marched, the Spanish butcher adopted a singular mode of securing the bullock destined for slaughter; he had trained a huge mastiff to be his assistant, and thus they operated:—the butcher held his dog by a chain, and having let loose one of the drove of oxen, took the chain off the mastiff, and gave him the word; the dog ran instantly to the bullock; seized him by the nose in his teeth; and, without the least noise, held him forcibly down: the butcher then plunged the knife in, and the animal rolled lifeless. All this was done in less than half a minute. The first place at which I witnessed this dog at his calling, was at Villa Diego; and no sooner were the veins of the neck opened, than several Spanish old women, with pans in their hands, squabbled about catching the blood: the greatest vixen succeeded in obtaining it; and I learnt that it was to be used as food for her family. It is said that the poor of Connaught eat the blood of oxen; if so, may not the practice have been brought over by the Spaniards, from whom the inhabitants of that province claim extraction?

We were now in a mountainous country, and consequently the army, which had been all united on the march after crossing the Esla, was obliged to separate, and move by various roads to one point. In a day or two we found that the French were about to give up their running, and try their fortune by a stand. We were halted on the 20th of June, about four or five miles from Vittoria, and our columns closed in from various directions: we were told by several peasants that the French, under the command of Joseph Buonaparte and Marshal Jourdain, were between us and Vittoria; and when we saw the Duke of Wellington pass along the road close to us, with several of his generals, we suspected we should not long lie idle: we knew his Grace was going to the front to reconnoitre. I never saw him look better in my life; the march had improved his health, and success had brightened his looks in such a manner, that I fancied he felt confident of beating the enemy in “off hand” style at the first brush. I observed the several Portuguese battalions pass, as fresh for work as if they had not marched two miles; and in several Spanish corps which crossed us to the left under the command of Colonel Longa, I saw physical strength, although neither equipment nor high spirits. Our own troops looked as well as ever they did—the sun-browned and laughing faces of Johns, Pats, and Sawneys, gave assurance that they were highly disposed to enjoy “a bit of diversion.”

During the 20th the men refreshed themselves with change of linen, &c. in the best way they could, and enjoyed the evening of that day as happily as if they were reposing after a hunting excursion; every shade had its group, and the country afforded the most picturesque situations for bivouacking. My dinner was spread upon a green spot beneath an overhanging bank, covered with thick foliage, which shut out the hot sun; a clear stream rippling beneath; and here six of us enjoyed an evening’s chat as comfortably as if we were on the banks of one of the Cumberland lakes. We expected to be engaged next day, and the allusions which this expectation brought forth, although calculated to stir up some thoughts of home and friends, did not abate that cheerfulness which the scene present diffused. Our mortal enemy, old Death, was spoken of occasionally, but it was with a smile; no more was thought about him than about Marshal Jourdain or the ex-king Joe.

The night closed around, and the thousands lay down to sleep upon the turf; some by large fires, some beneath the cover of temporary huts, and some with nothing over them but their blankets, and the universal coverlid—beneath which many were to lie the following night for ever without waking! The weather was mild and delightful—the sky was beautiful, and many eyes were employed in gazing on it, and picturing over its blue breast the sweet scenes of home—the faces of those friends then far away! That was the hour for thinking; and I have no doubt it was so spent by thousands of the soldiers before they sunk into sleep.

On the morning of the 21st, we commenced our march early, and in two hours we came to an open country, on the right of which was a ridge of hills; about a mile distant on the left, a gradual descent of even land to a village about two miles off; far in the front—perhaps at three miles’ distance—were the spires of Vittoria to be seen rising to our view as we advanced; while about half a mile in our front we could spy the Frenchmen’s huts, and they themselves running to arms as if we had surprised them:—indeed this was the case; for their cooking utensils were on their fires when our advanced troops trod over their ground. Columns of French were now to be seen moving about in the distance, and columns of our own men were every moment emerging from cover. The Staff was everywhere to be seen galloping to and fro—brigades of artillery and regiments of cavalry taking up their ground; and in about twenty minutes a column of Spaniards, led by General Murillo, moved out from the right of our line—Hill’s divisions—up towards the heights, and commenced firing upon the enemy stationed there: these hills are called the heights of La Puebla, and here rested the enemy’s left. The Spaniards, we could see, made good their ground on the hills; but reinforcements of French troops advanced against them, and Lord Hill ordered out two regiments of British troops to support the Spaniards, led by the Hon. Colonel Cadogan of the 71st. Now began the fight, and every moment increased it. The red coats were met by increased numbers of the blue, and the firing became incessant; the Spaniards poured in their balls in good style on the advancing French, who attemped to overwhelm with numbers their small force; but Lord Hill detached column after column to the attack: we could only distinguish the men as a body, but could not see the individuals; however, the colour of the coats sufficiently marked out friend from foe, and the reds were evidently “doing the business.” The 71st had fired and stood the fire a considerable time, but could not mount the hill effectually (as I have heard from an officer then present): at this time their commander, the Hon. Colonel Cadogan received a ball in the groin: he fell, and was immediately surrounded by some of his men, and lifted up by them in order to be removed to the rear: the 71st was then about to apply to their old friend the bayonet—ready for the charge: their Colonel lay in the arms of two soldiers, the balls showering from the hills—“Stop! stop!” said he, “don’t take me away until I see my men charge!” It was done, and gallantly—up hill too: the Colonel cheered as well as his failing voice would allow, and his last moments were blessed with the smile of victory. The hills were very soon taken, and the enemy driven in.

The artillery now thundered from both sides; and down to the left we could see General Graham’s wing advancing against a distant village there. This was the part of the army to which I belonged; and now, for the first time since the march began, had an opportunity of gaining my division. The centre of the army, with which I then stood, now advanced to cross the Zadora, a small river—for Lord Hill had crossed it soon after he gained the heights; firing was everywhere along the line, before me and on both sides; the French stood bravely and poured in their musketry; their cannon was not a moment silent, unless stormed and taken by our men. I saw a couple of field pieces attacked by a regiment of Portuguese, and they astonished me with their courage and activity—they leaped over the guns like madmen, although blazing in their teeth, and captured them gallantly.

Having now seen where my station ought to be, I determined to proceed to it, and without a moment’s delay galloped to the left, in the rear of the line, just as the troops crossed the river; and I arrived at the village attacked by Sir T. Graham (Gamarra Mayor) just as the bridge was carried. Three pieces of artillery fortified this bridge; but notwithstanding this, as well as a powerful force of infantry for its defence, our troops overcame all; but not without considerable loss. At this place, both the Colonels of the 59th (Weare and Fane) fell, while gallantly leading their men to the bridge.

It was now about half-past two or three o’clock in the afternoon, and no artillery but ours was to be heard; retreating columns and broken crowds were to be seen at various distances, to the extent of about half a mile in breadth, while our men were pursuing. Our dragoons advanced upon their rear—the infantry after them; but from the difficulty of the ground, the cavalry could not finish so completely as was to be wished, what the infantry had begun. The artillery followed up, and cannonaded the flying in their best style; and it was clear that victory was our own at every point.

We marched on to Vittoria without firing a shot; and on the left of the town I had the pleasure of seeing the whole baggage, treasure, &c. of the enemy, in the hands of our troops. It was now getting late in the evening; the whole army continued the pursuit; but too much was done during the day to expect that the troops could advance much beyond Vittoria; they did, however, a couple of leagues, when they halted; and thus the scattered French escaped farther punishment. I was sent on duty to the town of Vittoria, and there passed the night.

The scene which presented itself in the town that evening may be easily imagined:—prisoners—wounded—drunken Spaniards—stray horses and mules running to and fro—broken carriages—dead and dying—the inhabitants panic-struck—the rear of our light dragoons galloping through the town—fires in the streets—drunken plunderers rolling about—the groan and the laugh and the imprecation—all mingled! Such was Vittoria after the battle. To increase the confusion, an explosion took place, which shook every house and spread consternation around: none could imagine the cause. I at first supposed treachery from the Spaniards, but a moment’s consideration removed this suspicion. In a short time our Provost and his assistants informed us of the nature of this explosion. The 18th Dragoons, and many stragglers of infantry, had remained to help themselves to dubloons from a French military chest, which fell into our hands near the town, and plunder raged for two or three hours; our soldiers would not take silver—nothing but gold would pass with them; the former they left to the Spaniards, for it was absolutely a “drug in the market.” About ten o’clock it became dark, and amongst the crowd of waggons, many, containing the treasure, might escape; therefore a number of Spanish peasants, muleteers, &c. procured candles, and went in search of farther golden discoveries, in order to open an opposition mine for themselves, as the English showed such monopoly in their companies. In the prosecution of this speculation, one of them happened to thrust his candle into a powder waggon, while his coadjutors were surrounding it, waiting for the report upon its merits; the mine sprung, and hurled the company into the air: many were blown to atoms, and those who escaped immediate death, I saw next day—they were as black as Africans, their heads and faces swollen, and their eyes closed up: poor creatures, they presented a pitiable sight! very few of them recovered. Had these men been satisfied with humble silver, and not have run after mining speculations, they would have done better; but such folly is not confined to ignorant peasants—the great metropolis of London has furnished us with examples of far greater avarice and folly in the pursuit of gold mines.

The only wholesale dealer in the plunder of the French military chest who essayed his talents at Vittoria, was a commissariat officer: he very coolly ordered one of his muleteers to load eight or nine mules with boxes of dubloons, and dispatched him with a letter of consignment to Lisbon; where, had the treasure arrived, the commissary’s fortune would have been made. But it was otherwise ordained; for the muleteer, in going back through Spain, boasted at a posado that he had immense treasure in his charge. An Alcaldi was present drinking; and from the circumstances of the mules being without a military escort, yet admitted to contain specie, suspicion arose. He continued to drink with the muleteer, and the latter, in his careless cups, dropped the letter which the commissary had given him to deliver to his correspondent at Lisbon. The Alcaldi withdrew; opened the letter—and with the help of the curate of the village, who knew a little English, discovered that the treasure was not sent by any authority. In consequence of this, he seized the whole—mules, muleteer, and all. The result was, that the gold was sent back, and the commissary thought it right to run away, without waiting for farther enquiry. Thus ended his speculation: but speculation at best is only speculation—except in this case; for here it lost a letter, and therefore was clearly—peculation.

The day after the battle, I, in company with another, rode out to view the ground where the armies had so recently contended. It was strewed with dead and wounded, accoutrements and arms; a great part of the latter broken. At those points where obstinate fighting took place, the ground was covered with bodies: a great number of wounded, both French, English, and Portuguese, lay along the road, groaning and craving water. The village of Gamarra Mayor was shattered with heavy shot, and the bridge covered with dead, as well as its arches choked up with bodies and accoutrements. We returned by the main road, to where the centre of the army was engaged. Here were the French huts, and their broken provisions, half cooked, lying about; this was a level interspersed with little hillocks and brushwood: we were then surrounded with dead and wounded; several cars were employed in collecting the latter. A few straggling peasants could be seen at a distance, watching an opportunity for plunder—there was a dreadful silence over the scene. A poor Irishwoman ran up to one of the surgeons near us, and with tears in her eyes, asked where was the hospital of the 82nd regiment—I think it was the 82nd—she wrung her hands, and said that the men told her she would find her husband wounded; and she had travelled back for the purpose. The surgeon told her that the only hospital on the field was in a cottage, to which he pointed; but informed her that all the wounded would be conveyed to Vittoria. The half-frantic woman proceeded towards the cottage, over the bodies which lay in her way, and had not gone more than about fifty yards, when she fell on her face, and uttered the most bitter cries. We hastened to her—she was embracing the body of a sergeant, a fine tall fellow, who lay on his face. “Oh! it’s my husband—it’s my husband!” said she; “and he is dead and cold.” One of the men turned the body on his face; the sergeant had been shot in the neck, and his ankle was shattered. The lamentations of the woman were of the most heart-rending kind, but not loud. She continued to sit by her lifeless husband, gazing on his pale countenance, and moving her head and body to and fro, in the most bitter agony of woe:—she talked to the dead in the most affectionate language—of her orphans—of her home—and of their former happiness. After a considerable time, by persuasion, we got her upon one of the cars with the wounded, and placed the body of her husband beside her; this we did, because she expressed a wish to have it buried by a clergyman. She thanked us more by looks than words, and the melancholy load proceeded slowly to Vittoria.

In our way back to the town, my companion’s attention was attracted by a dead Portuguese; he raised up the body, and asked me to look through it—I did absolutely look through it. A cannon-ball had passed into the breast and out at the back—and so rapid must have been its transit, from its forming such a clear aperture—in circumference about twelve inches—that the man must have been close to the cannon’s mouth when he was shot—it spoke volumes for the courage of the troops.

The hospital at Vittoria that evening presented a sad spectacle; not only was part of it filled with wounded, but the streets all round it—about two thousand men, including those of the French with those of the Allies. Owing to the rapid, and perhaps unexpected, advance of the army, there were only three surgeons to attend to this vast number of wounded, for the first two days after the battle; and, from the same reason, no provisions were to be had for them for a week! The Commissariat had not provided for the exigency, and the small portion of bread that could be purchased was sold at three shillings per pound. From these casualties, I often thought since, that in cases of expected general actions, if one half of both medical and commissariat staff were under orders to remain on the field until relieved, instead of following their respective divisions, it would obviate such privations. However, there is every excuse in this case, considering the unexpected rapidity of the advance. No fault whatever can be laid to either of the departments in this instance: it was wholly owing to advancing to such distance beyond Vittoria, as required too long a time to retrace.

In going through the hospital, I saw in one room not less than thirty Hussars—of the 10th and 15th, I think—all wounded by lances; and one of them had nineteen wounds in his body:—the surgeon had already amputated his left arm. One of the men described the way in which so many of their brigade became wounded. He said, that in charging the rear of the enemy as they were retreating, the horses had to leap up a bank, nearly breast high, to make good the level above. At this moment, a body of Polish Lancers, headed by a General, dashed in upon them, the General crying out, in broken English, “Come on! I care not for your fine Hussar brigade.” They fought for a considerable time, and although ultimately the Lancers retired and left the ground to the Hussars, yet the latter lost many killed and wounded. “That man,” said the Hussar, “who lies there with the loss of his arm and so dreadfully wounded, fought a dozen Lancers, all at him at once, and settled some of them; at last he fell, and the Lancers were about to kill him, when the General cried out to take him to the rear, for he was a brave fellow. The skirmish continued, and the General cut that man there across the nose, in fighting singly with him—but he killed the General after all.”

I turned and saw a young Hussar, with a gash across his nose, and he confirmed what his comrade said. The man who had the nineteen wounds, I have since heard, recovered: he seemed much to regret the fate of the General who saved his life. I saw this brave officer’s body buried the next day in the principal church in Vittoria.

In passing through another part of the hospital, I perceived a Portuguese female lying on the ground upon straw, in the midst of numbers of wounded men. I enquired of her, was she wounded. She pointed to her breast, and showed me where the bullet had passed. I asked her how she received the shot, and was horror-struck when the dying woman informed me that it was her marido,—her own husband,—who shot her just as the action was commencing—she said he deliberately put the muzzle of his gun to her breast and fired! This may be false; I hope it is, for the sake of humanity:—it might be that the woman was plundering the dead; and perhaps killing the wounded, when some of the latter shot her. However, be the fact as it may, it was thus she told her story. She was in great pain, and I should think did not live much longer.

Colonels Weare and Fane, who fell so gloriously, were buried behind this hospital:—but I have dwelt upon this circumstance at another part of the work.

The people of Vittoria were very far from enthusiastic in favour of the English, although they behaved with apparent gratitude; but this may be accounted for by the yet uncertainty which prevailed, as to our ultimate power of driving the French out of Spain. Bull-fights and balls took place, and the new constitution was read and honoured; but there was a want of warmth in the people, quite incompatible with true patriotism:—on the whole, it was supposed that Vittoria was not unfavourable to foreign tyranny.

A few days after the battle, the 6th division of the army passed through Vittoria, on their march to join the main body of the army. This division, from having been often employed on detached service, acquired the name of the “Flying Invisibles,” by the rest of the army. They were certainly not at the battle; but it was not their fault, for they were left three days’ march in the rear, to protect the transport of the stores, &c. The men presented a motley appearance; they had not received a supply of clothing as had been expected, and the consequence was that scarcely any red cloth was to be seen amongst their jackets, so patched were they with that of every other colour. Many had no shoes, and altogether they excited commiseration; but the men themselves were as hearty and as healthy as any soldiers in the army.

While I remained at Vittoria, I learned that an attempt to storm St. Sebastian had been made by the allied armies, and had failed: it was also stated that the Spaniards of the fortress were the most active in defending the breach. Little fighting, I believe, took place in front, except at Roncesvalles and the pass of Maya—the gates of the French territory; and here, I believe, there was an effectual attack made by the French against our troops—at least so far successful, that the latter were obliged to retire a little, after having fought gallantly. A considerable number of men wounded in this affair were sent back to Vittoria.

I was now ordered to the front, and after a few days’ marches through a most delightful and tranquil country, arrived at a village near Pamplona, called Bastania. Here were quartered two heavy Dragoon regiments—all the cavalry, indeed, were near; for it was a wide open country, and consequently fit for the operations of Dragoons. In the centre was the fortified town of Pamplona, within a mile of which we durst not approach. The Pyrenees were about half a mile in front of Bastania, and the cavalry were placed here in case the enemy should succeed in forcing their way down to the plain for the relief of the citadel, in which 1,200 French were shut up:—had they done so, the horse could have acted with great effect upon them. This was in the latter end of July; and I believe the Duke of Wellington had closed the army in from the right, and intended to push on with his whole force to France. The Spaniards he had placed to invest Pamplona.

I slept at Bastania the night I arrived: there were not more than a dozen houses in the village, and all filled with dragoons. Into one of those I went, and found the ground-floor covered thickly with straw, upon which the soldiers—about thirty in all—were lying. They immediately made room for me:—my servant slept with my horses in an out-house. I was fatigued; and so, without any other refreshment than a cup of commissariat grog, lay down and slept happily until the trumpeter sounded “Boots and Saddles:” this was at two o’clock in the morning, and I had been asleep about three hours. The men were soon out and horsed—so was I. The baggage of the dragoons all packed and mounted—every thing ready for “a breeze.” The morning was dark, and for the time of year, rather chilly: I could not see to a great distance, but within my view passed several troops of heavy dragoons proceeding towards the foot of the mountains. There was scarcely any sound but that from the motion of the horses—the men spoke but little, and were yet half asleep. I moved towards the main road, in order to come up with my division, which was in front; but I soon found that it would be unsafe to proceed, on account of a fog which arose, completely obscuring every thing around. In consequence of this I dismounted; took off my saddle; put it on the ground; and directing my servant to stake the horses to their tethers, lay down with my head resting on it. I can assure my readers, that a saddle is no bad substitute for a pillow when the ground is the bed. The spot I selected was soft, though not dry; it was in a furrow of a ploughed field. I was rolled in my blanket, and for an hour never enjoyed a sounder sleep: but I did not find the waking quite so pleasant; for it had rained heavily during my enjoyment, and I felt myself nearly covered by the watery bed of the furrow: however, I shook off my blanket—saddled, and mounted. It was daylight, but not yet sunrise: as I proceeded towards the mountains, I could see to my right, over the distant plain, several bodies of horse evidently stationed to be ready in case the enemy forced their way down—the town of Pamplona on my left in the centre of the plain—the tricolore flying, and occasional guns—I suppose signals—firing. The Pyrenees were capped in grey mist, and therefore I could not discern any of our infantry upon them; but I knew they were in their position there, and had fought the two preceding days in defence of it.

In my way I passed through the bivouac of the Spanish army which blockaded Pamplona, and there beheld a most sublime spectacle—it was the celebration of their religious rites, the mass, in the open air, close to a ruined house. It was now sunrise, and the hour with the circumstances of the time, gave the uncovered and kneeling soldiery a most interesting appearance. The priest was a bald and reverend looking man, and his sacerdotal robes made him look like a patriarch. I stopped in a reverie of admiration—out of which, however, I was roused in a few minutes by the sound of distant firing on the heights; so I left the Spaniards to their prayers, and galloped on towards where there was something going on, which to me was far more interesting.

In about ten minutes more I was upon the mountain where our division was drawn up: they had not yet fired a shot, nor seen a Frenchman, but expected every moment to be engaged. The scene of action here, is to be imagined by the reader placing himself ideally on the top of a bold hill, or moderately sized mountain; in front, and on each side, are similar hills or mountains—some smaller—some greater; far in the front the higher Pyrenees; and, behind, the wide plain, on which stands Pamplona. Over this scene let him then throw the most picturesque foliage—a village or two in the distant valleys—the ground spread with heath and furze: thus he will have the view of where the gallant battle of the Pyrenees was gained, after four days of terrible contest. The fight here was very different from a fight on a plain: in this it was a continual attempt on the part of Soult, with all the force he could collect, to pass the hills, for the relief of Pamplona, and as continual a resistance on the part of the allies—hill after hill was attacked and defended with the most heroic energy on both sides. But our people performed a still more glorious and prodigious task; for not only did they defend their own position, but attacked Soult’s, which was stronger than their’s; and thus for the second time during the campaign, made a wreck of the French army!

Soult was determined to pass to Pamplona if possible; he therefore brought all his power to the point: even his unfledged conscripts were not excused—boys of fifteen, in white undress, unable to use the bayonet; these he posted where they could pull their triggers without being exposed to a charge from our steel, while his veterans were employed in more dangerous situations. Before the attack, Soult in person appeared amongst them at the front, pointed towards the invested town, and offered every man a certain reward in cash, as soon as they passed the few hills before them, and relieved their blockaded countrymen. All this could not suffice; and the best General of France, with a powerful army, could not push over a quarter of a mile of ground, while the British defended it! nor although aware of the Duke of Wellington’s intention of invasion, could they keep him from pursuing them across their own frontiers! On this battle depended the fate of the Peninsula—perhaps of Europe:—the trust fell into worthy hands, and they did their duty.

In about half an hour after I joined the division, a hill in front and on our right, defended by Portuguese, was attacked; the latter received the French with a volley, and then, shouting, advanced down the hill with the bayonet: a cheer from our men involuntarily burst out, and the French rolled and ran, pursued about a hundred yards. The hill was of great importance to us, and very desirable to the enemy: this was the first attack upon it, and having failed, reinforcements were preparing to accomplish its conquest:—we could see several columns of the enemy moving down from another mountain towards it; but this was provided for by our chief, who reinforced the gallant Portuguese by the 48th British regiment, and a regiment of Spaniards. Here then was the hardest fighting for two days—the 27th and 28th; attacks were repeatedly made upon this point, in the most able manner by the French, and as often defeated. Soult and Wellington were both placed within sight of each other, upon the tops of hills, anxiously observing this terrible strife at various times; and the anxiety of the former could be seen plainly in all his attitudes. During this time several other points were assailed, gained and lost: it was up hill at one moment, and down the next; and considering that those hills were so steep at some places, that I was nearly breathless in mounting one, besides a hot sun blazing over us, it is to be wondered how such prodigies of valour were accomplished. I do not know why, but certain it is, that our men usually did more execution when charging up a hill than down; there seemed to be a greater energy about them in overcoming their difficulties, and perhaps a desire of revenge for the advantage their enemy seemed to take of them in firing down at them as they advanced. As an instance of this, I will mention the following fact:—When our troops were passing the Bidassoa, the firing from a bold height on the French bank of the river galled them very much; the water was up to the middle of their bodies, and the men were obliged to hold their muskets over their heads to keep them dry: many fell; others, wounded, continued to cross the ford; the hill in front was to be mounted and taken by those troops in the water, and a strong force was defending it. The men became outrageous as they looked up at the muskets of their enemies pointed at them; and frequent oaths and imprecations plainly showed that they would seek satisfaction when they crossed the river.—“Oh! by J——! we’ll give it to you by and by, you French beggars. D——your eyes, we’ll sarve you out,” &c. &c. Such expressions as these were heard from every man, and when arrived on the other side of the river, scarcely a moment passed till they were up on the heights—stabbing, butting, and flinging over the rocks the bodies of their enemies. The height was gained, and on the top of it they gave three cheers, which made Fontarabia ring. But—to the narrative.

During the 27th and 28th, the contest produced nothing decisive, except that Soult could not gain his point, and the whole line of hills were at one time or other the scene of active operation—cannon, musketry, and bayonet, were all at work. On the 28th, the French made a desperate attack on the 6th division, which had been sent by the Duke of Wellington to occupy the heights on the left, across a valley near Orican: the moment this division appeared, the enemy advanced on it, but was received in fine style—they got into a cul de sac; for the fourth division on their left was so placed on hills as to effect a most destructive fire on their flank, while they gave them their vollies from a ridge upon their right, as well as in front, so that at this point the French met with unequivocal defeat.

The third day closed in darkness, and the work of death ceased for a time. The men were now so familiar with the carnage around that they cared nothing about it: many laid themselves down beside dead comrades and enemies mingled: all slept soundly on the mountain heath that night—not even bestowing a thought upon whether they were to fight next day or not; and when the bugle sounded and the drum beat next morning, jumped up as fresh as if they had been at a review; then, after eating their cold beef and biscuit, and swallowing a mouthful of rum, were ready in their ranks to renew the scenes of the preceding days—nay, anxious for the fight.

This was the day for glory. The Duke attacked Soult on the right and left at once, which proving successful, he dashed at the centre. This was now a change from defence to attack, and the enemy in a few hours were driven from all their strong points, and retreated. Yet they fought desperately: at one village alone—the first on the main road from Pamplona to the pass of Maia—the British were driven back four times; but took and held it on the fifth: the road here was covered with dead of both sides, and well proved the valour with which both fought, in that masterly victory which opened the barrier of France to the allies—led the Portuguese and Spaniards to the glory of shouting “Retribution” in their persecutor’s country—and once more passed the ranks of heroes over the consecrated ground of Roncesvalles.

The whole of the road over which we pursued the retreating and broken army, was covered with the wreck of its baggage and artillery—hundreds of dead mules were lying about, having been killed with fatigue, or hurled off the precipices along which the road sometimes passed—waggons, guns, carriages, tumbrils, casks, medicine chests, and dead men, were the objects that every where, like Rosamond’s clue, marked the track of the devoted victims:—a sickening sight, which, while engaged in the heat of pursuit, was viewed without emotion; but when calm reflection took her seat in the soldier’s mind, was not to be contemplated by him without unenviable feelings.

On this march nothing remarkable occurred in the part of the army where I was stationed. The siege of San Sebastian was begun by Sir Thomas Graham, while the front of our main force occupied the border line of France on the Bidassoa. The two contending armies remained in sight of each other—Soult fortifying the frontier of his threatened country, and Wellington refreshing his victorious troops until after the fall of San Sebastian. All this time the Duke’s head-quarters were at Lesacco, in the mountains, a town about four leagues south of Passages; and these four leagues, I may say, with a little allowance—was up one side of a mountain and down the other,—a wretched town; and perhaps never before had it to boast of the domicile of so many heroes—such glittering nobility. Here, for the greatest part of a rainy and raw winter, the indefatigable Commander of the Forces fixed his quarters; and here I have seen him working with an energy which often threatened his life. He rode so much one week, that he was confined for several succeeding days to his bed; and I have seen his fifteen valuable English chargers led out by the groom to exercise, with scarcely any flesh on their bones—so active and vigilant was their noble rider, and so much were his horses used. Every day during the siege of San Sebastian, I saw the Duke, unattended by his staff, riding by my window, in a narrow street of Renteria, on his way to the besieged fortress, accompanied by an old artillery or engineer officer,—I believe Sir R. Fletcher,6—and dressed in a plain grey frock, white cravat, and cocked hat—evidently intent on the matters of the siege; this was upwards of thirty miles a day for a ride, between breakfast and dinner; but he has often rode double that distance, over the worst of roads and in the worst of weather.

The siege of San Sebastian was the next important operation of the Allied Army. This was entrusted to Sir Thomas Graham, under the eye of the Duke of Wellington. From being quartered at Renteria, for three weeks previous to the capture of that fortress, I had an opportunity of witnessing the whole affair; and scarcely a day passed without my visiting the works before it: but from the commencement of the siege up to the battering down of the walls, nothing took place to require a particular notice, beyond the description I have given of the siege of Flushing, in another part of this work: generally speaking, the operations were similarly conducted. The storming of the town, however, was a scene in the campaign of which I write, which ought not to be passed over unnoticed. As I beheld, so will I describe it; and so mighty an achievement as the capture of this town was, I would be happy to hear described by every individual who was engaged in it; for each would tell what he had seen; which, although all generally the same, would be different in particulars, and therefore, like Mosaic work, form a picture of the highest value. We have had several descriptions of the storming of San Sebastian, amongst which that given by the author of “The Subaltern,” (a deservedly popular work) is by far the best, and, with but few exceptions, correctly true—at least those exceptions are at variance with what I recollect of the affair. The author of “The Subaltern” describes what he saw, as a stormer of the town; I can only speak as a spectator: both our remarks, therefore, may be taken as separate parts of the same picture.

San Sebastian is situated at the foot of a high rock, upon the top of which is a fortified castle; the town surrounds this rock, and is backed by the open sea. A river runs in front of the town, into which the sea flows; but at low water it is fordable; and its banks of yellow sand appear to our right—imagining us fronting the town. On first beholding San Sebastian, one supposes it is situated on a little island; but on closer approach, it is seen connected by a neck of land, which at high water is very narrow; and on this neck, which is an island at high water, is a fort mounting three or four guns:—but the best way to proceed in the description, I think, is to place my reader in the position which I took up myself at the battering and storming of the town.

To our right, on a high bold hill, which overtops several others near it, and whose side, next the town, is nearly perpendicular, was a mortar battery:—here must the reader stand. About half a mile in his front and a little to his left, stands San Sebastian around its high rock and castle—its walls watered by the Gurumea stream, and relieved in the distance by the wide blue waters of the Bay of Biscay. To the left of the town he will see several picturesque hills, lessening away into the horizon, while to his right he will behold the Bay of Biscay washing the feet of the Pyrenees. Immediately under him, a little to the left, are situated the British batteries and trenches, on a tolerably level ground, and flanked on the other side by several hills, upon the most forward of which stood the chief of the siege, Sir Thomas Graham;7—these, for the most part, covered with apple-trees. Behind all this is a beautifully picturesque and hilly country—the Lake of Leso may be seen, like a patch of shining glass, in the midst of foliage and fertile fields—an occasional farm-house shows itself in the valleys and on the brows of the hills—while the background is formed by the gigantic mountains of the Pyreenees. I can only compare the position which I have now pointed out to my readers, to the highest seat of an amphitheatre, at the bottom of which lies the exhibition for his eye:—the batteries,—the river,—the town,—the encamped army,—all were below; and over the whole I could gaze as on the Thames from the towers of Windsor,—the yellow verging sands of Dublin Bay from Killiny Hill,—or Edinboro’ from the Calton.

On the night of the 26th, the fort between the town and our lines was carried by assault, and its defenders taken prisoners. This was done by a detachment of infantry, assisted by a few marines and sailors: little work was made about this affair, and the garrison, it is supposed, were not aware of it until daylight. On the morning of the 27th, the signal was made to open the fire upon the town; and I can only remember it by having been awakened out of a sound sleep, at three miles’ distance from San Sebastian, by the tremendous roar of the cannon. The batteries continued to play upon the town almost incessantly, for nearly four days and nights,—the cannon at the front wall, for the purpose of effecting a breach—the mortars at the ramparts and the houses. The French returned the fire from both the Castle and walls with great rapidity—their shells were thrown in every direction; but this vigorous return was soon over; for, on the second day of the cannonade, their guns on the walls were silenced; so they contented themselves with throwing a few shells and an occasional shot from the Castle upon the troops in our trenches, whose well-directed muskets were annoying the enemy whenever they appeared on the walls.

Observing the balls striking the wall at one point, first led the beholders to suppose that no impression could possibly be made on the massive and compact structure; for the perceptible effect was that a little dust arose from the spot where each shot struck; and then the ball dropped down, leaving no appearance whatever of an impression: but continued firing first loosened a stone, then moved it, and ultimately displaced it: when this was accomplished, it required very little more to widen the breach to a sufficient extent for storming.

During the day-time the scene was awfully grand—but far more so at night; and from the hill upon which I stood, it had the most terrible aspect. Fancy yourself over the potteries of Staffordshire in a balloon, when the face of the country is covered with fires; this may be likened in some degree, to the trenches and ramparts—dark and flame alternately mixed: then the roaring of the guns, more loud than a thousand thunders; and the shells crossing each other, in their route to destruction:—none could behold the scene without awe and horror!

The breach having been completed on the 30th, the storming party prepared to enter; and on the 31st at about ten o’clock in the morning, the forlorn hope, at the appointed time—which was the hour of low-water—advanced from the trenches. I could see them plainly: one followed the other rapidly into the stream, and boldly advanced—poor fellows! a thousand balls were showered on them, and they dropped as fast as they arrived at about the middle of the river—men followed men, into the gulph of death—yet several arrived at the opposite bank: on they went to the breach, followed by their comrades, and there were knocked down by grape and bullets from the walls: but by rapidly crowding over the heaped up dead, a mass of men succeeded in getting on the breach: there they were stopped by balls and bayonets. At this moment, a mine sprung outside the wall, and threw our advancing men into confusion, killing several; but under the cover of the smoke occasioned by it, many of the rear got up to the breach. Sir Thomas Graham now ordered the heavy artillery to aim over the heads of our men, so as to clear the ramparts of the opposing force, through the embrasures: this was admirably done: I could see the balls striking above them, and knocking stones and rubbish in upon the French, as well as sweeping them away.—Every shot made my heart thrill with delight; for the poor fellows, who were struggling to get into the breach, against such fearful odds, were dropping every instant; but this masterly experiment made immediate way for advance. There were several Spanish females on the hill where I was, and the tears rolled down their cheeks like rain, while this was going on; and many of the men who beheld it could not refrain from weeping. The constant exclamations from one to another, was, “Do you think they are likely to get in?—How long they are on the breach!—God help them!—Brave fellows!”—Not only the English present, but the Spanish, thus heartily felt for the gallant soldiers who were standing on the threshold of death awaiting destruction. At this moment, a column of Portuguese advanced boldly out over the sand, on the right of the town, and exactly under the battery in which I stood: they marched at ordinary time. As soon as they appeared, the grape was showered in amongst them, and strewed the yellow sands with the blue jackets; yet the column never broke, but intrepidly marched into the river up to the arm-pits, and gained the wall of the town; the water all around them, while passing, bubbling by shot as if from large hail—so it appeared to me from the distance. The Portuguese continued along the wall, and mounted the breach gallantly. All this time, the breach was receiving a most destructive flanking fire, from the projections of the walls on both sides—they kept up a continual shower of bullets from the embrasures; fortunately now a mine sprung on the ramparts by accident, and destroyed numbers of the French: a dense black cloud of smoke arose from it: our artillery was sweeping the ramparts, and at this juncture the surviving men on the breach cleared their way into the town—advancing columns followed fast—the batteries ceased—and the work of the British bayonet began. The hearts of all who beheld the attack were now at ease—the artillery men rested on their guns, and shook hands with each other—all was quiet outside the town, but wild uproar and destruction within. In about half an hour after this, we could see the French mounting the rock inside the citadel, to shut themselves up in the castle; then we felt convinced that the town was taken. The French continued to fire upon their pursuers all the way up the hill, and we could track them by the smoke of their guns.8