Title: The Military Adventures of Charles O'Neil - Who was a Soldier in the Army of Lord Wellington during - the Memorable Peninsular War and the Continental Campaigns - from 1811 to 1815
Author: O'Neil, Charles
Language: English
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[Illustration: WHIPPING AT GIBRALTAR. PAGE 47.]



  THE

  MILITARY ADVENTURES

  OF

  CHARLES O’NEIL,

  WHO WAS A SOLDIER IN THE ARMY OF LORD WELLINGTON DURING THE
  MEMORABLE PENINSULAR WAR AND THE CONTINENTAL
  CAMPAIGNS FROM 1811 TO 1815;

  INCLUDING FULL HISTORIES OF
  THE BLOODY BATTLE OF BAROSSA,
  AND
  THE MEMORABLE SIEGE OF BADAJOS;
  TOGETHER WITH A GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF THE
  BATTLE OF WATERLOO,
  TERMINATING WITH THE OVERTHROW OF NAPOLEON;
  IN ALL OF WHICH HE WAS AN ACTOR.


  ILLUSTRATED BY SIX SPLENDID ENGRAVINGS.


  WORCESTER:
  PUBLISHED FOR THE AUTHOR BY EDWARD LIVERMORE.
  1851.



  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851,
  BY CHARLES O’NEIL,
  In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of
    Massachusetts.


  Stereotyped by
  HOBART & ROBBINS;
  NEW ENGLAND TYPE AND STEREOTYPE FOUNDERY,
  BOSTON.



PREFACE.


The history of times and events, of men and their characters, must
ever be replete with interest and instruction. Chronicles of the great
and wise, the noble and the learned, are often presented to the world;
and the military hero and chieftain finds everywhere his biographer.
We read of campaigns that his mind has traced out, of battles which
his plans have won; and we forget, in our admiration of his skill and
power, those by whom the heroic deeds were done, the victory gained.
Generals, says one author, “often calculate upon men as though they
were blocks of wood, or movable machines.” Yet every one of these
nameless soldiers has feelings as acutely alive to suffering and to
honor as those who look upon them thus.

It is well sometimes to turn away from the glare and tinsel of rank,
from the glitter of arms and the pageantry of war, to follow the common
soldier in his partings and wanderings, to cast the glance of pity upon
his sufferings, and allow the heart to be moved with compassion while
regarding the temptations which must ever beset his path. It is only
thus that a true knowledge of the evils and miseries of war can be
obtained; and only when this knowledge is spread far and wide, that
we may hope to see the banner of peace unfurled, and the olive-branch
waving in quiet, where now the sword spreads its desolation, and the
vulture feasts on the unburied dead.

Thoughts like these may, perhaps, lend interest to the unpretending
narrative of one who now presents himself and the scenes of his times
before an indulgent public, with none of the advantages of rank, or
birth, or fame, to recommend him to its notice. Simply one of the
rank and file, he was an actor and participator in the scenes he has
endeavored faithfully to represent.

It is his ardent wish, by this little volume, to awaken more interest
in this class of his fellow-beings, so often forgotten in the lustre of
that halo which rarely fails to surround the victor’s name.

The work, such as it is, he cheerfully commends to the _public_,
looking with unshaken trust to its kindness and sympathy for the
success and encouragement which he hopes it may be his lot to meet.

WORCESTER, JULY 4, 1851.



CONTENTS.


  CHAPTER I.

  Introductory Remarks.--The Author’s Birth.--Parentage.--Prevalence
  of the Military Spirit.--Two of his Brothers enlist, and are killed in
  the Service.--Author apprenticed to a Carpenter.--His Desire for a
  Military Life.--Leaves Home without the Consent of his
  Parents.--Reaches Belfast, and enlists.--Dissatisfied with his new
  Position.--Deserts, and returns to his Native Village.--Again enlists,
  at Navan.--Still dissatisfied, and again deserts.--Enlists a third
  Time.--Marches to Dublin, and thence to Cork.--Departs for
  England.--Incidents of the Voyage.--Sails for the Peninsula.--The Ship
  on Fire.--A Terrific Storm.--Arrives in Spain.--Gibraltar.--A
  Flogging,                                                            7


  CHAPTER II.

  Origin of the War in the Peninsula.--Siege of Saragossa.--Murderous
  Character of the War.--Success of the French in Portugal.--Battle of
  Rolica.--Battle of Vimiero.--Convention of Cintra.--The French
  evacuate Portugal.--Preparations of Napoleon for another Campaign.--He
  subdues the Country, and enters Madrid.--Address to the Spanish
  People.--Napoleon recalled by the War with Austria.--Soult and
  Ney intrusted with the Command of the French Army in Spain.--Retreat
  of Sir John Moore.--Battle of Corunna.--Death of Sir John
  Moore.--The British Army sail for England,                          50


  CHAPTER III.

  Joseph Bonaparte again King of Spain.--His Difficulties with
  Soult.--Second Siege of Saragossa.--Another English Army, under Sir
  Arthur Wellesley, lands at Lisbon.--Battle of Talavera.--The English
  retire into Portugal.--Siege of Gerona.--Principal Events of the
  Campaign of 1810.--The English Troops make a Stand at Torres
  Vedras.--Retreat of Massena.--Siege of Cadiz.--Escape of French
  Prisoners.--Opening of the Campaign of 1811,                        99


  CHAPTER IV.

  The Author, with his Regiment, leaves Gibraltar, for
  Tarifa.--Dissensions between the Spanish and English Officers.--Battle
  of Barossa.--Retreat of the French.--Suffering of the Pursuing
  Army.--Guerillas.--Don Julian Sanchez.--Juan Martin Diaz.--Xavier
  Mina.--Continued Privations of the British Army.--Adventures of the
  Author in Search of Food.--Arrival of the Commissariat with
  Provisions.--Extravagant Joy of the Troops.--Departure of the British
  Army for Badajos,                                                  123


  CHAPTER V.

  Badajos.--Its Capture by the French.--Attempts to retake it by the
  English.--Wellington invests it in Person.--Assault upon Fort
  Christoval.--Storming of the Town.--Terrific Conflict--The place
  sacked by the Victors.--Disgraceful Drunkenness and Debauchery of the
  Troops.--The Main Body of the Army depart for Beira,               160


  CHAPTER VI.

  Romantic Adventures of Sir Colquhoun Grant.--The Author ordered,
  with a Convoy, to Brussels.--Description of the Route.--The Pass of
  Roncesvalles.--Memorable Defeat of the Army of Charlemagne there.--A
  sudden Attack and Repulse.--The Author arrives at Brussels,
  and joins the Garrison of that Place,                              199


  CHAPTER VII.

  Brief Summary of Events for Four Years preceding the Battle of
  Waterloo.--Author’s Narrative resumed at that Period.--Preparation of
  Troops for the Battle.--Skirmishing preceding its
  Commencement.--Reception of the News at Brussels.--Departure of the
  English for the Field of Battle.--Disposition of the Forces.--Attack
  upon Hougomont.--Progress of the Battle.--Arrival of the Prussian
  Reinforcements.--Charge of the Old Guard.--Flight of the French.--The
  Author wounded, and left upon the Field.--Rescued by a
  Camp-follower.--Carried to the Hospital, and thence taken to
  England.--He quits the Service, and emigrates to
  America.--Conclusion,                                              217



MILITARY ADVENTURES.



CHAPTER I.

  Introductory Remarks.--The Author’s Birth.--Parentage.--Prevalence
  of the Military Spirit.--Two of his Brothers enlist, and are
  killed in the Service.--Author apprenticed to a Carpenter.--His
  Desire for a Military Life.--Leaves Home without the Consent of
  his Parents.--Reaches Belfast, and enlists.--Dissatisfied with his
  new Position.--Deserts, and returns to his Native Village.--Again
  enlists, at Navan.--Still dissatisfied, and again deserts.--Enlists
  a third Time.--Marches to Dublin, and thence to Cork.--Departs for
  England.--Incidents of the Voyage.--Sails for the Peninsula.--The
  Ship on Fire.--A Terrific Storm.--Arrives in Spain.--Gibraltar.--A
  Flogging.


People advanced somewhat in life, and surrounded by a family of
children, often find great pleasure in retracing scenes of their own
childhood,--in living over, again and again, the hours which have
been to them so productive of happiness or misery; and the events of
those bygone days present to their minds scenes of far deeper and more
thrilling interest than the present can ever do. The thrice-told tale
is as new, and as glowing with interest, as though its occurrences were
but of yesterday. This is true in the case of most whose lives have
been diversified by the changes of varied condition and prospects. But
how much more true is this of the old soldier,--one who, in early
life, became inured to the hardships of war and the severe duties of
camp life. Scenes in the camp, and on the bloody field of martial
combat, where death, in its most terrific forms, is met by many,--the
horrors of the siege, and the consequences to the vanquished,--the
sufferings, the writhings and groans, of the distressed and the
dying,--too deeply impress the mind to be ever erased; and, in our
times of peace, should serve to enhance the value of the blessings we
enjoy. It is, perhaps, with something like these feelings, that the
author of the following sketch presents his narrative to the public.
He can claim no titled ancestry, nor lordly birth, to throw around him
a fictitious glory. This tale draws its interest from the wild scenes
of war, and the wilder passions of men’s souls, which it has been his
fortune to encounter. It is his hope both to instruct and amuse the
young, that they may better prize the blessings of peace; and learn
that war, with all its glory, is to be dreaded, not sought for,--that
it is productive of far more evil than good, even to the successful
party, and that it should ever be, to all nations, only a last resort
from the most flagrant oppression.

[Sidenote: PREVALENCE OF THE MILITARY SPIRIT.]

[Sidenote: BROTHER KILLED IN BATTLE.]

I was born in Dendolk, in the county of Lowth, Ireland, in June,
1793. I was the youngest of eleven children, six of whom were sons,
and five daughters. My father’s name was Charles O’Neil, and my
mother’s maiden name was Alice McGee. My father was a carpenter by
trade, and he supported his large family by daily toil. He was an
industrious and active laborer, and in other times would gladly have
seen his family settle around him, pursuing the peaceful avocations
of husbandry, or engaged in some of the useful mechanic arts. But it
was our fortune--or misfortune, I should say--to live when all Europe
resounded to the din of arms, and the glory of martial life, amid the
confusion and carnage of battle. Napoleon, the mightiest of heroes and
conquerors, was then rapidly ascending to the zenith of his glory;
and all the crowned heads of Europe, terrified by his growing power,
and anxious to save themselves and their thrones, began to prepare
themselves for resistance. Recruits were sought for in every village
and hamlet. The honors of the soldier’s life, and the glory of the
military profession, were everywhere, and by all classes of people,
the topics of conversation. Fathers and mothers were careful to instil
into the minds of their children the glory and honor of a military
life, and the fair young damsels of our own dear island--for Ireland
has charming and beautiful girls--were scarcely willing to regard any
young man as honorable or brave, who did not enlist, and aim to deserve
well of his country. He is a soldier, he has fought in such a battle,
he belongs to his majesty’s regiment, &c., were a sure passport to
society and respectability. All other occupations were considered tame
and spiritless, fit only for the aged, infirm, and for cowards. My
father caught the spirit of the times, and although too old to engage
in such an enterprise himself, gave his ready permission to Arthur, my
oldest brother, who early sought to distinguish himself on the field
of battle. My mother’s consent was not so readily given, but even she
did by no means object to his new enterprise; and when he presented
himself before his parents, in his new uniform, for their parting
blessing, she felt proud that her son was possessed of such a noble,
courageous soul. She cheerfully gave him her hand, saying, “Go, my son;
cover yourself with glory in the service of your country, and when you
are old, you will be honored, respected, and provided for.” But, alas!
how little did my mother think that the first news she would hear from
her first-born son, after this blessing, would fill her own heart with
grief unutterable. He enlisted into the navy, and was placed upon a
seventy-four gun-ship, named the “Terrible;” and terrible, indeed, it
proved to him, for he was killed by a cannon-ball, a few months only
after enlisting, in an engagement which took place in 1807, near the
coast of Holland, between his majesty’s fleet and the French naval
force. His death was a severe affliction to my parents, and completely
damped my father’s desire for military honor for his children. It
was, therefore, with deep regret that they saw in my brother James’
mind a growing dislike to the quiet duties and occupations of home,
and an earnest longing for those warlike scenes which had been so
fatal to Arthur. This desire soon grew so strong that entreaties and
persuasions were alike useless from my dear and aged parents; and in
less than two years from Arthur’s death, he enlisted in the royal army
of George IV., in the 96th regiment of foot. It was a sorrowful day
in our little home, when the news came that his regiment was ordered
abroad, into the foreign service. My father gave him much good advice,
with many directions for the attainment of that honor he hoped to see
him enjoy, at some distant day. But my poor mother could only weep, and
express her deep regret that Jimmie would not be contented to live at
home, at the same time reiterating her confident prediction that she
should see his face no more. Since the melancholy death of Arthur, the
glory and honor of military life all gave place to the carnage, the
slaughter, and the dreadful sufferings of the battle-field, where no
kind hand could minister the slightest consolation, and where agony
unmitigated might be the fate--and to her mind undoubtedly would
be--of her son. She wept aloud, and would not be comforted. But the
die was cast; Jimmie was resolved, at all hazards, to be a soldier. He
thought not of danger, and did not fear death. He only thought of the
excitement of martial strife, the joy and honor awaiting the victor,
and the subsequent reward. Alas! for him the bright future never
dawned. My mother’s fears were but too well founded; for he, too, fell
dead upon the field of battle, while fighting bravely for his country,
in his first engagement, in the bloody battle of Talavera.

It was my father’s wish that I should become a carpenter; and he, early
in life, put me an apprentice to his own trade. But the quiet habits,
constant labor,--destitute of an exciting or romantic incident,--of
a mechanic’s life, ill suited the tastes I had already formed. There
resided near us an old soldier, who found great pleasure in relating
the adventures of his past life; and I was never weary of listening to
them. My imagination was excited, and the romantic scenes he related
to me, with the thrilling incidents of a soldier’s life, made a deep
and permanent impression upon my mind. Alas for me, that I ever fell in
company with this old soldier! My peace was destroyed; I was uneasy,
and determined not to remain in my employment, as a carpenter’s
apprentice. Each interview with him strengthened my desire for a
participation in those scenes which, I was sure, would be so delightful
and interesting.

Mingled with a desire to see foreign countries, and be a sharer of
those actions to whose thrilling narration I had so often listened
with so much interest, came an ardent thirst for revenge on those whom
I regarded as the murderers of my brothers. About this time, one of
my cousins, to whom I was warmly attached, resolved to enlist in a
regiment that was then being formed at Belfast. He was very anxious
that I should accompany him. It did not require much persuasion to
induce me to determine so to do. But I remembered how difficult it
had been for my brother James to gain my parents’ consent, and being
anxious to avoid a scene which must be so painful to all, I resolved to
leave without their knowledge.

[Sidenote: REFLECTIONS ON LEAVING HOME.]

[Sidenote: JOURNEY TO BELFAST.]

This was a most wicked resolution, and deeply do I regret such an
unkind and unwise act. It was not without many misgivings and fears
that I left the home of my childhood. O, that I never had stifled that
voice which so clearly bade me not to go under such circumstances!
There were many things to call up these misgivings, and to hold me back
from such a cruel purpose. The uniform kindness of my parents, the
severe trials to which they had already been subjected,--for, beside
the loss of my brothers, they had buried four of their children, in
early childhood,--their known wishes that I should pursue my father’s
calling, the affection I still felt for home and my dear parents,--all
these made me hesitate, as I stood at our little gate, with my earthly
all in the small bundle I held in my hand. There, on the one hand, were
my dear parents and brothers and sisters, all quietly asleep, wholly
unconscious that I had formed such a wicked purpose, and by stealth
packed my few clothes, and whatever else I could call my own, in my
little bundle; there was the home of my childhood, the hallowed scene
of my early sports and joys, under the smiles and watchfulness of
the kindest of parents; there were the early associates of my boyish
days, and all necessary to render me happy and quiet;--and, on the
other, were the glories of the military profession, and the unreal
pleasures I had anticipated in foreign countries,--scenes and events
pictured in my imagination from the stories of that old soldier. The
realities of home, and all that was dear on earth, opposed to the
more heated imaginations of scenes in other countries, and upon the
field of carnage,--I almost resolved to go back, and become what my
parents wished. I hesitated, at that solemn and still hour of the
night, for some time, before I could break away. Had I only gone back,
and done what I knew I ought to have done, it would have been right;
and I caution all my young readers never to stifle such convictions,
or break away from such restraints. But the thought of my cousin, who
was waiting for me, and the glowing scenes which my imagination had
painted in the countries beyond the sea, to which I hoped soon to go,
drowned the earnest pleadings of the good spirit, whose still small
voice was heard in my soul. I, with sudden violence, sundered these
unpleasant reflections, and madly resolved, come what would, to go
ahead. I rushed, with the utmost rapidity, from my home, and drowned
every conviction and thought that would come up in my soul, of all that
I had left behind. I soon found my cousin, and we pursued our way to
Belfast, with the utmost rapidity. How little did I then think that so
many years would elapse before I should again see that well-known spot,
and those dear friends who, in spite of my wildness and disobedience,
had loved me through all, and were unceasingly seeking my best good!
But I was now to enter another sphere of life, and be subjected to far
other influences than those to which I had been accustomed from early
childhood. I was at this time only seventeen years of age,--1810. My
comrade, like myself, was quite young. Our ideas of the happiness of
a soldier’s life were much the same; and we amused each other, on our
lonely way, by relating all the adventures either of us had ever heard,
of what was then to be our future profession. When morning came,--that
morning in which there was to be so much grief in our quiet homes,
and when the tears of my dear mother, and her groanings, were to be
again heard, for an absent son, who had stolen away,--we feared to
be recognized, by some one who might be passing, if we continued our
journey. So we stopped in an old, deserted hut, and making our simple
meal of the bread we had brought with us, we lay down and slept. About
four o’clock in the afternoon, not seeing any one near, we pursued our
way, and travelled all night. The next morning found us far from home,
among scenes and people entirely strange, and greatly fatigued by our
night’s march. We found a teamster, who was going to Belfast, and, by
much persuasion and entreaty, succeeded in persuading him to carry us
to that city. Right glad were we to rest our weary legs, and amuse
ourselves by gazing at the new and strange objects which met our eyes
as we passed along the road. We reached Belfast about sunset. Neither
of us had ever before seen so large a place as this; and we thought, as
we rode through some of its principal streets, that we never should be
weary of gazing upon its churches and public buildings, which appeared
to us so grand and beautiful.

This city is one of the principal seaports of Ireland. It lies about
ninety miles north of Dublin, on the banks of the river Lagan. With a
population of forty thousand, and all the advantages which it possesses
for trade, it may well be imagined that we found in its busy streets
and crowded thoroughfares enough to rally again all the excitement and
glowing visions which our fatigue was beginning, in some degree, to
dim. But when our driver stopped at a small inn, in one of the back
streets of the city, a good supper and bed seemed too inviting to be
resisted, and we were soon asleep. At early dawn, however, we were
awakened by the roll of the drum, and were soon in the street, gazing,
with wondering eyes, at the many strange sights we saw. Near our hotel
a canal came in, which connects the little lake of Lough Neagh with the
Bay of Belfast. The canal-boats attracted our attention, and my cousin
proposed visiting them; but, far over the tops of the houses, I could
see the tall masts of the vessels which lay moored in the harbor, and I
could not restrain my curiosity longer. So we were soon on our way to
the port. The harbor is an excellent one. It is constantly filled with
shipping, as vessels drawing thirteen feet of water can easily anchor
here. We had scarcely reached the wharf, when I was surprised to hear
a familiar voice calling my name. Turning hastily, I discovered an old
playmate, who had left Dendalk about three years since, for the sea. He
belonged to one of the large vessels now in port. Nothing could have
been more opportune for us, as he was acquainted with the place, and
showed us the ship where he was, which we should not otherwise have had
an opportunity of visiting.

[Sidenote: A RECRUITING OFFICER.]

To him we confided our object in leaving home, and he promised to aid
us in finding the officer. Soon after leaving the wharf, we passed
a large building, which, my friend informed us, was a manufactory
for Irish linen, which is one of the staple exports of the place.
I afterwards learned that no less than eight hundred looms found
continual employment in the production of this valuable commodity.
But much as I should have enjoyed a visit to this place, a scene now
presented itself which had, in my eyes, far greater attractions. Near
the centre of a small open place stood a covered cart, embellished
with flaming handbills, giving a description of the success of the
British troops on the peninsula. On its top stood a neatly-dressed
soldier, who was haranguing, with much earnestness, the motley group
that surrounded him, and calling loudly for recruits to engage in
such glorious service. Judging from the description we heard, our
most sanguine expectations had fallen far short of the reality; and
of course this was an opportunity not to be lost. We eagerly pushed
our way through the crowd, which we had some difficulty in doing; but
the eagle eye of the officer soon rested on us, and, perceiving our
eagerness, he called out, “Make way, make way there, my lads! that’s
right, that’s right,--fine soldiers you’ll be, my hearties, I warrant!”
Of course, all eyes were directed to us; and if any idea of retreating
had occurred, the loud hurrah for the new soldiers, which ran around
the crowd, would at once have decided the question. But no such idea
came to disturb our peace, and our names were handed in. Being asked
how long we would serve, each of us answered, without a moment’s
hesitation, “For life.” “For life, then, are you soldiers of his
majesty,” the officer replied.

[Sidenote: DISCONTENTED WITH THE SERVICE.]

Each of us then received from him eighteen guineas, and were sent to
the barracks, as members of the 8th regiment of foot. Much elated with
what we considered our good fortune, we proceeded at once to make a
selection of our kit, as it is called. This consisted of two shirts,
two pairs of stockings, a plate, knife and fork, and a few other small
articles, the cost of which does not often exceed a guinea. A suit of
regimentals was then provided for us, by the officer of our mess, and
we soon found ourselves quite at home in our new situation. But we had
not been here long, when we began to find the old adage applicable in
our case, “All is not gold that glitters.” The drills to which we were
subjected were very tiresome to those as unaccustomed to any kind of
restraint as we were. In addition to this, as many of our troops had
deserted, we were so closely watched that we lost all the enjoyment
that I had anticipated in viewing the curiosities of the city. It
was hardly to be supposed that, unwilling as I had been to submit to
the quiet restraints of home, I should find a pleasure in the rigid
discipline of the parade-ground; and before one week had passed away,
I found myself pondering whether I could not, in some way, escape from
my regiment. Not that I intended to give up the military profession
entirely, for I still thought that in some other place I should find
the happiness I sought. Every night, after we had retired to our
quarters, I listened to the many tales my comrades were ever ready to
tell, of those who, weary of their lot as soldiers, had deserted,--of
their hair-breadth escapes, and the cruel punishment to which they
were subjected, when discovered. The very romance connected with the
undertaking, and the thrilling interest that existed in listening
to these adventures, strengthened in my mind my desire to share in
their experience. It also occurred to me that should I still wish to
continue in the service, I might go to another part of Ireland, where
I was unknown, and again receive the bounty-money offered to all
enlisting. Yet all these motives would have been insufficient, had not
an incident occurred which aroused all the independence and opposition
of my nature. I was unjustly accused of a breach of discipline, and,
in spite of my protestations of innocence, was punished for it. This
circumstance was sufficient to overcome any fear that might exist of
the consequences; and the very next day--only twelve days from the
time I had entered the service, with such glowing anticipations--an
opportunity occurred, which I determined not to lose. Close to the
parade-ground was a small shop where liquor was sold, and which was
much patronized by the soldiers. Into this shop I saw an old clothes
man enter, and immediately followed him. Having ordered a pint of
porter for him, I asked him if he would be willing to exchange his old
and ragged clothes for my new suit. He said he would, and informed me
that I might meet him under a bridge near, where we might make the
exchange. Observing that no one was near, I went under the bridge, and
soon reäppeared, dressed in his old clothes, and bearing his pack.
Thus disguised, I walked bravely onwards, even passing some of my old
comrades, who did not recognize me. The alarm was soon given, and
soldiers started in pursuit. They soon came up to me, and even stopped
to inquire if I had seen any one pass.

It was with no small degree of pleasure I saw them take another road
from the one I designed to pursue. As soon as they were out of sight,
I renewed my speed, feeling anxious to get as far as possible from
Belfast before another morning. At length, wearied out, I solicited
and obtained permission from a farmer to remain during the night. He
observed me, however, so closely, that my suspicions were aroused, and
I began to fear that he would attempt to inform against me, in order
to obtain the reward offered to those who deliver up a deserter. He
questioned me quite closely, as to where I had been, where I was going,
and, finally, asked me directly, if I had not been a soldier. I denied
it at first, but soon concluded that my best way would be to appeal
to the old man’s generosity. I did so, and was not disappointed. He
not only did not inform, but kindly offered to assist me on my way.
Before daylight we arose, and I dressed myself in a suit of clothes,
with which he furnished me, and taking my seat by his side, in his
market wagon, was once more on my way home. He talked to me long and
faithfully on our journey, nor did he leave me until he saw me alight
at my father’s door. Good old man! I shall never forget his kindness.
He has long since gone to his reward; yet at this distant day my heart
throbs with the recollection of it, and I shall never forget the old
farmer of the Downs.

[Sidenote: RETURNS TO DENDALK.]

My parents received their returning son with true parental affection,
and to them I gave what money still remained from my enlistment
bounty. When I first returned home, they earnestly hoped I should now
be willing to remain there; and I might, perhaps, have yielded to
their entreaties, could I have done so with safety. But soldiers were
often passing through Dendalk, and I was in great danger of being
recognized. This induced my parents to consent that I should leave home
a second time, and try my fortune again in the camp. There was no lack
of opportunity. A regiment was forming at Navan, and to this place I
directed my steps, and soon found myself enrolled as a member of the
64th regiment of foot, and again received eighteen guineas from the
service.

I had been here but three days, when we were summoned out to witness
the punishment of a deserter. He was an athletic young man, who had
been pressed into the service. He had left at home an old mother, a
sick wife and one child, dependent on his daily labor for support.
Finding all attempts to procure a discharge unsuccessful, he had
deserted, and been retaken, through the treachery of a pretended
friend, who, for the sake of a few pounds, could betray the distressed
son and husband to so cruel a punishment, and a still more cruel
separation from those so dearly loved. It would naturally be supposed
that the strong temptation which existed for desertion might have
mitigated the punishment; but this was not the case. War recognizes
none of those affections which make the happiness of the human heart.
It seeks only to crush out their life, or perhaps holds them up to
ridicule, as things of no moment. He was sentenced to receive three
hundred lashes. His sentence was executed, and we saw him taken down,
bleeding and mangled, and carried to the hospital almost insensible. It
was a long time before he recovered sufficiently to perform duty. He
did not again attempt desertion. A few days after, word was brought him
that his wife and child had died from want, and that his old mother was
in the parish workhouse. He was never seen to smile again. The soldiers
were all kind to him, but I learned afterward, that he soon sickened,
and died of a broken heart. The sight of this punishment filled me with
dread, and threw quite a damper on my exalted ideas of a military life.

Our commanding officer was very strict,--unnecessarily so, as we
thought,--in his rules, and rigorous in the execution of punishments.
He had been so long in his situation, and seen so much of misery,
that his heart was completely hardened. Every disobedience, even an
accidental variation from his orders, however trifling, was punished to
the extent of the law--often beyond it.

[Sidenote: ALARMING INTELLIGENCE.]

If I had found the discipline and restraint of Belfast unendurable,
this was far worse. Nor was I at all disposed to submit to it. I had
deserted once, without discovery. Why should I not do so again? I was
restless and uneasy, and came in for my full share of punishment. I
was thinking on this subject one day, when my attention was suddenly
arrested by a conversation between two officers near me. “How soon
is the regiment expected from Belfast?” said one. “In about three
days,” replied the other. “Do you know its number?” “The 8th regiment
of foot,” was the answer. It was the very one with which I had been
connected! Of course, I should be at once recognized, and not only
lose the bounty-money I had already received, but be punished as a
deserter. This dreaded prospect roused every energy of my spirit, and
I resolved to escape before their arrival, at all hazards. Fortune
seemed to favor my undertaking. The next morning, which was the 11th
of June, only twelve days from my second enlistment, I was sent out,
with a number of other soldiers, to bring back some horses which had
strayed from the camp, having broken from their pickets. On my way, my
attention was accidentally attracted to a large tree, which grew near
the road. The tree was hollow, and its entrance was completely screened
from observation by a luxuriant vine which twined itself around the
trunk. As we were searching for the horses, I succeeded in examining
it, without attracting observation, and found that I could be concealed
there for a short time.

[Sidenote: RESOLVES TO ENLIST A THIRD TIME.]

Taking advantage of a moment when no one was near, I placed myself in
the tree, and, scarcely venturing to breathe, awaited the search which
I knew would be made for me. Once or twice, a soldier passed so near
that I could hear the leaves rustle against his coat. But their efforts
were fruitless. I was not discovered, and remained in my shelter until
the noise of their footsteps had died away. Then, creeping out, I ran
as fast as I could away from Navan, avoiding as much as possible the
highways, as I knew that my dress would betray me. It was necessary
that I should rid myself of it as soon as possible; but there was great
risk in doing it, as I should, of course, betray myself to the one with
whom the bargain should be effected;--and, where all were strangers,
I dared not run so great a risk. I did not wish to go home, as the
danger to which I was now exposed would be greater even than before,
and would be a source of keen distress to my mother. So I directed my
steps to my sister’s cottage, which was much nearer than my father’s.
Here I met with a kind reception, and a secure hiding-place for some
time, in return for which I bestowed the whole of my money on her. We
had many conversations as to my future course. She was very anxious
that I should give up my ideas of being a soldier, and go quietly home.
But to this I could not consent. I had, it is true, ascertained that
there were troubles in that life, as well as in others; but I still
thought that when I had once entered upon active service I should
find my lot quite different. I had as yet seen no foreign countries,
nor could I bear the idea of settling down to a steady employment. I
wanted a life of ease, excitement, and pleasure. I had heard far too
much of that intense excitement which pervades every breast when the
sound of the trumpet summons the soldier to combat, and of the glory
that follows the successful warrior, to feel willing to give it all
up. Beside, my condition was now irksome in the extreme. There was so
much danger of being recognized, that I could not feel myself safe
anywhere. A description of my person and appearance had been sent
all over the country, with the offer of the usual reward. I concluded
that, should I enlist in another part of the country, I should stand a
much better chance of not being recognized, as they would hardly look
for a deserter in the barracks. On the 3d of July, therefore, I bade
my sister a long farewell, and started out in pursuit of a regiment. I
walked all day, and at night found myself at a small town so far from
my home that I thought I might venture to stop at the inn, especially
as there seemed to be no troops near. I did so. I had eaten my supper,
and was about retiring, when I observed a list of deserters pasted up
in one of the rooms. Hastily running it over, I saw my own description
there too plainly to be mistaken. Of course, I could not remain there
for the night; and, walking leisurely to the door, I was just passing
out, when my attention was attracted to the conversation of two
persons near. “I am sure it must be he,” said one. “Did you read the
description?--the very same hair and eyes, I am sure,” said the other.
“We shall get the reward, no doubt. As soon as he has gone to bed,
we will send for the officer. But come, let us go in, and take care
that he does not suspect us.” As I had recognized my landlord’s voice,
I considered that such treachery was sufficient to justify a sudden
leave; and, thinking that he might take his pay for his supper from his
expected reward, I hastened away. Having travelled an hour or two, I
threw myself on a pile of straw, and rested till morning, determined
that I would trust myself in no one’s house until I was again enlisted.
It was, therefore, with pleasure that I heard, soon after sunrise, the
sound of martial music in advance of me. Two hours after, I was quietly
ensconced in my quarters, in the Lowth Militia, _en route_ for Dublin,
having the third time received my money from government.

[Sidenote: HIS REGIMENT IN DUBLIN.]

Our progress towards the capital was very slow, as we were constantly
looking out and receiving additions to our company from the peasantry
of the places through which we passed. The glowing descriptions of
our recruiting-sergeant, the thrilling sound of the martial music,
the very sight of so many well-dressed soldiers, presented strong
inducements to the ragged, half-clad, and half-starved children of poor
unfortunate Ireland, to leave her shores for at least a season. Then
there was the hope of returning with the pension, that would insure to
them, in their old age, a sustenance, of which they could be certain
from no other source. These inducements carried desolation to many a
home, but they filled our ranks; and, on the 20th of July, we were
in Dublin, with complete numbers. Here I enjoyed more liberty than I
had done at either of the other stations, and had more opportunity to
see the place. The barracks are situated in the west end of the city,
near the beautiful river which divides it into two equal parts. Not
far from them rises the noble hospital of Kilmainham, destined for the
reception of disabled and superannuated soldiers. The visits of these
old soldiers was a source of great pleasure to us, as we were never
weary of hearing them recount their tales of war and of hard-fought
fields; while, in listening to our anticipations, and in seeing us go
through the exercises required, they almost seemed to renew their own
youth. Preparations were now rapidly being made for our departure to
England; and, as the time drew near, my thoughts naturally reverted
to my own dear home, and I felt it would be a great privilege if I
could once more see my parents. I therefore wrote to them, giving
them a full account of my wanderings, my place of destination, and
begging them at least to write to me before I left, and say that I
was forgiven for all the trouble and anxiety I had cost them. The
return mail brought me a letter from them, assuring me of their love
and forgiveness, and promising to visit me before we left. I may as
well state here that I did not see my dear parents again. They came
to Dublin, as they had promised; but we had left the day before, for
Cork. They would have followed me there, immediately, had they not
been informed, at the barracks, that I had left directly for England.
It was the policy of our officers to prevent these meetings as often
as possible, on account of their effect upon the soldiers. And no one,
in whose heart lingered a particle of kindness, could look unmoved on
the spectacles of misery which it was almost daily my lot to witness,
when the time approached for us to leave. Of the thousands collected
there, waiting to be transferred to a foreign shore, how few would
ever return! and, of those few, how many would come back, with ruined
health and broken hearts, only to find desolation and death where they
had hoped for love and sympathy! Many of these had enlisted while under
the influence of liquor, or else had been brought in by the press-gang;
and, in thus leaving their families, they were deprived of every means
of subsistence, and must either soon perish from want, or linger out
a more protracted, but scarcely less miserable existence, in the
workhouse. O! why must Ireland suffer so much from her poverty, with
her fertile soil and many productions?--that deep poverty, which has
forced so many of her sons abroad to die, and which still continues to
force them abroad, to ask that assistance and aid which it were worse
than useless to expect at home!

[Sidenote: AN AFFECTING SCENE.]

Of these partings, to which I have referred, the long course of years
has scarcely dimmed the painful impression they made upon my memory.
One of those oftenest recalled was that of a young man who was bidding
adieu to his aged parents. He was an only son, and his most diligent
care and labor scarcely sufficed to supply them with the common
necessaries of life. Their lease had recently expired, and to renew it
again a sum of money was required which was utterly beyond their simple
means. Nothing could save them from immediate ejectment unless the
lease was renewed, and this faithful son determined to secure a home
for his parents in their old age by gaining the bounty-money offered
to volunteers. To do this, however, he must submit to a separation
which he could not hope could be otherwise than final; for who would
care and labor for them when he was gone? And those parents, accustomed
as they had been to his presence and kindness, how could they live when
the sunlight of their existence had set? Never have I seen agony more
strongly depicted on the human countenance than it appeared on his,
as he turned away from their farewell clasp. Poor fellow! he deserved
a better fate than afterwards befell him; for he died by the hands of
a guerilla, on the hills of Spain. What became of his aged parents
I never knew. We could only hope that the angel of death would be
merciful, and come soon to their relief.

Turning away from this sad scene, which brought tears into eyes all
unused to weep, it was only to meet another, which affected the heart
almost as deeply. A woman, pale and sickly-looking, worn to premature
old age by incessant toil and suffering, and the mother of five little
children, was bidding farewell to her husband. He had enlisted while
drunk, and had spent or lost nearly all of his money before recovering
his senses. When he was able to realize his situation, his feelings
could scarcely be controlled; for he was the sole dependence of his
helpless family. But there was now no help for him. The money was
gone, he had pledged himself, and he must go, and leave his family to
starve or live on the bread of charity. But I will not dwell on this
parting scene. Suffice it to say, that, when our preparations were
complete, and our regiment ordered to Cork, I left Dublin, with all its
magnificence, without a regret.

[Sidenote: TREATMENT ON THE MARCH.]

We marched to Cork,--a distance of one hundred and sixty-two miles,--by
slow and easy marches. I believe the regulations of the service only
require ten miles’ march in the course of the day; but we almost always
went further than that before halting. From the time of leaving Dublin
we began to receive the usual pay of an English soldier, which is
one shilling per day, and two suits of clothes per year. Of this sum
the government retain one half, for furnishing bread and beef. With
the other sixpence the soldier is required to furnish himself with
whatever else he may wish for; or, if we preferred it, while marching
in Ireland, the whole sum was paid us, and then we purchased what we
chose. By being very abstemious, some of our men saved a few pence
daily, which was often transmitted to the suffering ones at home.
Whenever we halted for the night the soldiers were billeted upon the
inhabitants of the place, each family being required to accommodate
one, two, or more soldiers with lodgings and a supper. The number
of the house and the name of the street was given, on a ticket, to
each soldier, which he was required to present at the door, and the
family must either accommodate him, or furnish him with money to
procure lodgings elsewhere. This was often very unpleasant for the
inhabitants, and the alternative, of course, was frequently adopted,
especially by the more wealthy classes. We were not always treated
with kindness by those who were thus forced to receive us,--having
frequently to put up with the poorest accommodations that could be
furnished. But, as soldiers have never been noted for their forbearance
or mildness, such persons usually found themselves worse off, in the
end, than if they had pursued a different course. As a general thing,
when treated with kindness, it was returned with civility, especially
while we were in our own country. In the wars on the continent, in the
frequent passages of armies into the countries of their opponents, the
inhabitants often suffered severely from this custom; and reprisals
were frequently made, when opportunity offered, which, if not justified
by the law of right, were most certainly by that of camps. An incident,
illustrating this, which occurred while I was on the continent, and
which afterwards appeared in the newspapers of the day, may be given
here, as I shall not again have occasion to allude to this subject.

[Sidenote: ANECDOTE.]

A Prussian officer, on his arrival at Paris, particularly requested
to be billeted on the house of a lady, in the Faubourg St. Germain.
His request was complied with, and, on his arriving at the lady’s
house, he was shown into a small but comfortable sitting-room, with
a handsome bed-chamber adjoining it. With these rooms he appeared
greatly dissatisfied, and desired that the lady should give up to him
her own apartment, on the first floor, which was large and elegantly
furnished. To this the lady made the strongest objections; but the
officer insisted, and she was under the necessity of retiring to the
second floor. He afterwards sent a message to her, by one of the
servants, saying that he destined the second floor for his aid-de-camp.
This occasioned still stronger remonstrances from the lady, but they
were totally unavailing and unattended to by the officer, whose only
answer was, “Obey my orders!” He then called the cook, and informed
him he must prepare a handsome dinner for six persons, and desired
the lady’s butler to supply the table with the best wines the cellar
could afford. After dinner, he sent for his hostess. She obeyed the
summons. The officer then said to her, “No doubt, madam, you consider
my conduct indecorous and brutal in the extreme.” “I must confess,” she
answered, “that I did not expect such treatment from an officer; as,
in general, military men are ever disposed to show a great degree of
respect and deference to our sex.” “You think me, then, a most perfect
barbarian? Answer me, frankly.” “If you really desire my undisguised
opinion on the subject,” said the lady, “I must say that I think your
conduct truly barbarous.” “Madam,” was the answer, “I am entirely of
your opinion; but I only wished to give you a specimen of the behavior
and conduct of your son, during _six months_ that he resided in my
house, after the entrance of the French army into the Prussian capital.
I do not intend, however, to follow so bad an example. You have full
liberty, therefore, to resume your apartment to-morrow, and I will seek
lodgings at some public hotel.” The lady retired, quite satisfied that
the officer was, after all, an honorable man.

While passing through a small village, not far from Cork, it was my
fortune to be billeted, with two of my comrades, in a house where the
eldest daughter was that evening to be married. The company had already
assembled, when, knocking at the door, we presented our billets. The
master of the house came to meet his unwelcome guests. He offered us
quite a large sum to seek some other place for the night; but, as we
had obtained an inkling of what was going forward, we declined. Of
course, no alternative remained but to receive us with as good a grace
as he could. I am happy to say, however, that we did not forget what
was due to our hosts, in the way of decorum, although we joined in the
merry dance, and saluted the bride with soldier-like freedom. Money
was often made by the soldiers, when they chose to do so, as they
would frequently receive three, five, or even ten shillings, for their
tickets, and then furnish themselves with cheaper lodgings elsewhere.

[Sidenote: SEA-SICKNESS.]

We arrived in Cork in September. This large city is next in size to
Dublin, and lies one hundred and sixty-two miles to the south-west of
it. It was originally built upon an island, but in process of time it
was extended to both sides of the river. Its harbor is nine miles
from the city. It is a beautiful harbor, very safe and capacious. Here
we remained until the middle of October, when we were ordered to sail
for England. The transport Lunar was sent to convey us, and, having
received her complement of men, she was soon under way. Almost all
on board were new recruits, who were leaving Ireland for the first
time, and it was with various and deep emotions that we watched her
fast-receding shores. Mingled with many sad recollections of parents,
and home, and friends, came dreams of future glory, the thirst for
martial fame, and anticipations of the happiness we should enjoy in
scenes far away, whose very distance and indistinctness added, far
more than exact reality could have done, to the brightness of our
hopes. But, however golden might have been the visions that filled our
minds, we were certainly destined to realize none of them on that day.
Sea-sickness soon sent us all to our berths, and a more miserable,
woebegone looking set than our company presented could not easily be
found. But though none of us felt inclined to laugh, a looker-on might
have found much amusement, in the grotesque attitudes, the comical
grimaces, and the unavailing complaints, that resounded on every side.
But, however much the old tars on board might have been disposed to
make themselves merry at our expense, the next day gave them sufficient
occupation in attending to their own affairs. The morning that we
left the beautiful harbor of Cork was fair and cloudless. The gentle
breeze, directly in our favor, carried us out into the channel with an
easy, gliding motion, that promised us a short and pleasant voyage.
But when, just at night, weary of the confinement and confusion in
our cabin, I crept on deck, I saw the captain and mate conversing in
low and hurried accents, while the sailors were watching the dark,
portentous clouds, that lay piled up against the horizon, gilded by the
last rays of the sun, which made their darkness seem still blacker. The
wind, which had been directly in our favor, now tacked to the opposite
quarter, and was blowing with great fury, which increased before
midnight to a perfect hurricane. Our vessel, with its closely-reefed
sails, flew over the mountain waves, like a bird before the storm. For
two days and two nights the storm continued, and our vessel seemed as
a mere plaything of the waves. On the third morning it became almost
unmanageable, and we had little hope of reaching land in safety; but,
as we came in sight of the white cliffs of England, the storm subsided,
and our hopes again rose. Our captain tried hard to reach our point of
destination, but all his efforts were fruitless, as the ship was almost
a wreck. Giving up this point, therefore, he succeeded in reaching the
little port of Pill, about four miles from Bristol, where we landed in
safety. I shall never forget the emotion of joy which thrilled my heart
when I found myself once more on land; and I presume there were none
on board who did not, in some degree, share the feeling. From Pill we
proceeded to Bristol, where we remained a short time. We enjoyed our
stay in Bristol very much, as there were many things that were new to
us to attract our attention, and we were not as closely watched as we
had been in Ireland. Our pay, while in England, was one and sixpence
daily,--the amount being increased, as provisions were dearer than in
Ireland.

From Bristol we were ordered to Plymouth, to undergo the necessary but
wearisome task of being drilled,--a task not much more agreeable to our
officers than to ourselves. It would have indeed required the patience
of a Job to mould those raw recruits, unaccustomed to confinement, and
totally unused to that subordination so positively necessary in an
army, into skilful and obedient soldiers. It was, indeed, a tiresome
task; and it was with no small degree of pleasure that we learned that
our time had expired, and that we were soon to embark for the Peninsula.

[Sidenote: SAILS FOR THE PENINSULA.]

[Sidenote: A FIRE AT SEA.]

The day at length arrived when we were actually to sail. The last
preparations had been made,--the last stores taken in. Each ship (there
were eleven in the whole) received its living load, and then, one after
another, their white sails were spread, and soon the fast-receding
shores of England seemed but a dim line, and then a mere speck on
the horizon. It was on the first day of January, 1811, that we bade
our long, and so many of us our last farewell, to the shores of old
England. On our own ship there were twelve hundred of us,--a jovial,
merry set. For the first fourteen days nothing worthy of special notice
occurred, but then an accident happened which came near costing us all
our lives. It is the custom, on board ships-of-war, to serve out every
day spirit rations to the men. On our ship, this was done at eleven
o’clock in the morning. A cask of liquor was rolled on deck, the head
knocked out, and the officer whose duty it was served out to each of
the mess a measure of raw spirit. They usually came up, one by one,
received their measure, and then retired, either to drink it themselves
or to dispose of it to others, who could always be found willing to
purchase, which was often done, when any of us had more than usual
need of money. On the morning to which I have alluded, the 14th of
January, one of the soldiers walked up to the cask for his allowance
with a lighted pipe in his mouth, the coal from which he dropped
accidentally in the liquor. Almost in a moment the whole deck was
enveloped in flames. The alarm was soon given, and every man on board
did his utmost to extinguish them; but the large quantity of tar and
other combustibles made this a task not easily accomplished. The deck
was soon flooded with water, but the flames leaped up the ropes, and
caught on the rigging. In spite of all our efforts, they still gained
ground, and so rapidly that the most daring of our number began to fear
that we were lost. As a last resource, each of the soldiers caught
their blankets, and throwing them wet on the fire, and keeping them
so, it was at length extinguished. When this was completed, we gathered
the remains of our charred and ruined blankets, and, throwing them
into the sea, we retired to our naked berths, grateful that, though
suffering with cold, our lives had been spared. It has often been my
lot, in the crowded city, to witness the raging flames, as they leaped
from house to house, carrying ruin and desolation in their progress; I
have gazed on the ashes of palaces, beautiful but yesterday in their
magnificence, to which the ruthless torch of the midnight incendiary
had been applied; and I have often, often been startled from the deep
sleep of night, by that fearful cry, which, in its very name, is the
token of suffering and sorrow;--but never--never do I remember anything
that thrilled to the depths of my soul like that cry of fire, on the
wild waste of waters, where, unless it could be subdued, scarcely a
hope remained for the safety of those twelve hundred human beings,
confined in the ship’s narrow space. On land, there must be at least
a hope of escape; and then we know that the warm sympathies of active
friends are enlisted in the sufferers’ behalf, and that all that man
can do, to aid or save, will be done. But when, far away on the sea,
the red flames are seen leaping from mast to mast, no summoning bell
tolls out its warning voice on the midnight air,--no friendly crowds
rush to the rescue; but the little band of devoted ones on board must
toil and labor, with all that energy which the human spirit will
summon up when life or death hang on the passing moment, until the die
is cast. Then, if all is at last in vain, it but remains to choose a
death by fire or flood, or, too often, in the few that may escape by
the boats, a more lingering, but not less to be dreaded fate, is met in
death by starvation. But such was not our destiny; and among all the
narrow escapes which it has been my lot in life to encounter, there are
no deliverances I remember with more gratitude than the quenching of
that fire on board our man-of-war.

In referring to this incident of my life, I have often wondered that a
custom so full of danger as that of serving spirit out daily to such
a body of men should be continued. The frequent accidents to which I
allude are but a very small part of the evil; yet even this is well
worthy of being taken into consideration, when we remember not only the
pecuniary loss involved, but the vast amount of human life which is
thus needlessly sacrificed. The moral evil is of far greater magnitude.
When I left home, I had never formed the habit of drinking,--the taste
of liquor was positively disagreeable to me; and it was in compliance
with this custom that I first found a relish for it. I can recall many,
who now fill a drunkard’s grave, who might trace back the commencement
of this sinful and ruinous habit to the same practice. It is my humble
opinion that much of the disobedience and disrespectful language from
the men might be avoided, and consequently many of the punishments
dispensed with, if this custom were wholly discontinued. Besides, is
it not encouraging this ruinous habit, thus to place, as it were, the
national seal upon its usefulness and necessity, by thus furnishing it
to those employed, and especially just before a battle? as if _that_
were in any way necessary to infuse a true spirit of courage! It is
much to be hoped that a decided reform will soon be effected here;
and that, while philanthropists are striving with such earnestness
to do away with much of the corporal punishment formerly in vogue in
both army and navy, they will not forget the exciting cause which so
often operates to destroy entirely the force of moral restraint, thus
rendering physical coercion not only advisable, but often absolutely
necessary.

[Sidenote: A TERRIFIC STORM.]

While passing through the Bay of Biscay, we encountered a terrific
storm, which entirely scattered our little fleet. Most of the time,
since leaving home, we had remained within hailing distance of each
other, messages often passing and repassing; but when the storm burst
upon us with so much fury, the rest of the ships were quickly driven
away. Only one vessel remained in sight. It was the smallest of our
fleet, and we watched it with much anxiety, as we could plainly see
that it had undergone serious injury. It was on the evening of the
second day that we heard the distant booming of her guns, through the
wild roar of the waters, announcing their perilous situation, and
imploring, if possible, aid. But what could human arm avail, in a
time like this? Our own ship lay at the mercy of the waves. No boat
could live for one moment in those foaming and raging waters; and so,
with aching hearts, we were compelled to look idly on, and see our
countrymen and fellow-soldiers about to be engulfed in a watery grave.
Night closed in; we could see that their condition was hopeless; and,
before nine, their last light was extinguished, nor did we ever hear
from them again. In all probability, the whole crew of six hundred men
were lost.

The next morning the sun rose bright and beautiful, and the moaning
waves lashed themselves to rest as peacefully as though their bright
waters hid no dark secrets, to be veiled from human view until the sea
shall give up its dead. The wind passed into a favorable quarter, and
the gentle breeze soon wafted us on, until the high lands of Spain
rose full on our view. Accustomed to the level shores of Ireland, I
had never imagined scenery so beautiful as that which appeared all
along the coast, presenting a view said to be the finest in the world.
Our fleet, slowly collecting together, now rounded the cape, and we
soon found ourselves in the Bay of Gibraltar. This bay is eight miles
long, and five wide. Every eye was on the alert for the first view of
that great rock, so deservedly famous in English history; and we soon
saw it, rising, as it does, fifteen hundred feet out of the sea, and
extending over three miles. It is one of the strongest fortifications
in the world. It is owned by the British government.

[Sidenote: MONKEYS AT GIBRALTAR.]

As our fleet dropped their anchors in this noble harbor, we were
welcomed at the fort by martial salutes and loud huzzas, which were
heartily returned. It was with much pleasure that we found ourselves
at last in that land of which we had heard so much, and where we
hoped to witness, and participate in, many deeds of glory. After
marching, with flying colors and beating drums, into the town, we
were at liberty to go where we pleased; and I soon found myself, with
a party of my countrymen, on the famous rock. Rising perpendicularly
out of the sea, it slopes towards the shore, and is level for a few
feet on the top. On this level space are placed the cannon, which
command the whole entrance into the Mediterranean. The dim outline of
the African shore is distinctly visible from its top. We were much
annoyed by the monkeys, that inhabit the rock in great numbers. They
are said to come over from Africa, by a subterranean passage, under the
Straits. They were regarded almost as sacred by the inhabitants, and a
fine is imposed on any one who injures or kills them. They sometimes
attack their assailants with stones, but oftener prefer stratagem to
valor,--running rapidly before their pursuers until, by a sudden turn
on some dizzy edge, they secure themselves, and leave their pursuers to
be dashed to pieces on the rocks. They are often quite troublesome to
the soldiers and sentries, pelting them with stones, and always ready
to retaliate.

Gibraltar is called the key of the Mediterranean, because no force
could possibly effect an entrance without permission from the British
government. They have now mounted there over eight hundred guns, and
are intending to increase the number to one thousand. The English
territory in the south of Spain is about four miles in extent. They
obtained possession of it only after severe struggles; but can probably
never be dispossessed by open force.

The Sabbath after we landed, the whole company of men were paraded for
church. We were all ordered to attend the service of the Church of
England. As I had been brought up a strict Catholic, and as there was
a church of that persuasion in the place, to which I intended going, I
did not respond to the call, but remained in my quarters. I had been
here but a short time, when the sergeant came in, and asked why I did
not go to church. I told him I could not attend the service of his
church while there was one of my own denomination in the place. He
replied that it was a rule of the army, and I must submit to it. But
I still declined to go, when he went out and reported to the adjutant
that I had refused to obey orders. The adjutant then came in, and
asked me the same question. I told him that I was not a member of the
Church of England, but a Catholic. If I could be permitted, I would
gladly attend my own church, but could not be present at the service.
At this the adjutant was very angry, and ordered me into confinement.
Here I had leisure to reflect on the probable consequences of the
step I had taken. Punishment of some kind was certain; and, judging
from the angry appearance and words of the adjutant, I certainly had no
reason to think it would be a light one. But what right has England,
I asked myself, to compel those who fight her battles to worship as
she worships? My conscience told me that she had none. I felt that my
cause was just, and I determined to persevere, whatever might be the
result. The next day I was summoned before a court-martial, tried,
and sentenced to receive three hundred lashes on the succeeding day.
As, perhaps, some of my young readers have not much idea of this
punishment, I will describe it to them.

[Illustration: WHIPPING AT GIBRALTAR.]

[Sidenote: A FLOGGING.]

A triangle was erected, composed of three poles, fastened at the top
with an iron bolt. To two of these the legs and hands of the sufferer
are designed to be fastened, while a board is placed across for the
breast to lean upon. The troops were then marched out, and formed
a large hollow square around the place of punishment. I was then
brought to the place, under guard of a file of soldiers, commanded
by an officer. My clothes were so far removed as to leave me naked
to the waist, and I was bound to the triangle. Turning to the first
soldier on the file, the officer directed that he should proceed to
duty. He laid aside his coat, and applied twenty-five lashes, with
the cat-o’-nine-tails, to my back. These blows were counted by the
officer. After twenty-five had been applied, I was asked if I would
give up; I answered, “No!” The blood was already flowing freely from
my back, yet I resolved to die rather than submit to what appeared to
me so unjust a requirement. The next soldier then took the lash, and
struck twenty-five times. Again the officer asked if I would yield,
and received the same reply; and this was continued until the whole
three hundred had been inflicted. I was then taken down, more dead
than alive, and sent to the hospital to be cured of my wounds,--a
process usually requiring from six weeks to three months. The cat--the
instrument with which this punishment is inflicted--is composed of nine
small cords, twisted very hard, and having three knots on each cord;
sometimes the ends of these are bound with wire. The whip is usually
about eighteen inches long, and the handle fifteen.

As soon as I was able, I wrote to his Royal Highness the Duke of York,
stating my case, and requesting permission for those who preferred
attending their own churches to do so. I was much gratified to learn
that his Highness took the matter into consideration; and, soon after,
sent an order that the soldiers should be permitted to attend church
where they pleased. I have always had the consolation, when looking
back on that scene of severe and unjust suffering, of thinking that it
was instrumental in procuring liberty of conscience to many who might
never have enjoyed it without.

[Sidenote: SUFFERING.]

I remained at the hospital until our troops were ordered to march,
which was only three or four weeks. Of course, the wounds were only
partially healed, and I was obliged to shoulder my knapsack while they
were still raw and sore. This constant irritation prevented their
healing, and the suffering I endured from this cause I considered
nearly as great as that from the punishment itself.



CHAPTER II.

  Origin of the War in the Peninsula.--Siege of Saragossa.--Murderous
  Character of the War.--Success of the French in Portugal.--Battle
  of Rolica.--Battle of Vimiero.--Convention of Cintra.--The
  French evacuate Portugal.--Preparations of Napoleon for another
  Campaign.--He subdues the Country, and enters Madrid.--Address to the
  Spanish People.--Napoleon recalled by the War with Austria.--Soult
  and Ney intrusted with the Command of the French Army in
  Spain.--Retreat of Sir John Moore.--Battle of Corunna.--Death of Sir
  John Moore.--The British Army sail for England.


Before entering into a particular account of the battles in which I was
myself an actor, it might not be uninteresting to my readers to take
a hasty survey of the war which was now raging in the Peninsula, and
the causes which led to British intervention. In doing this, I can, of
course, in so small a work, only allude to its principal events, and
relate some anecdotes, interesting, as well from their authenticity, as
from the patriotism of which they were such bright examples.

[Sidenote: ORIGIN OF THE PENINSULAR WAR.]

Charles IV., a descendant of the Spanish Bourbons, in 1807, occupied
the throne of Spain. He was feeble in mind, impotent in action, and
extremely dissolute in his habits. Writing to Napoleon, he gives an
account of himself which must have filled with contempt the mind of
the hard-working emperor for the imbecile king who thus disgraced a
throne. “Every day,” says he, “winter as well as summer, I go out to
shoot, from morning till noon. I then dine, and return to the chase,
which I continue till sunset. Manuel Godoy then gives me a brief
account of what is going on, and I go to bed, to recommence the same
life on the morrow.” His wife, Louisa, was a shameless profligate. She
had selected, from the body-guard of the king, a young soldier, named
Godoy, as her principal favorite; and had freely lavished on him both
wealth and honors. He was known as the Prince of Peace. A favorite of
the king, as well as queen, the realm was, in reality, governed by
him. Ferdinand, Prince of the Asturias, and heir to the throne, hated
this favorite. Weak, unprincipled, and ambitious, unwilling to wait
until the crown should become his by inheritance, it is said that
he concerted a scheme to remove both his parents by poison. He was
arrested, and imprisoned. Natural affection was entirely extinct in
the bosoms of his parents. Louisa, speaking of her son, said that “he
had a mule’s head and a tiger’s heart;” and history informs us that if
injustice is done here, it is only to the tiger and mule. Both king and
queen did all they could to cover his name with obloquy, and prepare
the nation for his execution. But the popular voice was with Ferdinand.
The rule of the base-born favorite could not be tolerated by the
Spanish hidalgos; and the nation, groaning under the burdens that the
vices and misrule of Charles had brought upon them, looked with hope to
the youth, whose very abandonment had excited an interest in his favor.
From the depths of his prison he wrote to Napoleon, imploring his aid,
and requesting an alliance with his family. Charles, too, invoked
the assistance “of the hero destined by Providence to save Europe and
support thrones.” A secret treaty was concluded between the emperor
and Charles, whose object was nominally the conquest of Portugal; and
thus French troops were brought to Madrid. A judicial investigation was
held on the charge against Ferdinand, which ended in the submission of
that prince to his parents. But the intrigues of the two parties still
continued. In March, 1808, hatred of Godoy, and contempt of the king,
had increased to such a degree, that the populace of Madrid could no
longer be controlled. The palace of the Prince of Peace was broken
open and sacked. The miserable favorite, allowed scarcely a moment’s
warning of the coming storm, had barely time to conceal himself beneath
a pile of old mats, in his garret. Here, for thirty-six hours, he lay,
shivering with terror and suffering. Unable longer to endure the pangs
of thirst, he crept down from his hiding-place, was seen, and dragged
out by the mob. A few select troops of the king rushed to his rescue;
and, half dead with fright and bruises, he was thrown into prison. The
populace, enraged by the loss of their victim, now threatened to attack
the palace. Charles, alarmed for his own safety, abdicated in favor
of Ferdinand, and that prince was proclaimed king, amid the greatest
rejoicings. But Charles wrote to Napoleon that his abdication was a
forced one, and again implored his aid. Soon after, determined to
advocate his cause in person, he went to Bayonne to meet the emperor,
accompanied by Louisa and Godoy, and, with them, his two younger sons.
Ferdinand, jealous of his father’s influence with Napoleon, determined
to confront him there. His people everywhere declared against this
measure. They cut the traces of his carriage; they threw themselves
before the horses, imploring him, with prayers and tears, not to desert
his people. But Ferdinand went on. The emperor received them all with
kindness. In a private interview with him, Charles, Louisa, and Godoy,
willingly exchanged their rights to the uneasy crown of Spain for a
luxurious home in Italy, where money for the gratification of all
their voluptuous desires should be at their command. Ferdinand and
his two brothers, Carlos and Francisco, were not so easily persuaded
to surrender the crown of their ancestors. But Napoleon’s iron will
at length prevailed, and the three brothers remained not unwilling
prisoners in the castle of Valencey. The throne of Spain was now
vacant. The right to fill it was assumed by the emperor, in virtue of
the cession to him, by Charles, of his rights. The council of Castile,
the municipality of Madrid, and the governing junta, in obedience to
Napoleon’s dictate, declared that their choice had fallen upon Joseph
Bonaparte, King of Naples. He was already on his way to Bayonne. On the
20th of July he entered Madrid; and, on the 24th, he was proclaimed
King of Spain and the Indies.

[Sidenote: SIEGE OF SARAGOSSA.]

But, if the rulers of Spain, and a few of her pusillanimous nobles,
had agreed to accept a king of Napoleon’s choice, not so decided the
great body of the people. They everywhere flew to arms. To acknowledge
the authority of the self-constituted government, was to declare one’s
self an enemy to the nation. Assassinations at Cadiz and Seville were
imitated in every part of Spain. Grenada had its murders; Carthagena
rivalled Cadiz in ruthless cruelty; and Valencia reeked with blood. In
Gallicia, the people assembled and endeavored to oblige their governor
to declare war against France. Prompted by prudence, he advised them
to delay. Enraged at this, the ferocious soldiers seized him, and,
planting their weapons in the earth, tossed him on their points, and
left him to die. In Asturias, two noblemen were selected, and sent to
implore the assistance of England. In England, the greatest enthusiasm
prevailed. The universal rising of the Spanish nation was regarded as
a pledge of their patriotism, and aid and assistance was immediately
promised and given. Napoleon, with his usual promptness, poured his
troops into Spain. They were successful in many places; but the enemy,
always forming in small numbers, if easily defeated, soon appeared in
another place. The first permanent stand was made at Saragossa. Palafox
had, with some hastily gathered followers, disputed the passage of
the Ebro, and, routed by superior force, had fallen back upon this
city, whose heroic defence presents acts of daring courage of which
the world’s history scarcely furnishes a parallel. It was regularly
invested by the French, under Lefebre Desnouttes. The city had no
regular defences, but the houses were very strong, being vaulted so as
to be nearly fire-proof, and the massy walls of the convents afforded
security to the riflemen who filled them. The French troops had at
one time nearly gained possession of the town, but, for some unknown
reasons, they fell back. This gave confidence to the besieged. They
redoubled their exertions. All shared the labor,--women, children,
priests and friars, labored for the common cause,--and in twenty-four
hours the defences were so strengthened that the place was prepared to
stand a siege. But the next morning Palafox imprudently left the city,
and offered battle to the French. He was, of course, quickly beaten;
but succeeded in escaping, with a few of his troops, into the city. A
small hill rises close to the convent of St. Joseph’s, called Monte
Torrero. Some stone houses on this hill were strongly fortified, and
occupied by twelve hundred men. This place was attacked by Lefebre,
and taken by assault, on the 27th of June, 1808. The convents of St.
Joseph’s and the Capuchins were next attacked by the French, and,
after a long resistance, taken by storm. The command of the besiegers
was now transferred to General Verdier. He continued the siege during
the whole of July, making several assaults on the gates, from which
he was repulsed, with great loss. The Spaniards, having received
a reinforcement, made a sortie to retake Monte Torrero; but were
defeated, their commander killed, and most of their number left dead.
On the 2d of August, the enemy opened a dreadful fire on the town. One
of their shells lighted upon the powder magazine, which was in the
most secure part of the city, and blew it up, destroying many houses
and killing numbers of the besieged. The carnage, during this siege,
was truly terrible. Six hundred women and children perished, and above
forty thousand men were killed.

[Sidenote: THE MAID OF SARAGOSSA.]

It was at this place that the act of female heroism so beautifully
celebrated by Byron was performed. An assault had been made upon one
of the gates, which was withstood with great courage by the besieged.
At the battery of the Portillo, their fire had been so fatal, that but
one artillery-man remained able to serve the gun. He seemed to bear a
charmed life. Though shot and shell fell thick and fast around him, he
still stood unharmed, and rapidly loaded and discharged his gun. At
length, worn out by his own exertions, his strength seemed about to
fail. There was little time, in a contest like this, to watch for the
safety of others; but there was one eye near which not for a moment
lost sight of him. Augustina, a girl twenty-two years of age, had
followed her daring lover to his post. She would not leave him there
alone, although every moment exposed her to share his death. When she
saw his strength begin to fail, she seized a cordial, and held it to
his lips. In the very act of receiving it, the fatal death-stroke came,
and he fell dead at her feet. Not for a moment paused the daring maid.
No tear fell for the slain. She lived to do what he had done. Snatching
a match from the hand of a dead artillery-man, she fired off the gun,
and swore never to quit it alive, during the siege. The soldiers and
citizens, who had begun to retire, stimulated by so heroic an example,
rushed to the battery a second time, and again opened a tremendous fire
upon the enemy. For this daring act, Augustina received a small shield
of honor, and had the word “Saragossa” embroidered on the sleeve of her
dress, with the pay of an artillery-man. Byron thus commemorates this
heroism, in his own transcendent manner:

            “The Spanish maid, aroused,
    Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar,
    And, all unsexed, the anlace hath espoused,
    Sung the loud song, and dared the deeds of war.
    And she, whom once the semblance of a scar
    Appalled, an owlet’s ’larum filled with dread,
    Now views the column-scattering bayonet jar,
    The falchion flash, and o’er the yet warm dead
  Stalks with Minerva’s step, where Mars might quake to tread.

    Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale,
    O! had you known her in the softer hour,--
    Marked her black eye, that mocks her coal-black veil,--
    Heard her light, lively tones in lady’s bower,--
    Seen her long locks, that foil the painter’s power,--
    Her fairy form, with more than female grace,--
    Scarce would you deem that Saragossa’s tower
    Beheld her smile in danger’s Gorgon face,
  Thin the closed ranks, and lead in glory’s fearful chase!

    Her lover sinks--she sheds no ill-timed tear;
    Her chief is slain--she fills his fatal post;
    Her fellows flee--she checks their base career;
    The foe retires--she heads the sallying host,
    Who can appease like her a lover’s ghost?
    Who can avenge so well a leader’s fall?
    What maid retrieve, when man’s flushed hope is lost?
    Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul,
  Foiled by a woman’s hand, before the battered wall!”

[Sidenote: DESPERATE CONFLICT.]

On the 4th of August, the French stormed the city, and penetrated
as far as the Corso, or public square. Here a terrible conflict was
maintained. Every inch of ground was manfully contested; but the
enemy’s cavalry was irresistible, and the besieged began to give way.
All appeared lost. The French, thinking the victory gained, began to
plunder. Seeing this, the besieged rallied, and attacked them. They
succeeded in driving the enemy back to the Corso. They also set fire to
the convent of Francisco, and many perished in its conflagration. Night
now came, to add its horrors to the scene. The fierce contest still
raged on. The lunatic asylum was invaded, and soon the dread cry of
“Fire” mingled with the incoherent ravings of its inmates. “Here,” says
one writer, “were to be seen grinning maniacs, shouting with hideous
joy, and mocking the cries of the wounded; there, others, with seeming
delight, were dabbling in the crimson fluid of many a brave heart,
which had scarcely ceased to beat. On one side, young and lovely women,
dressed in the fantastic rigging of a mind diseased, were bearing away
headless trunks and mutilated limbs, which lay scattered around them,
while the unearthly cries of the idiot kept up a hideous concert with
the shouts of the infuriated combatants. In short, it was a scene of
unmingled horror, too fearful for the mind to dwell upon.” After a
severe contest and dreadful carnage, the French forced their way into
the Corso, in the very centre of the city, and before night were in
possession of one-half of it. Lefebre now believed that he had effected
his purpose, and required Palafox to surrender, in a note containing
only these words: “Headquarters, St. Engrucia,--Capitulation.” Equally
laconic the brave Spaniard’s answer was: “Headquarters, Saragossa,--War
to the knife’s point.”

The contest which was now carried on stands unparalleled. One side
of the Corso was held by the French soldiery; the opposite was in
possession of the Arragonese, who erected batteries at the end of
the cross-streets, within a few paces of those the French had thrown
up. The space between these was covered with the dead. Next day, the
powder of the besieged began to fail; but even this dismayed them not.
One cry broke from the people, whenever Palafox came among them, “War
to the knife!--no capitulation.” The night was coming on, and still
the French continued their impetuous onsets. But now the brother of
Palafox entered the city with a convoy of arms and ammunition, and a
reinforcement of three thousand men. This succor was as unexpected
as it was welcome, and raised the desperate courage of the citizens
to the highest pitch of enthusiasm. The war was now carried on from
street to street, and even from room to room. A priest, by the name
of Santiago Suss, displayed the most undaunted bravery, fighting at
the head of the besieged, and cheering and consoling the wounded and
the dying. At the head of forty chosen men, he succeeded in procuring
a supply of powder for the town, and, by united stratagem and courage,
effected its entrance, even through the French lines. This murderous
contest was continued for eleven successive days and nights,--more,
indeed, by night than by day, for it was almost certain death to appear
by daylight within reach of houses occupied by the other party. But,
concealed by the darkness of the night, they frequently dashed across
the street, to attack each other’s batteries; and the battle, commenced
there, was often carried into the houses beyond, from room to room, and
from floor to floor. As if not enough of suffering had accompanied this
memorable siege, a new scourge came to add its horrors to the scene.
Pestilence, with all its accumulated terrors, burst upon the doomed
city. Numbers of putrescent bodies, in various stages of decomposition,
were strewed thickly around the spot where the death-struggle was
still going on. The air was impregnated with the pestiferous miasm
of festering mortality; and this, too, in a climate like Spain, and
in the month of August! This evil must be removed,--but how? Certain
death would have been the penalty of any Arragonese who should attempt
it. The only remedy was to tie ropes to the French prisoners, and,
pushing them forward amid the dead and dying, compel them to remove
the bodies, and bring them away for interment. Even for this office,
as necessary to one party as the other, there was no truce; only the
prisoners were better secured, by the compassion of their countrymen,
from the fire.

From day to day, this heroic defence was kept up, with unremitting
obstinacy. In vain breaches were made and stormed; the besiegers were
constantly repulsed. At last Verdier received orders to retire; and
the French, after reducing the city almost to ashes, were compelled to
abandon their attacks, and retreat.

Meanwhile, all over Spain the contest was continued, and everywhere
with the most unsparing cruelty. Her purest and noblest sons often fell
victims to private malice. “No one’s life,” says one author, “was worth
a week’s purchase.” One anecdote may serve as an example to illustrate
the spirit of the times.

[Sidenote: ANECDOTE.]

It was night. The rays of the full moon shed their beautiful light
on the hills of the Sierra Morena. On one of these hills lay a small
division of the patriotic army. Its chief was a dark, fierce-looking
man, in whose bosom the spirit of human kindness seemed extinct
forever. A brigand, who had long dealt in deeds of death, he had placed
himself without the pale even of the laws of Spain. But, when the war
commenced, he had offered his own services and that of his men against
the French, and had been accepted. On this night he sat, wrapped in his
huge cloak, beside the decaying watch-fire, seemingly deep in thought.
Near him lay a prisoner on the grass, with the knotted cords so firmly
bound around his limbs that the black blood seemed every moment ready
to burst from its enclosure. He might have groaned aloud in his agony,
had not the pride of his nation,--for he, too, was a Spaniard,--and
his own deep courage, prevented. His crime was, that, yielding to the
promptings of humanity, he had shown kindness to a wounded French
officer, and had thus drawn upon himself suspicion of favoring their
cause. Short trial was needed, in those days, to doom a man to death;
and, with the morning’s dawn, the brave Murillo was informed that he
must die.

With closed eyes and a calm countenance, his heart was yet filled with
agony, as he remembered his desolated home and his defenceless little
ones. Suddenly, a light footstep was heard in the wood adjoining. The
sentinel sprang to his feet, and demanded, “Who goes there?” A boy,
over whose youthful brow scarce twelve summers could have passed,
answered the summons. “I would speak with your chief,” he said. The
ruthless man raised his head as the boy spoke this; and, not waiting
for an answer, he sprang forward and stood before him. “What is your
errand here, boy?” asked the brigand. “I come a suppliant for my
father’s life,” he said, pointing to the prisoner on the grass. “He
dies with the morrow’s sun,” was the unmoved reply. “Nay, chieftain,
spare him, for my mother’s sake, and for her children. Let _him_ live,
and, if you must have blood, I will die for him;” and the noble boy
threw himself at the feet of the chief, and looked up imploringly in
his face. “He is so good!--You smile: you will save his life!” “You
speak lightly of life,” said the stern man, “and you know little of
death. Are you willing to lose one of your ears, for your father’s
sake?” “I am,” said the boy, and he removed his cap, and fixed his eyes
on his father’s face. Not a single tear fell, as the severed member,
struck off by the chief’s hand, lay at his feet. “You bear it bravely,
boy; are you willing to lose the other?” “If it will save my father’s
life,” was the unfaltering response. A moment more, and the second one
lay beside its fellow, while yet not a groan, or word expressive of
suffering, passed the lips of the noble child. “Will you now release
my father?” he asked, as he turned to the prostrate man, whose tears,
which his own pain had no power to bring forth, fell thick and fast, as
he witnessed the bravery of his unoffending son. For a moment it seemed
that a feeling of compassion had penetrated the flinty soul of the
man of blood. But, if the spark had fallen, it glimmered but a moment
on the cold iron of that heart, and then went out forever. “Before I
release him, tell me who taught you thus to endure suffering.” “My
father,” answered the boy. “Then that father must die; for Spain is not
safe while he lives to rear such children.” And before the morning
dawned father and son slept their last sleep.

While Lefebre and Verdier were prosecuting the fatal siege of
Saragossa, Marshal Bessières was pursuing his victorious course
in Castile, compelling one force after another to acknowledge the
authority of Joseph. General Duhesme and Marshal Moncey, in Catalonia,
met with varied success;--repulsed at Valencia and at Gerona, they yet
met with enough good fortune to maintain their reputation as generals.
In Andalusia, the French army, under Dupont, met with serious reverses.
At Baylen, eighteen thousand men laid down their arms, only stipulating
that they should be sent to France. This capitulation, disgraceful in
itself to the French, was shamefully broken. Eighty of the officers
were murdered, at Lebrixa, in cold blood; armed only with their swords,
they kept their assassins some time at bay, and succeeded in retreating
into an open space in the town, where they endeavored to defend
themselves; but, a fire being opened upon them from the surrounding
houses, the last of these unfortunate men were destroyed. The rest of
the troops were marched to Cadiz, and many died on the road. Those who
survived the march were treated with the greatest indignity, and cast
into the hulks, at that port. Two years afterwards, a few hundreds of
them escaped, by cutting the cables of their prison-ship, and drifting
in a storm upon a lee shore. The remainder were sent to the desert
island of Cabrera, without clothing, without provisions, with scarcely
any water, and there died by hundreds. It is related that some of them
dug several feet into the solid stone with a single knife, in search of
water. They had no shelter, nor was there any means of providing it.
At the close of the war, when returning peace caused an exchange of
prisoners, only a few hundred of all those thousands remained alive.
This victory at Baylen greatly encouraged the Spanish troops, whose
ardor was beginning to fail, before the conquering career of Bessières,
and the disgust and terror occasioned by the murders and excesses of
the populace. When the news of the capitulation reached Madrid, Joseph
called a council of war, and it was decided that the French should
abandon Madrid, and retire behind the Ebro.

[Sidenote: FRENCH SUCCESSES IN PORTUGAL.]

But if the French arms had met with a reverse in Spain, it was
compensated by their success in Portugal. Junôt, at the head of
twenty-five thousand men, marched from Alcantara to Lisbon. At an
unfavorable season of the year, and encountering fatigue, and want,
and tempests, that daily thinned his ranks, until of his whole force
only two thousand remained, he yet entered Lisbon victorious. This city
contained three hundred thousand inhabitants, and fourteen thousand
regular troops were collected there. A powerful British fleet was at
the mouth of the harbor, and its commander, Sir Sidney Smith, offered
his powerful aid, in resisting the French; yet such was the terror
that Napoleon’s name excited, and such the hatred of their rulers,
that the people of Lisbon yielded, almost without a struggle. When
Napoleon, in his Moniteur, made the startling announcement that “the
house of Braganza had ceased to reign,” the feeble prince-regent,
alarmed for his own safety, embarked, with his whole court, and sailed
for the Brazils. Junôt himself was created Duke of Abrantes, and
made governor-general of the kingdom. He exerted himself to give an
efficient government to Portugal; and met with such success, that a
strong French interest was created, and steps were actually taken to
have Prince Eugene declared King of Portugal. The people themselves,
and the literary men, were in favor of this step; but it met with
the strongest opposition from the priests, and this was nurtured and
fanned into a flame by persons in the pay of the English, whose whole
influence was exerted in making Napoleon’s name and nation as odious
to the people as possible. Among a people so superstitious as the
Portuguese, the monks would, of course, exert great influence; and many
were the prodigies which appeared, to prove that their cause was under
the protection of Heaven. Among others, was that of an egg, marked by
some chemical process, with certain letters, which were interpreted
to indicate the coming of Don Sebastian, King of Portugal. This
adventurous monarch, years before, earnestly desirous of promoting the
interests of his country, and of the Christian religion, had raised
a large army, consisting of the flower of his nobility, and the
choicest troops of his kingdom, and crossed the Straits into Africa,
for the purpose of waging war with the Moorish king. Young, ardent
and inexperienced, he violated every dictate of prudence, by marching
into the enemy’s country to meet an army compared with which his own
was a mere handful. The whole of his army perished, and his own fate
was never known. But, as his body was not found among the dead, the
peasantry of Portugal, ardently attached to their king, believed that
he would some time return, and deliver his country from all their
woes. He was supposed to be concealed in a secret island, waiting
the destined period, in immortal youth. The prophecy of the egg was,
therefore, believed; and people, even of the higher classes, were often
seen on the highest points of the hills, looking towards the sea with
earnest gaze, for the appearance of the island where their long-lost
hero was detained.

[Sidenote: STATE OF AFFAIRS IN PORTUGAL.]

The constant efforts of the English and the priests at length had their
effect, in arousing the Portuguese peasantry into action; and the news
of the insurrection in Spain added new fuel to the flame. The Spaniards
in Portugal immediately rose against the French; and their situation
would have become dangerous in the extreme, had not the promptness and
dexterity of Junôt succeeded in averting the danger for the present.
Such was the state of affairs in the Peninsula, when the English troops
made their descent into Spain. It has often been said that England was
moved by pure patriotism, or by a strong desire to relieve the Spanish
nation, in being thus prodigal of her soldiers and treasures; but her
hatred to Napoleon, and her determination, at all hazards, to put a
stop to his growing power, was, in all probability, the real motive
that influenced her to bestow aid upon that people.

The English collected their army of nine thousand in Cork, in June,
1808. Sir Hugh Dalrymple had, nominally the chief command of the army,
and Sir Harry Burrard the second; but the really acting officers were,
Sir Arthur Wellesley and Sir John Moore. These troops disembarked
at the Mondego river on the first of August, and marching along the
coast, proceeded to Rolica, where they determined to give battle to
the French. Junôt, having left in Lisbon a sufficient force to hold
the revolutionary movement in check, placed himself at the head of his
army, and advanced to the contest. He was not, however, present at the
battle of Rolica. The French troops were under the command of Generals
Loison and Laborde. Nearly in the centre of the heights of Rolica
stands an old Moorish castle. This, and every favorable post on the
high ground, was occupied by detachments of the French army. It was a
strong position; but Sir Arthur, anxious to give battle before the two
divisions of the French army should effect a junction, decided upon an
immediate attack.

[Sidenote: BATTLE OF ROLICA.]

It was morning, and a calm and quiet beauty seemed to linger on the
scene of the impending conflict. The heights of Rolica, though steep
and difficult of access, possess few of the sterner and more imposing
features of mountain scenery. The heat of summer had deprived them
of much of that brightness of verdure common in a colder climate.
Here and there the face of the heights was indented by deep ravines,
worn by the winter torrents, the precipitous banks of which were
occasionally covered with wood, and below extended groves of the
cork-tree and olive; while Obidas, with its ancient walls and fortress,
and stupendous aqueduct, rose in the middle distance. In the east
Mount Junto reared its lofty summit, while on the west lay the broad
Atlantic. And this was the battle-ground that was to witness the first
outpouring of that blood which flowed so profusely, on both sides,
during the progress of this long and desolating war. Sir Arthur had
divided his army into three columns, of which he himself commanded
the centre, Colonel Trant the right, while the left, directed against
Loison, was under General Ferguson. The centre marched against Laborde,
who was posted on the elevated plain. This general, perceiving, at a
glance, that his position was an unfavorable one, evaded the danger by
falling rapidly back to the heights of Zambugeria, where he could only
be approached by narrow paths, leading through deep ravines. A swarm
of skirmishers, starting forward, soon plunged into the passes; and,
spreading to the right and left, won their way among the rocks and
tangled evergreens that overspread the steep ascent, and impeded their
progress.

With still greater difficulty the supporting column followed, their
formation being disordered in the confined and rugged passes, while
the hollows echoed with the continual roar of musketry, and the shouts
of the advancing troops were loudly answered by the enemy, while the
curling smoke, breaking out from the side of the mountain, marked the
progress of the assailants, and showed how stoutly the defence was
maintained. The right of the 29th arrived first at the top; and, ere
it could form, Col. Lake was killed, and a French company, falling
on their flanks, broke through, carrying with them fifty or sixty
prisoners. Thus pressed, this regiment fell back, and, re-forming under
the hill, again advanced to the charge. At the same time, General
Ferguson poured his troops upon the other side of the devoted army.
Laborde, seeing it impossible to effect a junction with Loison, or to
maintain his present position, fell back,--commencing his retreat by
alternate masses, and protecting his movements by vigorous charges of
cavalry,--and halted at the Quinta de Bugagleira, where his scattered
detachments rejoined him. From this place he marched all night, to
gain the position of Montechique, leaving three guns on the field of
battle, and the road to Torres Vedras open to the victors. The French
lost six hundred men, killed and wounded, among the latter of which was
the gallant Laborde himself. Although the English were victors in this
strife, the heroic defence of the French served to show them that they
had no mean enemy to contend with. The personal enmity to Napoleon, and
the violent party prejudices in England, were so great, that the most
absurd stories as to the want of order and valor in his troops gained
immediate credence there; and many of the English army believed that
they had but to show themselves, and the French would fly. The bravery
with which their attack was met was, of course, a matter of great
surprise, and served as an efficient check to that rashness which this
erroneous belief had engendered.

Instead of pursuing this victory, as Wellesley would have done, he
was obliged to go to the seashore, to protect the landing of General
Anstruthers and his troops. After having effected a junction with this
general, he marched to Vimiero, where the French, under Junôt, arrived
on the 21st of August. The following brief and vivid sketch of this
combat is taken from Alexander’s Life of Wellington:

[Sidenote: BATTLE OF VIMIERO.]

“Vimiero is a village, pleasantly situated in a gentle and quiet
valley, through which flows the small river of Maceria. Beyond, and to
the westward and northward of this village, rises a mountain, of which
the western point reaches the sea; the eastern is separated by a deep
ravine from the height, over which passes the road that leads from
Lourinha and the northward to Vimiero. On this mountain were posted the
chief part of the infantry, with eight pieces of artillery. General
Hill’s brigade was on the right, and Ferguson’s on the left, having
one battalion on the heights, separated from them by the mountain.
Towards the east and south of the town lay a mill, wholly commanded by
the mountain on the west side, and commanding, also, the surrounding
ground to the south and east, on which General Fane was posted, with
his riflemen, and the 50th regiment, and General Anstruthers’ brigade,
with the artillery, which had been ordered to that position during the
night.

“About eight o’clock a picket of the enemy’s horse was first seen on
the heights, toward Lourinha; and, after pushing forward his scouts,
soon appeared in full force, with the evident object of attacking the
British.

“Immediately four brigades, from the mountains on the east, moved
across the ravine to the heights on the road to Lourinha, with three
pieces of cannon. They were formed with their right resting upon these
heights, and their left upon a ravine which separates the heights from
a range at Maceria. On these heights were the Portuguese troops, and
they were supported by General Crawford’s brigade.

“The enemy opened his attack, in strong columns, against the entire
body of troops on this height. On the left they advanced, through the
fire of the riflemen, close up to the 50th regiment, until they were
checked and driven back by that regiment, at the point of the bayonet.
The French infantry, in these divisions, was commanded by Laborde,
Loison, and Kellerman, and the horse by General Margaron. Their attack
was simultaneous, and like that of a man determined to conquer or to
perish. Besides the conflict on the heights, the battle raged with
equal fury on every part of the field. The possession of the road
leading into Vimiero was disputed with persevering resolution, and
especially where a strong body had been posted in the church-yard, to
prevent the enemy forcing an entrance into the town. Up to this period
of the battle the British had received and repulsed the attacks of the
enemy, acting altogether on the defensive. But now they were attacked
in flank by General Ackland’s brigade, as it advanced to its position
on the height to the left, while a brisk cannonade was kept up by the
artillery on those heights.

“The brunt of the attack was continued on the brigade of General Fane,
but was bravely repulsed at all points. Once, as the French retired in
confusion, a regiment of light dragoons pursued them with so little
precaution, that they were suddenly set upon by the heavy cavalry of
Margaron, and cut to pieces, with their gallant colonel at their head.

“No less desperate was the encounter between Kellerman’s column of
reserve and the gallant 43d, in their conflict for the vineyard
adjoining the church. The advanced companies were at first driven back,
with great slaughter; but, again rallying upon the next ranks, they
threw themselves upon the head of a French column in a ravine, and,
charging with the bayonet, put them to the rout. At length the vigor of
the enemy’s attack ceased. They, pressed on all sides by the British,
had lost thirteen cannons and a great number of prisoners; but were
still enabled to retire without confusion, owing to the protection of
their numerous cavalry. An incident occurred in this battle, so highly
characteristic of Highland courage, that I cannot refrain from quoting
it. It is very common for the wounded to cheer their more fortunate
comrades, as they pass on to the attack. A man named Stewart, the piper
of the 71st regiment, was wounded in the thigh, very severely, at an
early period of the action, and refused to be removed. He sat upon a
bank, playing martial airs, during the remainder of the battle. As a
party of his comrades were passing, he addressed them thus: ‘Weel,
my brave lads, I can gang na langer wi’ ye a fightin’, but ye shall
na want music.’ On his return home, the Highland Society voted him a
handsome set of pipes, with a flattering inscription engraved on them.”

The total loss of the French was estimated at three thousand. Soon
after the battle, General Kellerman presented himself, with a strong
body of cavalry, at the outposts, and demanded an interview with the
English general. The result of this interview was the famous convention
of Cintra. By it, it was stipulated that Portugal should be delivered
up to the British army, and the French should evacuate it, with arms
and baggage, but not as prisoners of war; that the French should be
transported, by the British, into their own country; that the army
should carry with it all its artillery, cavalry, arms, and ammunition,
and the soldiers all their private property. It also provided that the
Portuguese who had favored the French party should not be punished.

[Sidenote: THE FRENCH EVACUATE PORTUGAL.]

According to the terms of this convention, Junôt, on the 2d of
September, yielded the government of the capital. This suspension of
military rule was followed by a wild scene of anarchy and confusion.
The police disbanded of their own accord, and crime stalked abroad on
every side. Lisbon was illuminated with thousands of little lamps,
at their departure; and such was the state of the public mind, that
Sir John Hope was obliged to make many and severe examples, before he
succeeded in restoring order.

On the 13th, the Duke of Abrantes embarked, with his staff; and by the
30th of September only the garrisons of Elvas and Almeida remained in
Portugal. This convention was very unpopular in England. The whole
voice of the press was against it; and such was the state of feeling,
that Sir Harry Burrard and Sir Hugh Dalrymple were both recalled,
to present themselves before a court of inquiry, instituted for the
occasion. After a minute investigation, these generals were declared
innocent, but it was judged best to detain them at home.

Having seen Portugal under the control of the English, let us return
to the affairs of Spain. Immediately after the battle of Baylen,
which induced the retreat of Joseph from Madrid, Ferdinand was again
declared king, and the pomp and rejoicings attendant on this event
put an end to all business, except that of intrigue. The French were
everywhere looked upon by the Spanish as a conquered foe, and they
spent their time in the pageant of military triumphs and rejoicings,
as though the enemy had already fled. From this dream of fancied
security Palafox was at length awakened by the appearance of a French
corps, which retook Tudela, and pushed on almost to Saragossa. He
appealed to the governing junta for aid and assistance. Much time was
lost in intrigue and disputes, but at length the army was organized
by appointing La Pena and Llamas to the charge. To supply the place
usually occupied by the commander-in-chief, a board of general
officers was projected, of which Castanos should be chief; but when
some difficulty arose as to who the other members should be, this plan
was deferred, with the remark, that “when the enemy was driven across
the frontier, Castanos would have leisure to take his seat.” Of the
state of the Spanish forces at this time, Napier says, “The idea of a
defeat, the possibility of a failure, had never entered their minds.
The government, evincing neither apprehension, nor activity, nor
foresight, were contented if the people believed the daily falsehoods
propagated relative to the enemy; and the people were content to be so
deceived. The armies were neglected, even to nakedness; the soldier’s
constancy under privations cruelly abused; disunion, cupidity,
incapacity, prevailed in the higher orders; patriotic ardor was visibly
abating among the lower classes; the rulers were grasping, improvident,
and boasting; the enemy powerful, the people insubordinate. Such were
the allies whom the British found on their arrival in Spain.” Sir
Arthur Wellesley had returned to Ireland, and the chief command was
now given to Sir John Moore. This general, with the greatest celerity,
marched his troops to the Spanish frontier, by the way of Almeida,
having overcome almost insurmountable obstacles, arising from the state
of affairs in Spain. Sir David Baird, with a force of ten thousand men,
landed at Corunna, and also advanced to the contest; but they soon
found that they were to meet an enemy with whom they were little able
to cope.

[Sidenote: ENERGY OF THE FRENCH.]

Napoleon, with that energy so often displayed by him, when the
greatness of the occasion required its exercise, collected, in an
incredibly short space of time, an immense army of two hundred thousand
men, most of them veterans who had partaken of the glories of Jena,
Austerlitz, and Friedland. These were divided by the emperor into eight
parts, called “corps d’armée.” At the head of each of them was placed
one of his old and tried generals,--veterans on whom he could rely. The
very names of Victor, Bessières, Moncey, Lefebre, Mortier, Ney, St.
Cyr, and Junôt, speak volumes for the character of the army.

These troops were excited to the highest pitch of enthusiasm, by the
emperor’s address, as he passed through Paris, promising that he would
head them in person, to drive the hideous leopard into the sea. What
were the scattered and divided troops of the Spaniards, to contend with
such a force? The grand French army reached Vittoria almost without an
interruption. Blake was in position at Villarcayo, the Asturians were
close at hand, Romana at Bilboa, and the Estremadurans at Burgos. With
more valor than discretion, Blake made an attack upon Tornosa. The
enemy pretended to retreat. Blake, flushed with his apparent success,
pursued them with avidity, when he suddenly came before twenty-five
thousand men, under the Duke of Dantzic, and was furiously assailed.
Blake, after a gallant defence, was obliged to retreat, in great
confusion, upon Bilboa. He rallied, however, and was again in the field
in a few days, fought a brave action with Villate, and was this time
successful. With the vain-glory of his nation, he next attacked the
strong city of Bilboa. Here, Marshal Victor gained a signal success,
Blake losing two of his generals, and many of his men. Romana, who had
joined Blake, renewed the action, with his veterans. They were made
prisoners, but their brave chief escaped to the mountains. Napoleon
himself now left Bayonne, and directed his course into Spain. Only one
day sufficed for his arrival into Vittoria. At the gates of the city, a
large procession, headed by the civil and military chiefs, met him, and
wished to escort him to a splendid house prepared for his reception;
but they were destined to a disappointment. Napoleon was there, not
for pomp or show, but to direct, with his genius, the march of that
army which he had raised. Jumping from his horse, he entered the first
small inn he observed, and calling for his maps, and a report of the
situation of the armies on both sides, proceeded to arrange the plan of
his campaign. By daylight the next morning, his forces were in motion.
The hastily levied troops of the Conde de Belvidere, himself a youth of
only twenty years, were opposed to him. These were routed, with great
slaughter,--one whole battalion, composed of the students of Salamanca
and Lecon, fell to a man.

[Sidenote: THE PASS OF SOMOSIERRA.]

[Sidenote: NAPOLEON BEFORE MADRID.]

The army of the centre, under the command of Castanos, which was
composed of fifty thousand men, with forty pieces of cannon, was
totally routed at Tudela, by the French, under Lasnes and Ney; and now
but one stronghold remained to the Spaniards, between the enemy and
Madrid. This was the pass of the Somosierra. Here the Spanish army,
under St. Juan, had posted their force. Sixteen pieces of artillery,
planted in the neck of the pass, swept the road along the whole ascent,
which was exceedingly steep and favorable for the defence. The Spanish
troops were disposed in lines, one above another; and when the French
came on to the contest, they warmly returned their fire, and stood
their ground. As yet, the grand battery had not opened its fire. This
was waiting for the approach of the centre, under Napoleon himself.
And now Napoleon, seeing that his troops were not advancing, rode
slowly into the foot of the pass. The lofty mountain towered above
him. Around its top hung a heavy fog, mingled with the curling smoke
that was ascending from the mouth of all those cannon, rendering every
object indistinct in the distance. Silently he gazed up the mountain.
A sudden thought strikes him. His practised eye has discerned, in a
moment, what course to pursue. Turning to his brave Polish lancers,
he orders them to charge up the causeway, and take the battery. They
dashed onward. As they did so, the guns were turned full upon them,
and their front ranks were levelled to the earth; but, ere they could
reload, the Poles, nothing daunted, sprang over their dying comrades,
and before the thick smoke, which enveloped them as a cloud, had
dispersed, they rushed, sword in hand, upon the soldiers, and, cutting
down the gunners, possessed themselves of the whole Spanish battery.
The panic became general. The Spaniards fled, leaving arms, ammunition,
and baggage, to the enemy, and the road open to Madrid. Meanwhile,
this city was in a state of anarchy seldom equalled. A multitude of
peasants had entered the place. The pavements were taken up, the
streets barricaded, and the houses pierced. They demanded arms and
ammunition. These were supplied them. Then they pretended that sand
had been mixed with the powder furnished. The Marquis of Perales, an
old and worthy gentleman, was accused of the deed. The mob rushed to
his house. They had no regard for age. They seized him by his silvery
hair, and, dragging him down the steps, drew him through the streets
until life was extinct. For eight days the mob held possession of the
city. No man was safe; none dared assume authority, or even offer
advice. Murder, and lust, and rapine, and cruelty, stalked fearlessly
through the streets. On the morning of the ninth, far away on the
hills to the north-west, appeared a large body of cavalry, like a
dark cloud overhanging the troubled city. At noon, the resistless
emperor sat down before the gates of Madrid, and summoned the city to
surrender. Calmness and quiet reigned in the French camp, but Madrid
was struggling like a wild beast in the toils. Napoleon had no wish
to destroy the capital of his brother’s kingdom, but he was not to be
trifled with. At midnight, a second summons was sent. It was answered
by an equivocal reply, and responded to by the roar of cannon and the
onset of the soldiery. This was an appeal not to be resisted. Madrid
was in no state to stand a siege. At noon, two officers, in Spanish
uniform, and bearing a flag of truce, were observed approaching
the French headquarters. They came to demand a suspension of arms,
necessary, they said, to persuade the people to surrender. It was
granted, and they returned to the city, with Napoleon’s message.
Before six o’clock in the morning, Madrid must surrender, or perish.
Dissensions arose, but the voice of prudence prevailed, and the
capital yielded. Napoleon was wise; he had no wish to goad a people
already incensed to fury. The strictest discipline was maintained, and
a soldier of his own guard was shot for having stolen a watch. Shops
were reopened, public amusements recommenced, and all was quiet. In six
short weeks every Spanish army was dissipated. From St. Sebastian to
the Asturias, from the Asturias to Talavera, from Talavera to the gates
of Saragossa, all was submission, and beyond that boundary all was
apathy or dread.

An assemblage of the nobles, the clergy, the corporations, and the
tribunals, of Madrid, now waited on Napoleon at his headquarters, and
presented an address, in which they expressed their desire to have
Joseph return among them. Napoleon’s reply was an exposition of what
he had done and intended doing for Spain. Could the people but have
yielded their prejudices, and submitted to his wise plans, what seas of
tears and blood, what degradation and confusion, might have been spared
to poor, unhappy Spain!

[Sidenote: ADDRESS TO THE SPANISH PEOPLE.]

“I accept,” said he, “the sentiments of the town of Madrid. I regret
the misfortunes that have befallen it, and I hold it as a particular
good fortune, that I am enabled to spare that city, and save it yet
greater misfortunes. I have hastened to take measures to tranquillize
all classes of citizens, knowing well that to all people and men
uncertainty is intolerable.

“I have preserved the religious orders, but I have restrained the
number of monks; no sane person can doubt that they are too numerous.
Those who are truly called to this vocation, by the grace of God, will
remain in the convents; those who have lightly, or for worldly motives,
adopted it, will have their existence secured among the secular
ecclesiastics, from the surplus of the convents.

“I have provided for the wants of the most interesting and useful of
the clergy, the parish priests.

“I have abolished that tribunal against which Europe and the age alike
exclaimed. Priests ought to guide consciences, but they should not
exercise any exterior or corporal jurisdiction over men.

“I have taken the satisfaction which was due to myself and to my
nation, and the part of vengeance is completed. Ten of the principal
criminals bend their heads before her; but for all others there is
absolute and entire pardon.

“I have suppressed the rights usurped by the nobles during civil wars,
when the kings have been too often obliged to abandon their own rights,
to purchase tranquillity and the repose of the people.

“I have suppressed the feudal rights, and every person can now
establish inns, mills, ovens, weirs, and fisheries, and give good play
to their industry, only observing the laws and customs of the place.
The self-love, the riches, and the prosperity, of a small number of
men, were more hurtful to your agriculture than the heats of the
dog-days.

“As there is but one God, there should be in one estate but one
justice; wherefore all the particular jurisdictions have been usurped,
and, being contrary to the national rights, I have destroyed them. I
have also made known to all persons that which each can have to fear,
and that which they may hope for.

“The English armies I will drive from the Peninsula. Saragossa,
Valencia, Seville, shall be reduced, either by persuasion or by force
of arms.

“There is no obstacle capable of retarding, for any length of time, my
will; but that which is above my power is to constitute the Spaniards a
nation, under the orders of a king, if they continue to be imbued with
divisions, and hatred towards France, such as the English partisans
and the enemies of the continent have instilled into them. I cannot
establish a nation, a king, and Spanish independence, if that king is
not sure of the affection and fidelity of his subjects.

“The Bourbons can never reign again in Europe. The divisions in the
royal family were concerted by the English. It was not either King
Charles or his favorite, but the Duke of Infantado, the instrument of
England, that was upon the point of overturning the throne. The papers
recently found in his house prove this. It was the preponderance of
England that they wished to establish in Spain. Insensate project!
which would have produced a long war without end, and caused torrents
of blood to be shed.

“No power influenced by England can exist upon this continent. If any
desire it, their desire is folly, and sooner or later will ruin them.
I shall be obliged to govern Spain; and it will be easy for me to do
it, by establishing a viceroy in each province. However, I will not
refuse to concede my rights of conquest to the king, and to establish
him in Madrid, when the thirty thousand citizens assemble in the
churches, and on the holy sacrament take an oath, not with the mouth
alone, but with the heart, and without any jesuitical restriction,
‘to be true to the king,--to love and support him.’ Let the priests
from the pulpit and in the confessional, the tradesmen in their
correspondence and in their discourses, inculcate these sentiments in
the people; then I will relinquish my rights of conquest, and I will
place the king upon the throne, and I will take a pleasure in showing
myself the faithful friend of the Spaniards.

“The present generation may differ in opinions. Too many passions have
been excited; but your descendants will bless me, as the regenerator of
the nation. They will mark my sojourn among you as memorable days, and
from those days they will date the prosperity of Spain. These are my
sentiments. Go, consult your fellow-citizens; choose your part, but do
it frankly, and exhibit only true colors.”

The ten criminals were the Dukes of Infantado, of Hijah, of Mediniceli,
and Ossuna; Marquis Santa Cruz, Counts Fernan, Minez, and Altamira;
Prince of Castello Franco, Pedro Cevallos, and the Bishop of St.
Ander, were proscribed, body and goods, as traitors to France and Spain.

Napoleon now made dispositions indicating a vast plan of operations.
But, vast as his plan of campaign appears, it was not beyond the
emperor’s means; for, without taking into consideration his own genius,
activity and vigor, there were upon his muster-rolls above three
hundred and thirty thousand men and above sixty thousand horse; two
hundred pieces of field artillery followed his corps to battle; and as
many more remained in reserve. Of this great army, however, only two
hundred and fifty thousand men and fifty thousand horses were actually
under arms with the different regiments, while above thirty thousand
were detached or in garrisons, preserving tranquillity in the rear,
and guarding the communications of the active forces. The remainder
were in hospitals. Of the whole host, two hundred and thirteen thousand
were native Frenchmen, the residue were Poles, Germans and Italians;
thirty-five thousand men and five thousand horses were available
for fresh enterprise, without taking a single man from the lines of
communication.

The fate of the Peninsula hung, at this moment, evidently upon a
thread; and the deliverance of that country was due to other causes
than the courage, the patriotism, or the constancy, of the Spaniards.
The strength and spirit of Spain was broken; the enthusiasm was
null, except in a few places, in consequence of the civil wars, and
intestinal divisions incited by the monks and British hirelings; and
the emperor was, with respect to the Spaniards, perfectly master of
operations. He was in the centre of the country; he held the capital,
the fortresses, the command of the great lines of communication
between the provinces; and on the wide military horizon no cloud
interrupted his view, save the city of Saragossa on the one side, and
the British army on the other. “Sooner or later,” said the emperor,
and with truth, “Saragossa must fall.” The subjugation of Spain seemed
inevitable, when, at this instant, the Austrian war broke out, and
this master-spirit was suddenly withdrawn. England then put forth all
her vast resources, and the genius and vigor of Sir John Moore, aided,
most fortunately, by the absence of Napoleon, and the withdrawal of
the strength of his army for the subjugation of the Peninsula; and it
was delivered from the French, after oceans of blood had been spilt
and millions of treasure wasted, to fall into the hands of the not
less tyrannical and oppressive English. “But through what changes of
fortune, by what unexpected helps, by what unlooked-for events,--under
what difficulties, by whose perseverance, and in despite of whose
errors,--let posterity judge; for in that judgment,” says Napier, “only
will impartiality and justice be found.”

[Sidenote: BONAPARTE LEAVES SPAIN.]

Tidings having reached the emperor that the Austrian army was about to
invade France, he recalled a large portion of his army, and appointing
his brother Joseph to be his lieutenant-general, he allotted separate
provinces to each corps d’armée, and directing the imperial guard to
hasten to France, he returned to Valladolid, where he received the
addresses of the nobles and deputies of Madrid, and other great towns;
and after three days’ delay, he departed himself, with scarcely any
escort, but with such astonishing speed as to frustrate the designs
which some Spaniards had, in some way, formed against his person.

[Sidenote: RETREAT OF SIR JOHN MOORE.]

The general command of the French army in Spain was left with Soult,
assisted by Ney. This gallant general, bearing the title of the Duke of
Dalmatia, commenced his pursuit of the English army with a vigor that
marked his eager desire to finish the campaign in a manner suitable
to its brilliant opening. Sir John Moore had arrived in Salamanca by
the middle of November, and on the 23d the other divisions of the
army had arrived at the stations assigned them. Sir David Baird had
already reported himself at Astorga, when Moore received positive
information that the French had entered Valladolid in great force. And
this place was only three days’ march distant from the British. At a
glance, the great mind of Moore comprehended the full difficulty of
his critical situation. In the heart of a foreign country, unsupported
by the Spanish government, his army wanting the very necessaries of
life, he found himself obliged to commence that retreat in winter, over
mountains covered with snow, which proved so fatal to the British
army, or wait to meet the French troops, flushed with victory, and
sustained by an overwhelming force. In vain he appealed to the junta
of Salamanca for aid. In vain he endeavored to arouse the spirit of
patriotism, which had shone forth so brightly in the first days of
the insurrection. Instead of aiding him either to advance or retreat,
they endeavored to direct him what course to pursue; and painted, with
true Spanish pride and hyperbole, in glowing colors, what their armies
had done, and what they could do. His camp was therefore struck, and
he retreated through the rocks of Gallicia, closely followed by the
pursuing army. Whenever the advance guards of the enemy approached, the
British rallied with vigor, and sustained their reputation for bravery;
but they displayed a lamentable want of discipline in all other parts
of their conduct. The weather was tempestuous; the roads miserable;
the commissariat was utterly defective, and the very idea that they
were retreating was sufficient to crush the spirits of the soldiery.
At Bembibre, although the English well knew that the French were close
behind, they broke into the immense wine-vaults of that city. All
effort by their officers to control them was utterly useless. Hundreds
became so inebriated as to be unable to proceed, and Sir John Moore
was obliged to proceed without them. Scarcely had the reserve marched
out of the village, when the French cavalry appeared. In a moment the
road was filled with the miserable stragglers, who came crowding
after the troops, some with shrieks of distress and wild gestures,
others with brutal exclamations; while many, overcome with fear,
threw away their arms, and those who preserved them were too stupidly
intoxicated to fire, and kept reeling to and fro, alike insensible
to their danger and disgrace. The enemy’s horsemen, perceiving this,
bore at a gallop through the disorderly mob, cutting to the right
and left as they passed, and riding so close to the columns that the
infantry were forced to halt in order to protect them. At Villa Franca
even greater excesses were committed; the magazines were plundered,
the bakers driven away from the ovens, the wine-stores forced, the
doors of the houses were broken, and the scandalous insubordination
of the soldiers was, indeed, a disgrace to the army. Moore endeavored
to arrest this disorder, and caused one man, taken in the act of
plundering a magazine, to be hanged. He also endeavored to send
despatches to Sir David Baird, directing him to Corunna, instead of
Vigo; but his messenger became drunk and lost his despatches, and this
act cost the lives of more than four hundred men, besides a vast amount
of suffering to the rest of the army. An unusual number of women and
children had been allowed to accompany the army, and their sufferings
were, indeed, dreadful to witness. Clark, in his history of the war,
gives a heart-rending account of the horrors of this retreat. “The
mountains were now covered with snow; there was neither provision to
sustain nature nor shelter from the rain and snow, nor fuel for fire to
keep the vital heat from total extinction, nor place where the weary
and footsore could rest for a single hour in safety. The soldiers,
barefooted, harassed and weakened by their excesses, were dropping to
the rear by hundreds; while broken carts, dead animals, and the piteous
appearance of women, with children, struggling or falling exhausted in
the snow, completed the dreadful picture. It was still attempted to
carry forward some of the sick and wounded;--the beasts that drew them
failed at every step, and they were left to perish amid the snows.”
“I looked around,” says an officer, “when we had hardly gained the
highest point of those slippery precipices, and saw the rear of the
army winding along the narrow road. I saw their way marked by the
wretched people, who lay on all sides, expiring from fatigue and the
severity of the cold, their bodies reddening in spots the white surface
of the ground. A Portuguese bullock-driver, who had served the English
from the first day of their arrival, was seen on his knees amid the
snow, dying, in the attitude and act of prayer. He had, at least, the
consolations of religion, in his dying hour. But the English soldiers
gave utterance to far different feelings, in their last moments. Shame
and anger mingled with their groans and imprecations on the Spaniards,
who had, as they said, betrayed them. Mothers found their babes
sometimes frozen in their arms, and helpless infants were seen seeking
for nourishment from the empty breasts of their dead mothers. One woman
was taken in labor upon the mountain. She lay down at the turning of
an angle, rather more sheltered than the rest of the way from the icy
sleet which drifted along; there she was found dead, and two babes
which she had brought forth struggling in the snow. A blanket was
thrown over her, to hide her from sight,--the only burial that could be
afforded; and the infants were given in charge to a woman who came up
in one of the carts, little likely, as it was, that they could survive
such a journey.”

[Sidenote: DESTRUCTION OF MAGAZINES AT CORUNNA.]

Soult hung close on the rear of this unfortunate army, and pursued them
until they reached Corunna, on the 12th of January. As the morning
dawned, the weary and unfortunate general, saddened by the dark scenes
through which he had passed, sensible that the soldiers were murmuring
at their retreat, unsupported by his Spanish allies, and well aware
that rumor and envy and misunderstanding would be busy with his name
in his own native land, appeared on the heights that overhung the
town. With eager and anxious gaze, he turned to the harbor, hoping
to perceive there his fleet, which he had ordered to sail from Vigo.
But the same moody fortune which had followed him during his whole
career pursued him here. The wintry sun looked down upon the foaming
ocean, and only the vast expanse of water met his view. The fleet,
detained by contrary winds, was nowhere visible; and once more he
was obliged to halt with his forces, and take up quarters. The army
was posted on a low ridge, and waited for the French to come up. The
sadness of the scene was by no means passed. Here, stored in Corunna,
was a large quantity of ammunition, sent over from England, and for
the want of which both the Spanish and English forces had suffered,
and which Spanish idleness and improvidence had suffered to remain
here for months, unappropriated. This must now be destroyed, or fall
into the possession of the enemy. Three miles from the town were piled
four thousand barrels of powder on a hill, and a smaller quantity
at some distance from it. On the morning of the 13th, the inferior
magazine blew up, with a terrible noise, and shook the houses in the
town; but when the train reached the great store, there ensued a crash
like the bursting forth of a volcano;--the earth trembled for miles,
the rocks were torn from their bases, and the agitated waters rolled
the vessels, as in a storm; a vast column of smoke and dust, shooting
out fiery sparks from its sides, arose perpendicularly and slowly
to a great height, and then a shower of stones and fragments of all
kinds, bursting out of it with a roaring sound, killed many persons
who remained too near the spot. Stillness, slightly interrupted by the
lashing of the waves on the shore, succeeded, and then the business of
the day went on. The next scene was a sad one. All the horses of the
army were collected together, and, as it was impossible to embark them
in face of the enemy, they were ordered to be shot. These poor animals
would otherwise have been distributed among the French cavalry, or used
as draft-horses.

On the 14th, the transports from Vigo arrived. The dismounted cavalry,
the sick and wounded, the best horses, belonging to the officers, which
had been saved, and fifty-two pieces of artillery, were embarked during
the night, only retaining twelve guns on shore, ready for action. And
now the closing scene of this sad drama was rapidly approaching, giving
a melancholy but graceful termination to the campaign.

[Sidenote: DEATH OF SIR JOHN MOORE.]

On the night of the 15th, everything was shipped that was destined
to be removed, excepting the fighting men. These were intending to
embark, as soon as the darkness should permit them to move without
being perceived, on the night of the 16th; but in the afternoon the
French troops drew up, and offered battle. This the English general
would not refuse, and the action soon became general. The battle was
advancing, with varied fortune, when Sir John Moore, who was earnestly
watching the result of the battle in the village of Elvina, received
his death-wound. A spent cannon-ball struck him on his breast. The
shock threw him from his horse, with violence; but he rose again, in
a sitting posture, his countenance unchanged, and his steadfast eye
still fixed on the regiments before him, and betraying no signs of
pain. In a few moments, when satisfied that his troops were gaining
ground, his countenance brightened, and he suffered himself to be
carried to the rear. Then was seen the dreadful nature of his hurt.
The shoulder was shattered to pieces; the arm was hanging by a piece
of skin; the ribs over the heart were broken and bared of flesh, and
the muscles of the breast torn into long strips, which were interlaced
by their recoil from the dragging shot. As the soldiers placed him in
a blanket, his sword got entangled, and the hilt entered the wound.
Captain Hardinge, a staff officer, who was near, attempted to take
it off; but the dying man stopped him, saying, “It is as well as it
is; I had rather it should go out of the field with me.” And in that
manner, so becoming to a soldier, he was borne from the fight by his
devoted men, who went up the hill weeping as they went. The blood
flowed fast, and the torture of his wound was great; yet, such was
the unshaken firmness of his mind, that those about him judged, from
the resolution of his countenance, that his hurt was not mortal, and
said so to him. He looked steadfastly at the wound for a few moments,
and then said, “No,--I feel that to be impossible.” Several times
he caused his attendants to turn around, that he might behold the
field of battle; and, when the firing indicated the advance of the
British, he discovered his satisfaction, and permitted his bearers to
proceed. Being brought to his lodgings, the surgeon examined his wound,
but there was no hope. The pain increased, and he spoke with great
difficulty. Addressing an old friend, he said, “You know that I always
wished to die this way.” Again he asked if the enemy were defeated; and
being told that they were, observed, “It is a great satisfaction to me
that we have beaten the French.” Once, when he spoke of his mother, he
became agitated. It was the only time. He inquired after his friends
and officers who had survived the battle, and did not even now forget
to recommend those whose merit entitled them to promotion. His strength
failed fast; and life was almost extinct, when he exclaimed, as if in
that dying hour the veil of the future had been lifted, and he had seen
the baseness of his posthumous calumniators, “I hope the people of
England will be satisfied; I hope my country will do me justice.” In a
few minutes afterwards he died, and his corpse, wrapped in a military
cloak, was interred by the officers of his staff, in the citadel of
Corunna. The guns of the enemy paid his funeral honors, and the valiant
Duke of Dalmatia, with a characteristic nobleness, raised a monument to
his memory. The following is so beautiful and touching a description of
his burial, that we cannot refrain from quoting it, even though it may
be familiar to most of our readers. It was written by the Rev. Charles
Wolfe, of Dublin.

  “Not a drum was heard--not a funeral note--
    As his corse to the ramparts we hurried;
  Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
    O’er the grave where our hero was buried.

  “We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
    The sods with our bayonets turning,
  By the struggling moonbeams’ misty light,
    And the lantern dimly burning.

  “No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
    Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
  But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
    With his martial cloak around him.

  “Few and short were the prayers we said,
    And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
  But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
    And bitterly thought of the morrow.

  “We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
    And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
  That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head,
    And we far away on the billow.

  “Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone,
    And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him;
  But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on
    In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

  “But half of our heavy task was done,
    When the clock struck the hour for retiring:
  And we heard the distant and random gun
    Of the enemy, suddenly firing.

  “Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
    From the field of his fame, fresh and gory;
  We carved not a line--we raised not a stone--
    But we left him alone with his glory.”

[Sidenote: RESULT OF THE BATTLE.]

The battle was continued until dark, under great disadvantages on
the part of the French, owing to the difficulty they experienced in
dragging their heavy cannon on to the heights, and their small amount
of ammunition. The French loss has been estimated at three thousand,
and the British at eight hundred; but the loss of the French was
undoubtedly exaggerated. The English availed themselves of the darkness
and the confusion among the enemy to embark their troops; and so
complete were the arrangements of Sir John Hope, who succeeded to the
command, that it was all effected, without delay or difficulty, before
morning. The wounded were provided for, and the fleet, although fired
upon by the French, sailed on the 17th for their home in England.

But their trials were not yet closed. It was Sir John Moore’s intention
to have proceeded to Vigo, that he might restore order before he
sailed for England; but the fleet went directly home from Corunna,
and a terrible storm scattered it, many ships were wrecked, and the
remainder, driving up the channel, were glad to put into any port. The
soldiers thus thrown on shore were spread all over the country. Their
haggard appearance, ragged clothing, and dirty accoutrements, struck a
people only used to the daintiness of parade with surprise. A deadly
fever, the result of anxiety and of the sudden change from fatigue to
the confinement of a ship, filled the hospitals at every port with
officers and soldiers, and the terrible state of the army was the
all-absorbing topic of conversation.



CHAPTER III.

  Joseph Bonaparte again King of Spain.--His Difficulties with
  Soult.--Second Siege of Saragossa.--Another English Army, under
  Sir Arthur Wellesley, lands at Lisbon.--Battle of Talavera.--The
  English retire into Portugal.--Siege of Gerona.--Principal Events
  of the Campaign of 1810.--The English Troops make a Stand at Torres
  Vedras.--Retreat of Massena.--Siege of Cadiz.--Escape of French
  Prisoners.--Opening of the Campaign of 1811.


Having closed the history of this unfortunate army, let us now return
to Spain. Joseph had returned, a nominal king, to Madrid. More than
twenty-six thousand heads of families had come forward, of their own
accord, and sworn, by the host, that they desired his presence amongst
them. The marshals, under his directions, were pursuing the conquest of
Spain with vigor. Though Joseph was nominally lieutenant-general, Soult
was in reality at the head of operations. A modern writer, speaking of
these two commanders, says Soult was crippled in all his movements,
his sound policy neglected, and his best combinations thwarted, by
Joseph. His operations in Andalusia and Estramadura, and the firmness
with which he resisted the avarice of Joseph, all exhibited his
well-balanced character. In Andalusia he firmly held his ground,
although hedged in with hostile armies, and surrounded by an insurgent
population, while a wide territory had to be covered with his troops.

King Joseph could not comprehend the operations of such a mind as
Soult’s, and constantly impeded his success. When, without ruin to his
army, the stubborn marshal could yield to his commands, he did; but
where the king’s projects would plunge him into irredeemable errors, he
openly and firmly withstood them. The anger and threats of Joseph were
alike in vain. The inflexible old soldier professed his willingness
to obey, but declared he would not, with his eyes open, commit a
great military blunder. King Joseph would despatch loud and vehement
complaints to Napoleon, but the emperor knew too well the ability of
Soult to heed them. Had the latter been on the Spanish throne, the
country would long before have been subdued, and the French power
established.

We shall not enter into detail of all the operations in Spain. A short
account of some of the principal battles we will give; and, as we
have already detailed the first siege of Saragossa, our readers may
perhaps like to know the final fate of this devoted city. We quote from
Headley’s description of the second siege.

[Sidenote: SECOND SIEGE OF SARAGOSSA.]

“The siege at Saragossa had been successively under the command of
Moncey and Junôt. The camp was filled with murmurs and complaints.
For nearly a month they had environed the town in vain. Assault after
assault had been made; and from the 2d of January, when Junôt took the
command, till the arrival of Lannes in the latter part of the month,
every night had been distinguished by bloody fights; and yet the city
remained unconquered. Lannes paid no heed to the murmurs and complaints
around him, but immediately, by the promptitude and energy of his
actions, infused courage into the hearts of the desponding soldiery.
The decision he was always wont to carry into battle was soon visible
in the siege. The soldiers poured to the assault with firmer purpose,
and fought with more resolute courage. The apathy which had settled
down on the army was dispelled. New life was given to every movement;
and on the 27th, amid the tolling of the tower-bell, warning the people
to the defence, a grand assault was made, and, after a most sanguinary
conflict, the walls of the town were carried, and the French soldiers
fortified themselves in the convent at St. Joseph’s. Unyielding to the
last, the brave Saragossans fought on, and, amid the pealing of the
tocsin, rushed up to the very mouths of the cannons, and perished by
hundreds and by thousands in the streets of the city. Every house was
a fortress, and around its walls were separate battle-fields, where
deeds of frantic valor were done. Day after day did these single-handed
fights continue, while famine and pestilence walked the city at
noonday, and slew faster than the swords of the enemy. The dead lay
piled up in every street, and on the thick heaps of the slain the
living mounted, and fought with the energy of despair for their homes
and their liberty. In the midst of this incessant firing by night and
by day, and hand to hand fights on the bodies of the slain, ever and
anon a mine would explode, blowing the living and dead, friend and foe,
together in the air. An awful silence would succeed for a moment, and
then, over the groans of the dying, would ring again the rallying cry
of the brave inhabitants. The streets ran torrents of blood, and the
stench of putrefied bodies loaded the air. Thus, for three weeks, did
the fight and butchery go on, within the city walls, till the soldiers
grew dispirited and ready to give up the hope of spoils, if they could
escape the ruin that encompassed them. Yet theirs was a comfortable
lot to that of the besieged. Shut up in the cellars with the dead,
pinched with famine, while the pestilence rioted without mercy and
without resistance, they heard around them the incessant bursting of
bombs, and thunder of artillery, and explosions of mines, and crash of
falling houses, till the city shook, night and day, as within the grasp
of an earthquake. Thousands fell daily, and the town was a mass of
ruins. Yet, unconquered and apparently unconquerable, the inhabitants
struggled on. Out of the dens they had made for themselves among the
ruins, and from the cellars where there were more dead than living,
men would crawl to fight, who looked more like spectres than warriors.
Women would work the guns, and, musket in hand, advance fearlessly to
the charge; and hundreds thus fell, fighting for their homes and their
firesides. Amid this scene of devastation,--against this prolonged and
almost hopeless struggle of weeks,--against the pestilence that had
appeared in his own army, and was mowing down his own troops,--and,
above all, against the increased murmurs and now open clamors of
the soldiers, declaring that the siege must be abandoned till
reinforcements could come up,--Lannes remained unshaken and untiring.
The incessant roar and crash around him, the fetid air, the exhausting
toil, the carnage and the pestilence, could not change his iron will.
He had decreed that Saragossa--which had heretofore baffled every
attempt to take it--should fall. At length, by a vigorous attempt, he
took the convent of St. Laran, in the suburbs of the town, and planted
his artillery there, which soon levelled the city around it with the
ground. To finish this work of destruction by one grand blow, he
caused six mines to be run under the main street of the city, each of
which was charged with three thousand pounds of powder. But before the
time appointed for their explosion arrived, the town capitulated. The
historians of this siege describe the appearance of the city and its
inhabitants, after the surrender, as inconceivably horrible. With only
a single wall between them and the enemy’s trenches, they had endured
a siege of nearly two months by forty thousand men, and continued to
resist after famine and pestilence began to slay faster than the enemy.
Thirty thousand cannon-balls and sixty thousand bombs had fallen in
the city, and fifty-four thousand of the inhabitants had perished.
Six thousand only had fallen in combat, while forty-eight thousand had
been the prey of the pestilence. After the town had capitulated, but
twelve thousand were found able to bear arms, and they looked more like
spectres issuing from the tomb than like living warriors.

“Saragossa was taken; but what a capture! As Lannes rode through
the streets at the head of his victorious army, he looked only on a
heap of ruins, while six thousand unburied corpses lay in his path.
Sixteen thousand lay sick, while on the living famine had written
more dreadful characters than death had traced on the fallen. Infants
lay on the breasts of their dead mothers, striving in vain to draw
life from bosoms that would never throb again. Attenuated forms, with
haggard faces and sunken eyes and cheeks, wandered around among the
dead to search for their friends; corpses, bloated with famine, lay
stretched across the threshold of their dwellings, and strong-limbed
men went staggering over the pavements, weak from want of food, or
struck with the pestilence. Woe was in every street, and the silence
in the dwellings was more eloquent than the loudest cries and groans.
Death and famine and the pestilence had been there, in every variety
of form and suffering. But the divine form of Liberty had been there
too, walking amid those mountains of corpses and ruins of homes,
shedding her light through the subterranean apartments of the wretched,
and, with her cheering voice, animating the thrice-conquered, yet
still unconquered, to another effort, and blessing the dying as they
prayed for their beloved city. But she was at last compelled to take
her departure, and the bravest city of modern Europe sunk in bondage.
Still her example lives, and shall live to the end of time, nerving the
patriot to strike and suffer for his home and freedom, and teaching
man everywhere how to die in defending the right. A wreath of glory
surrounds the brow of Saragossa, fadeless as the memory of her brave
defenders. Before their achievements,--the moral grandeur of their firm
struggle, and the depth and intensity of their sufferings,--the bravery
and perseverance of the French sink into forgetfulness. Yet theirs was
no ordinary task, and it was by no ordinary means that it was executed.”

[Sidenote: THE ENGLISH LAND AT LISBON.]

The English had by no means relinquished their designs upon the
Peninsula. The successes of Napoleon and his victorious army but served
to stimulate their hatred of the French, and spur them on to further
efforts. Another army was accordingly collected, and placed under the
command of Sir Arthur Wellesley, who landed in Lisbon on the 22d of
April, 1809. The force under his command was fourteen thousand five
hundred infantry, fifteen hundred cavalry, and twenty-four pieces of
artillery. The passage of the river Dwero was his first contest with
the French. In this he was successful, and his success opened to him
the gates of Oporto. Soon after occurred the celebrated battle of
Talavera. King Joseph was himself nominally at the head of his troops;
but Marshal Victor was, in reality, the leader. Victor and Soult had
both laid their plans before the king, and urged them with all the
eloquence they were capable of. So sure was Victor of the victory,
should his advice be followed, that he said that, if his plans should
fail, all military science was useless. The event proved, however, that
Soult was correct.

[Sidenote: BATTLE OF TALAVERA.]

“The morning dawned beautifully clear, but a July sun poured down its
burning heat, until the soldiers were glad to seek shelter from its
rays in the quiet shade. Between the camps of the two armies flowed
a little murmuring rivulet, and, as the French and English met there
to slake their thirst, pleasant words passed between them. Familiar
conversation, the light laugh and the gay jest, were heard on every
side. But, about one o’clock, the deep rolling of drums along the
French lines announced to the allies that the hour had come when those
who had met to slake their thirst in those quiet waters were soon to
mingle to quell in blood their thirst for strife. They, too, prepared
for combat; and, when the loud booming of the guns gave the signal
that the battle was commenced, eighty cannon opened their destructive
fire, and the light troops went sweeping onward with the rapidity
of a thunder-cloud over the heavens, while the deep, dark columns
marched sternly after, and charged, with terrible strength, the English
lines. Then all along their fronts the deep-mouthed guns opened
their well-directed fire, and the infantry responded to the furious
attack with their rapid volleys, as they closed around the head of the
advancing columns, enveloping them in one sheet of flame, that streamed
like billows along their sides. It was too much for human courage to
endure; and, after bravely breasting the storm, they were obliged to
fall back in disorder.

“After various successes and reverses, the French seemed about to gain
the day. The English centre was broken, and Victor’s columns marching
triumphantly through it. Just at this juncture, when the English were
scattering on every side, Colonel Donellan, anxious to save the honor
of his army, was seen advancing through the disordered masses, at the
head of the 48th regiment. The retiring masses on every side pressed
hard against these brave soldiers, and it seemed, at first, as though
they must be carried away by them; but, wheeling back by companies,
they opened to let the fugitives pass, and then, pursuing their proud
and beautiful line, they marched straight upon the pursuing columns
on the right side, and poured their rapid fire into the dense ranks.
Closing on the foe with steadiness and firmness, these few soldiers
arrested the progress of the entire mass. Then their artillery opened
its fire upon them, and the cavalry rallied, and rode round to charge
their flanks; and, after a short and earnest warfare, the tide of
success turned, and victory, which seemed a moment before in the hands
of the French, was wrested from their grasp, amid the loud shouts and
earnest cheerings of the British. Their troops retired in good order
to their former position, and at six o’clock the battle had closed.
And now, as both parties were preparing to remove their wounded, and
pay the last sad duties to the dead, one of those terrible events
occurred which sometimes come to shock the human soul, and overrun a
cup of misery already full. Hardly had the last troops withdrawn from
the scene of contest, when the long dry grass took fire, and one broad
flame swept furiously over the field, wrapping the dead and wounded
together in its fiery mantle. The shrieks of the scorched and writhing
victims, that struggled up through the thick folds of smoke that rolled
darkly over them, were far more appalling than the uproar of battle,
and carried consternation to every heart that heard. Two thousand men
were killed on both sides, and eight thousand wounded.”[A]

[Sidenote: THE ENGLISH RETIRE INTO PORTUGAL.]

Soon after, the army effected a junction with Soult, and Sir Arthur
Wellesley was obliged to retreat. He obtained, however, a promise
from the Spanish general that the English wounded should be removed
from the hospitals of Talavera to some other place. But this promise,
like too many others, was shamefully violated; and he left the place,
abandoning them all to the mercy of the enemy. When Victor entered the
town, he found the public square covered with the sick and maimed of
both armies, scattered around on the pavement, without any one to care
for them. He immediately sent his soldiers into the houses, commanding
the inhabitants to receive the wounded sufferers. He ordered that
one English and one French soldier should be lodged together,--thus
softening the asperities of war, and setting an example to his foes
which they would have done well to follow. If the Spanish had refused
to care for the sick and wounded of their allies, they showed scarcely
more consideration for the men on whose success their own safety
depended. They refused to supply them with provisions. The soldiers
were weakened by hunger, and the sick dying for want of necessary
succor. Half a pound of wheat in the grain, and, twice a week, a few
ounces of flour, with a quarter of a pound of goat’s flesh, formed
the sole subsistence of men and officers. The goats were caught and
killed by the troops; and it was so difficult to procure even these,
that the mere offal of a goat would bring three or four dollars. Sir
Arthur’s warm remonstrances to the Spanish junta were answered only
by promises. The soldiers were murmuring at their bad treatment; and,
when pestilence broke out in the army, and five thousand men died in
their hospitals, Wellesley, deeming it useless to struggle longer
against the force of circumstances, judged it best again to evacuate
Spain, and withdraw his troops into Portugal. However lightly the
English had, in anticipation, regarded the bravery of the French
troops, experience--that stern and truthful monitor--had taught them
that they were an enemy not to be despised, and that Soult, their
chief commander, was as skilful, and, as a tactician, fully equal to
Wellington. Many English writers, in speaking of Wellington, have drawn
a parallel between him and Napoleon, because he was commander-in-chief
when the battle of Waterloo was won. Yet this long struggle between the
English general and Soult, in Spain, in which he was as often defeated
as conqueror, shows conclusively that the French and English commanders
were well matched,--that there was little to choose between them; and
who would think, even for a moment, of instituting a comparison of
equality between Napoleon and Soult?

We cannot follow the Spaniards, in all their operations, after the
English forces had been withdrawn; marked, as they often were, by
want of courage, and oftener by want of skill and foresight in their
arrangements. The Partida warfare was now instituted, and many of the
French troops were cut off in this way; yet the system was a decided
injury to Spain. The heroic defence of Saragossa, already recorded,
and the almost equally courageous one of Gerona, rise as bright spots
on the dark page of Spanish history, and are well worthy of a name and
place in this history. Most of the siege of Gerona we shall take the
liberty to extract from Tucker’s Life of Wellington.

[Sidenote: SIEGE OF GERONA.]

Gerona is a city of Catalonia, situate on the little river Onar. It is
protected by four forts, upon the high ground above it. Its principal
defence, however, was the citadel, called the Monjuie. This is a
square fort, two hundred and forty yards in length on each side, with
four bastions. The garrisons consisted of three thousand four hundred
men, commanded by Mariano Alvarez,--a man at once noble, brave, and
humane. Alvarez, who knew that he could place small dependence on
reinforcements from without, gave every encouragement to the feelings
of the citizens to defend their town to the last extremity. For this
purpose, he formed them into eight companies of one hundred men each.
Nor was the enthusiasm of the defence shared alone by the men. Maids
and matrons also enrolled themselves in an association, which they
termed the Company of St. Barbara, to perform whatever lay in their
power. Alvarez knew full well the power which superstition would
exert on the minds of the bigoted Spaniards. He, therefore, invested
St. Narcis, the patron saint of the Geronans, with the insignia of
generalissimo of all their forces, by land and by sea. This was done on
the Sabbath; and the shrine of the saint was opened, and a general’s
staff, a sword and richly-ornamented belt, were deposited with his
holy relics. Such was the joy and excitement of the Spaniards, that
one of their writers says, “It seemed as if the glory of the Lord had
descended and filled the church, manifesting that their devotion was
approved and blessed by heaven.”

A proclamation was also issued by Alvarez, forbidding all persons, of
whatever rank, from speaking of capitulation, on pain of immediate
death. This was received, both by the garrison and people, with
acclamation.

The city was closely invested by eighteen thousand French, under the
command of General Verdier, on the 6th of May, on the heights of Casa
Roca, where they erected a battery of eleven mortars, and began to form
their first line of circumvallation. The garrison was too weak to make
a sally, or otherwise prevent them. A flag of truce was sent, with the
conditions on which the French would leave the city; but the only reply
it drew forth was, that the Geronans would hold no communication with
the French, but at the cannon’s mouth. At one o’clock on the morning
of June 14th, the bombardment commenced. As soon as the first shell
struck, the loud tones of the _generale_ resounded through the streets,
and every one flew to his post. The female Company of St. Barbara, so
far from shrinking from danger, sought everywhere those spots where
most was anticipated. What bravery or daring could do was done; yet two
castles were yielded up, after a brave but vain resistance. Palamas was
also carried by assault. Very few of the garrison escaped, and those
only by throwing themselves into the sea. In July, three batteries kept
up an incessant fire upon three sides of the Monjuie. By one of these
discharges the angle on which the Spanish flag was planted was cut off,
and the flag prostrated into the ditch below. In an instant, a man was
lowered down from the walls to regain it. Balls fell like hail around
him; yet, apparently unmindful of the dangers to which he was exposed,
he calmly descended, and, having recovered the prostrate banner,
returned to his comrades unhurt, and again hoisted it on the walls.

A breach was now made in the walls so wide that forty men might enter
abreast. The works progressed with more rapidity, as the fire of the
besieged had entirely ceased. It was not that Gerona was conquered,
but, finding that their ammunition was growing short, they prudently
reserved it until the nearer approach of the enemy should make it
more efficient. On the morning of the 8th, about three o’clock, the
French, under cover of a most tremendous bombardment, again assaulted
the city. Six thousand men marched up to the breach, and endeavored to
rush through; but, concealed there in the ruins of the ravelin, lay
a mortar, which discharged five hundred musket-balls every shot. As
they advanced, it was turned upon them, and their way was soon impeded
by the slain. Three times during that day the assault was repeated,
with the utmost resolution, by the assailants; and three times were
they obliged to retire before the heroic defenders of Gerona, leaving
sixteen hundred men lifeless on the field of battle. But the effect of
that dreadful attack was severely felt by the besieged. The tower of
St. Juan had been blown up, and only twenty-three of its brave little
garrison remained alive.

An instance of extraordinary heroism, in a youthful drummer, which
occurred during the assault, deserves to be recorded. His name was
Luciana Ancio, and he belonged to the artillery. He was stationed to
give the alarm, when a shell was thrown. A ball struck his leg off to
the knee, and felled him to the ground. Some women, who saw him fall,
hastened to remove him to a place of greater safety; but he refused,
saying, “No, no! my arms are left, and I can still beat the drum to
give my comrades warning in time to save themselves.” Heaven seemed
to smile upon his bravery; for he alone, of all those who suffered an
amputation of the thigh during the siege, recovered.

The Company of St. Barbara were everywhere to be seen, covered with
dust and blood, under the burning heat of a July sun. Those courageous
women, through an incessant fire of the batteries and the musketry,
carried water and wine to the soldiers, and bore back the wounded.
Every day produced acts of heroism equally conspicuous, for the attack
continued with unabated force. The sharp-shooters of the enemy were
stationed thickly in the trenches; and so fatal was their aim, that for
any of the garrison to be seen, only for a moment, was certain death.
And, although the sentinels were changed every half-hour, nine were
killed, in one day, at one post; and, after this, it was only possible
to observe what the enemy were about, by some one in the force lifting
up his head, and taking a momentary glance.

Early in August, the besiegers had pushed their parallels to the very
edge of the fosse; but here their efforts were delayed, because the
nature of the soil obliged them to bring earth from some distance to
finish their works. About this time, Castellar de la Silva, at the head
of fifteen hundred men, attempted to throw supplies into the city; but
no precautions could escape the watchful eye of the besiegers. The
convoy was seized, and only five hundred men, of the fifteen hundred
who defended it, lived to tell the tale.

The main attacks of the besiegers were now directed against the
ravelin, which had become the chief defence of Monjuie. Attempts were
made, night after night, to storm it; but in vain. It was mined, but,
as the breastwork was wholly of earth, the explosion did no injury. A
battery was planted against it, and a sally was made by the besieged,
hoping to destroy it. This attack was headed by a priest. He was fired
upon, and fell. One of the French officers, at the risk of his own
life, protected him from further injury. But his humanity cost him his
life. One of the Spaniards, mistaking his object, cut him down. The
guns of the battery were spiked; but this brave attack was of little
use, for the French were well supplied with artillery, and fresh guns
were soon mounted, and played upon the gate and ravelin.

For thirty-seven days had this fierce conflict been sustained. The
numbers of the besieged were greatly reduced; the hospitals were
filled to overflowing, and pestilence, with all its horrors, spread
unchecked, on every side. Yet this was not all. Grim, gaunt famine was
among them, and began to be severely felt. Of all their stores, only
some wheat and a little flour remained. Still, there was no thought of
capitulation, although every day diminished their little stock. On the
19th of September, another general assault was made, and as bravely
met. “Frequently,” says Southey, “such was the press of conflict,
and such the passion that inspired them, that, impatient of the time
required for reloading their muskets, the defendants caught up stones
from the breach, and hurled upon their enemies these readier weapons.”
Four times the assault was repeated in the course of two hours, and at
every point the enemy was beaten off. The noble Alvarez, during the
whole assault, hastened from post to post, wherever he was most needed,
providing everything, directing all, and encouraging all. Eight hundred
of the besiegers fell, on this memorable day. A glorious success had
been gained, yet it brought with it no rest,--no respite,--scarcely a
prolongation of hope. There was no wine to cheer the wearied soldiery,
when they returned from the assault--not even bread. A scanty mess
of pulse, or corn, with a little oil, or morsel of bacon, in its
stead, was all that could be served out; and even this was the gift
of families, who shared with the soldiers their little stores. “What
matters it?” was the answer of these heroes to the lament of the
inhabitants that they had nothing better to give; “if the food fail,
the joy of having saved Gerona will give us strength to go on.” Every
day, every hour, added to the distress of the besieged. Their flour was
exhausted, and, for want of other animal food, mules and horses were
slaughtered, and sent to the shambles. A list was made of all within
the city, and they were taken by lot. Fuel became exceedingly scarce;
yet such was the patriotism of the people, that the heaps placed at the
corners of the streets, to illuminate them in case of danger, remained
untouched. A glimmering of hope still remained that the city might be
supplied with provisions by the army of Blake; but even this faint hope
was cut off when Marshal Augereau superseded St. Cyr in the control of
the siege,--for his first act was to take possession of Haslatrich,
at which place Blake had stored the greater part of his magazines.
Augereau sent letters to the city threatening an increase of horrors
in case the siege was prolonged, and offering them an armistice of a
month, with provisions for that time, if Alvarez would then capitulate;
but these terms were rejected with scorn. Hitherto, the few animals
which had remained had been led out to feed near the burying-ground;
but this was no longer possible, and the wretched animals gnawed the
hair from each other’s bodies. The stores of the citizens were now
exhausted, and the food for the hospitals was sometimes seized on the
way, by the famishing populace. Provisions were prepared in the French
camp, and held out to the garrison as a temptation to desert; and yet,
during the whole siege, only ten so deserted.

At length, human nature could endure no more. The chief surgeon
presented to Alvarez a report on the state of the city. It was,
indeed, a fearful one. It stated that “not a single house remained in
a habitable state” in Gerona. The people slept in cellars, and vaults,
and holes, amid the ruins; and the wounded were often killed in the
hospital by the enemy’s fire. The streets were broken up, so that the
rain-water and sewers had stagnated, and their pestilential breath was
rendered more noxious by the dead bodies which lay perishing in the
ruins. The incessant thunder of artillery had affected the atmosphere,
and vegetation had stopped. The fruit withered on the trees, and
nothing would grow. Within the last three days, says the report, five
hundred of the garrison alone have died in the hospitals, and the
pestilence is still raging unchecked. “If, by these sacrifices,” say
its authors, in conclusion, “deserving forever to be the admiration of
history,--and if, by consummating them with the lives of us, who, by
the will of Providence, have survived our comrades,--the liberty of our
country can be secured, happy shall we be, in the bosom of eternity,
and in the memory of all good men, and happy will be our children among
their fellow-countrymen.”

Alvarez himself could do no more. Yet would he not yield to the enemy;
but, being seized with a delirious fever, his successor in command
yielded the city on honorable terms, on the 10th of December, the
siege having lasted seven months. Alvarez died soon after, and the
central junta awarded honors and titles to his family, and exempted the
whole city from taxation.

[Sidenote: THE ENGLISH AT TORRES VEDRAS.]

The surrender of this devoted city closed the campaign for 1809.
The principal events of the campaign of 1810 were the battle of
Busaco, in which the English gained the victory, and the retreat of
the French Marshal Massena. For four months and a half, Massena had
continually followed the retreating forces of Wellington, until now he
had retired beyond the lines of Torres Vedras. The English had been
engaged on these lines a year, until they had at last rendered them
almost impregnable. They consisted of three lines of intrenchments,
one within another, extending for nearly thirty miles. On these lines
were a hundred and fifty redoubts, and six hundred mounted cannon.
Here Massena saw his enemy retire within these lines, and he then knew
that his utmost efforts to dislodge him must prove abortive. Besides,
Wellington here received reinforcements to his army, which increased it
to one hundred and thirty thousand men.

Besides these defences, there were twenty British ships of the line,
and a hundred transports, ready to receive the army, if forced to
retire. Unwilling to retreat, Massena sat down with his army here,
hoping to draw Wellington to an open battle. But he preferred waiting
for an attack upon his intrenchments, or to starve the enemy into a
retreat. This he knew must soon be done. Wellington himself declares
that Massena provisioned his sixty thousand men and twenty thousand
horses, for two months, where he could not have maintained a single
division of English soldiers. But his army was now reduced to
starvation; and he, driven to the last extremity, saw that he must
either commence his retreat at once, or his famine-stricken army would
be too weak to march. Arranging his troops into a compact mass, he
placed the rear guard under the command of Ney, and retired from the
Torres Vedras. Wellington immediately commenced the pursuit; but,
owing to the skilful arrangements of the French marshal, he found
it impossible to attack him with success. Taking advantage of every
favorable position, he would make a stand, and wait until the main body
of the army had passed on, and then would himself fall back. Thus, for
more than four months, did this retreat continue, until he arrived at
the confines of Portugal, having lost more than one-third of his army.
Many were the cruelties practised on this retreat. They have often
been described, and form a dark spot on the English historian’s page.
All war is necessarily cruel; and the desolation and barrenness that
followed in the track of the French army, wasting the inhabitants by
famine, were a powerful check on Wellington in his pursuit. The track
of a retreating and starving army must always be covered with woe;
and one might as well complain of the cruelty of a besieging force,
because innocent women and children die by hunger.

[Sidenote: ESCAPE OF FRENCH PRISONERS.]

The siege of Cadiz occupied the spring and summer of this year. During
this siege, a tremendous tempest ravaged the Spanish coast, lasting
four days. By it more than forty sail of merchantmen, besides three
line-of-battle ships, were driven on shore. It was during this tempest
that the French and Swiss on board the prison-ships in the harbor made
their escape. “The storm was so great,” writes one of the unhappy
captives, “that we could not receive our supply of provision from the
shore. Our signals of distress were wholly disregarded by the Spanish
authorities; and, had it not been for the humanity of the British
admiral, who sent his boats to their relief, many more of our miserable
men must have perished.” The pontoons in which these prisoners were
confined were not properly secured; and the prisoners on board the
Castilla, seeing that the wind and tide were in their favor, cut the
cable, and, hoisting a sail which they had made from their hammocks,
steered for the opposite coast. They were seven hundred in number, and
most of them officers. English boats were sent against them, but they
found the French were prepared. The ballast of the vessel in which
they were confined was cannon-balls of twenty-four and thirty-six
pounds’ weight. These the French hurled by hand into the boats of
their pursuers, and soon disabled them, so that the fugitives finally
succeeded in escaping with but little loss.

The first two months of the year 1811 were most inauspicious for the
Spanish cause. General Suchet possessed himself of Tortosa, and on the
23d of the same month Soult became master of Olivenza. On the same day
died the Marquis de la Romana, one of the most skilful and noblest of
the Spanish leaders; and he had scarcely expired, before his army met
with a signal defeat at Gebora.



CHAPTER IV.

  The Author, with his Regiment, leaves Gibraltar, for
  Tarifa.--Dissensions between the Spanish and English
  Officers.--Battle of Barossa.--Retreat of the French.--Suffering
  of the Pursuing Army.--Guerillas.--Don Julian Sanchez.--Juan
  Martin Diaz.--Xavier Mina.--Continued Privations of the British
  Army.--Adventures of the Author in Search of Food.--Arrival
  of the Commissariat with Provisions.--Extravagant Joy of the
  Troops.--Departure of the British Army for Badajos.


Having given to my readers some slight sketches of the rise and
progress of this war previous to the time when I first became an active
participator in its scenes, I shall now continue it, with the history
of my own adventures.

In looking back through the long series of years that have elapsed
since those eventful days, there are few scenes that I can recall more
vividly than that which occurred on the morning I left Gibraltar. It
was my first experience of the kind, and, therefore, made a deeper
impression than many after scenes, which might have been far more
worthy of record than this. It was a beautiful morning, and everywhere
the troops were in motion. Horses were brought out, our baggage
prepared and sent on; the light jest and laugh and joke went freely
round, serving, in many instances, to conceal the thoughts that longed
for utterance. Farewells were exchanged, last words spoken; and,
finally, all were prepared, the word given, and our gallant little army
marched out of Gibraltar. It was truly a brilliant sight; and the
lively strains of our music contributed its share to make us forget
that we were marching into a country at all times perilous, and now
doubly so, to meet certain dangers, and, many of us, certain death.
Yet these were in the future, and lost beneath the crowd of bright
and joyous anticipations that kindled in our hearts as the last loud
cheering of our comrades died away, and the walls of the far-famed
city receded in the distance behind our onward march. Our course was
directed to Tarifa; here we had orders to wait until the forces from
Cadiz should come up. An expedition had been sent out from this city,
consisting of ten thousand men, three thousand of whom were British,
whose object was to drive the French general out of his lines. Victor,
having heard of this project, enlarged and strengthened his own forces,
which now amounted to about twenty thousand men, in Andalusia.

The allied army sailed from Cadiz on the 20th of February, for Tarifa;
but, a storm arising soon after they left, they were driven past this
port, and disembarked at Algesiras. They marched to Tarifa on the 23d,
under the command of General Thomas Graham. Here we met; and, as we
were more recently from home than these troops, we had many questions
to answer, and much information both to give and receive. Before night,
however, we had all our places assigned to us, and were now ready for
our march. But the Spanish General La Pena had not yet arrived; and
so we remained encamped here until the 27th, when he came up, with
his forces; and to him General Graham, for the sake of unanimity,
ceded the chief command. All day we were busy in preparations for our
morrow’s march, expecting at its close to come within a short distance
of the enemy’s outposts. Early the next morning, our whole army was in
motion. We moved forward about twelve miles, over the mountain ridges
that descend from Ronda to the sea; and then, having learned that the
enemy were only four leagues distance, we halted, for the purpose
of reorganizing the army. The command of the vanguard was given to
Lardizabal, that of the centre to the Prince of Anglona, while General
Graham had charge of the reserve, consisting of two Spanish regiments
and the British troops. The cavalry of both nations, formed in one
body, was commanded by Colonel Whittingham. The French army were
encamped near Chiclana, narrowly observing the movements of the allied
armies, and determined, at all events, to hold complete possession of
the country.

The next day, March 2d, the vanguard of our army stormed Casa Viejas.
Having gained this small place, and stationed here a regiment, we
continued our march on the 3d and 4th.

[Sidenote: THE ALLIED ARMY.]

Early in the morning of the 5th, as the advanced guards of our cavalry
had proceeded a short distance from the main army, they suddenly came
upon a squadron of French troops. Unfortunately for them, several
stone fences and enclosures prevented an immediate attack, so that
the French had time to form into a square, and received their charge
with great coolness and intrepidity. Their square was unbroken,
although numbers had fallen on both sides. A second charge was equally
unsuccessful, and the colonel of our cavalry was mortally wounded. Our
men then judged it most prudent to fall back upon the main army, and
no attempt was made to follow them by the enemy. An anxious look-out
was instituted, but the foe did not again make his appearance, and at
nine o’clock the same morning our commander took up his position on the
heights of Barossa.

The hill of Barossa is a low ridge, creeping in from the coast about
a mile and a half, and overlooking a high broken plain. On one side
of this plain rise the huge coast cliffs, while the other is skirted
by the deep forest of Chiclana. Directly in front, there lies a light
pine wood, beyond which rises a long narrow height, called the Bermeja.
There were two ways by which this might be reached; the first was
through the woods, while the second was a narrow road directly under
the coast cliffs.

I have already alluded to the fact, that, although the English and
Spanish were fighting under the same banner, there was a great want of
unanimity of feeling and opinion as to the course which ought to be
pursued in ridding their country of their common foe. Nowhere, in the
history of the war, was this more apparent than at the battle whose
history I am about to relate. The deep-seated pride of the Spanish
made them unwilling to acknowledge or yield to the superiority of the
British, or hardly to allow that they were at all indebted to them.
A modern traveller tells us that, in a recent history of this war,
which was, not long since, published in Spain, the British are not
even mentioned, nor the fact of their assistance at all alluded to. It
was impossible for two nations so unlike in their customs and manners,
so different in language, religion, and education, to be so closely
associated together as they were obliged to be, without occasions of
dispute constantly occurring, which would, probably, have terminated in
open rupture, had not the discipline of war prevented.

[Sidenote: DISSENSIONS.]

The fact that our gallant general had ceded the chief command to
the weak and imperious Spanish commander had occasioned no little
dissatisfaction among our men; while, from the conditions required of
him by Graham, we may judge that that general himself did not pursue
this course because he judged La Pena his superior in military tactics.
These conditions were, that his army should make short marches; that
they should be kept fresh for battle, and that they should never
approach the enemy except in concentrated masses. Although the Spanish
general had pledged his word of honor that these conditions should be
fulfilled, how much attention he paid to them may be judged from the
fact, that, on the day but one preceding this, we had marched fifteen
hours, through bad roads; and, after a short rest, had occupied
the whole night in our march to Barossa. Before the troops had all
arrived, or had any time for rest or refreshment, La Pena commanded
the vanguard to march against San Petri, which lay about four miles
distant. A detachment of the Spanish army, under Zayas, had, only two
days before, commenced an intrenchment at this point; but had been
surprised by the French, and driven back, so that the enemy now held
possession of all the outposts down to the sea. But a short time had
elapsed, after the departure of the vanguard, when we were startled
by the roar of the artillery, whose rapid discharge, together with
the quick volleys of musketry, showed us that a sharp engagement had
already taken place. Lardizabal,--far more worthy of command than
his superior,--notwithstanding the unfavorable situation in which he
found himself placed, succeeded in forcing his way through the enemy’s
troops, leaving three hundred men dead on the field of battle, and in
effecting a junction with Zayas. Graham now endeavored to persuade
La Pena to occupy the heights of Barossa, as a superior position to
the Bermeja. The Spanish general not only refused to listen to his
representations, but sent an immediate order to General Graham to
march through the wood to Bermeja with all the British troops. This
order he obeyed, although it was in opposition to his own better
judgment, leaving only two detachments at Barossa, under Major Brown,
to guard the baggage. He would have left a stronger force, had he
not supposed that La Pena would remain in his present position, with
his own troops, and would thus assist those detachments, in case of
an attack. But scarcely had the British entered the wood, when La
Pena, without the least notice to his colleague, with his whole army,
took the sea road under the cliffs, and marched to San Petri, leaving
Barossa crowded with baggage, within sight of the enemy, and guarded
only by four guns and five battalions.

[Illustration: SURPRISE OF THE ENGLISH UNDER GEN. GRAHAM, ON THE
HEIGHTS OF BAROSSA.]

[Sidenote: VICTOR’S ATTACK.]

No sooner did Victor, the French general, observe its defenceless
state, than he advanced with a rapid pace, and, ascending behind the
hill, drove off the guard, and took possession of the whole stores
and provisions of our army. Major Brown, finding his force wholly
inadequate to face the enemy, slowly withdrew, having immediately
despatched an aid-de-camp to inform General Graham of the attack. Our
army had then nearly reached the Bermeja; but, as soon as the messenger
arrived with the news, our general saw at once the necessity of taking
the direction of affairs himself. Orders were immediately given to
retrace our steps as rapidly as possible, that we might assist the
Spanish army in its defence. Judge, then, of the astonishment of our
general, on reaching the plain, at the view that presented itself!
One side of the heights was occupied by the French, while the Spanish
rear-guard was flying, with their baggage, in great confusion, on
the other. On one side of us lay the cavalry of the French, and, on
the other marching to the attack was a large body of troops, under
Laval. “Where is La Pena?” was the first exclamation of our commander,
as, casting his eye rapidly around, he could nowhere see the least
trace of him. It was impossible that he could have been defeated. The
cannonade would have been heard, or at least some fugitives have taken
the direction of our army. Slowly the conviction forced itself upon
his mind that he had been deserted. A general burst of indignation ran
along our lines; but short time was allowed for feelings like these.
Only one alternative existed,--a hasty retreat, or an immediate attack.
It need hardly be said that Graham chose the latter.

Ten guns immediately opened their fire upon Laval’s troops, and were
promptly answered back by the artillery of the French. No time was
given to the British to form with any attention to regiments; but,
hastily dividing themselves into two masses, they rushed to the attack.
The charge on the left was, indeed, a furious one, for we felt that
conquest or death was the alternative. It was bravely met, however, on
the part of the French. After the first discharge of artillery, the
soldiers pressed rapidly onward, and were soon mingled with the foe in
fierce and deadly conflict. The front ranks of the French were pressed
back upon the second line, which, unable to withstand the shock, was
broken in the same manner, and scattered in much confusion, only the
chosen battalion remaining to cover the retreat.

[Sidenote: BATTLE OF BAROSSA.]

Ruffin, who commanded the enemy on the right, had stationed his troops
just within the wood, where they awaited, in perfect order, the
division under Brown, who rushed with headlong haste to the contest.
When they had nearly reached the wood, they discharged their musketry.
Nearly half of Brown’s detachment fell at the first fire; yet,
nothing daunted, the remainder maintained their ground, until another
detachment came to their aid. Then, mingling close in the dreadful
combat, they pressed together to the brow of the hill, without either
party gaining a decided advantage. Here the contest continued, with
more bravery than before. The issue still remained quite doubtful, when
the British, retiring a short distance, again rushed to the attack.
Ruffin and Rousseau, the French leaders, both fell, mortally wounded,
and the French were obliged to retire, leaving three of their guns in
possession of their enemies. Discomfited but not disheartened, they
withdrew again, re-formed, and rushed to the attack. But they found
no slumbering foe. Our guns were well manned. Their fire was reserved
until the enemy were close at hand, and then they were allowed to tell
upon that living mass. The execution was terrible. Closely and rapidly,
discharge followed discharge. Again and again were they summoned to the
attack; but the lines had hardly closed over their dying comrades, when
another volley would again send confusion and death among the advancing
ranks. Victor saw it was useless to struggle longer. The trumpet
sounded, the contest stopped, and in less than an hour the English were
again undisputed masters of Barossa.

And where, during this conflict, were the Spanish troops, in whose
cause the British were so freely lavishing, not only treasure, but
their own lives? Scarcely three miles away, the report of every round
of musketry reached La Pena’s ears. He knew that his ally was placed
under great disadvantages; yet he could look idly on, not knowing,
scarcely caring, apparently, how the contest should be decided. In
vain did many of his brave troops mount their chargers, and wait only
for the word of command to rush upon the enemy. He listened neither
to the voice of honor nor to the entreaties of his officers, nor to
the ill-repressed murmurings of the soldiery. No stroke in aid of the
British was struck by a Spanish sabre that day; although one or two
regiments, unable longer to contain their indignation, left without
orders, and came up in season to witness the defeat of the French.
And thus terminated the attack on Barossa. Scarcely two hours had
passed from the first alarm before the French were retreating beyond
our reach, for our troops were too much exhausted by their twenty-two
hours’ march, and their still longer fast, to think of pursuing. Yet,
short as the conflict was, the terrible evidences of its fatality
lay all around us. Fifty officers, sixty sergeants, and more than
eleven hundred British soldiers, had fallen, while two thousand of the
enemy were either killed or wounded. Six guns, an eagle, two generals
mortally wounded, and four hundred prisoners, fell into the power of
the English. La Pena’s conduct during this battle was complained of
by our commander, and the Spanish cortes went through the forms of
arresting him; but he was soon after released, without investigation,
and published what he called his justification, in which he blamed
Graham severely for his disobedience of orders.

[Sidenote: THE FIELD OF VICTORY.]

When the last of the enemy had disappeared in the distance, the troops
were all summoned to the field of battle. We collected there, and gazed
around with saddened hearts. Four hours ago, and there was not one, of
all that now lay lifeless on that bloody field, whose heart did not
beat as high as our own, whose hopes were not as brilliant; and yet,
their sun had now set forever! I know of no sadder scene than a field
of battle presents soon after the conflict, even though the glorious
result may have filled our hearts with joy. When the roll is called,
and name after name uttered without response, it cannot but awaken
the deepest sensibility in the heart of the survivors. And then the
hasty burial of the dead, and the hurried sending off the wounded, the
surgeon’s necessary operations, and the groans of the sufferers, all
make us feel that these are the horrors of war. Before the battle is
the rapid marching and counter-marching, and the enlivening strains of
martial music, the encouraging words of the officers,--more than all,
the excitement which must exist in such a scene,--and all these serve
to elevate and sustain the spirits. During the contest the excitement
increases, until all sense of fear and danger is lost. But one thing
is seen--the foe;--but one object exists--to conquer. When all these
have passed away, and there is no longer aught to excite, then the eye
opens on stern and dread reality, and we realize what we have escaped,
and the pain and suffering ever attendant on such scenes. There is
something awfully trying to the soul, when the last sad rites are being
performed for those so lately buoyant in life and health,--especially
when we meet with the corpses of those we have known and loved. I
have seen many affecting instances of such recognitions. Among others
that I might name, is that of a French captain of dragoons, who came
over after the battle with a trumpet, and requested permission to
search among the dead for his colonel. His regiment was a fine one,
with bright brass helmets and black horse-hair, bearing a strong
resemblance to the costume of the ancient Romans. Many of our own
soldiers accompanied him in his melancholy search. It was long before
we found the French colonel, for he was lying on his face, his naked
body weltering in blood. As soon as he was turned over, the captain
recognized him. He uttered a sort of agonizing scream, sprang off his
horse, dashed his helmet on the ground, knelt by the body, and, taking
the bloody hand in his own, kissed it many times, in an agony of grief.
He seemed entirely to forget, in his sorrow, that any one was present.
We afterwards learned that the colonel had, in his youth, done him a
great service, by releasing him from the police when evil company had
led him to the commission of some crime. It was his first act of the
kind; and gratitude to the colonel led to an immediate enlistment in
his corps. From that hour he had been to the captain as a father, and
it was through his influence that he had attained his present rank
in the army. The scene was truly an affecting one; and it was with
feelings of deep sympathy that we assisted him in committing the body
to the earth.

[Sidenote: REJOICINGS OVER THE VICTORY.]

Our gallant commander remained on the field of battle all that day;
and when all the last sad duties were performed, and as many of the
commissariat mules as could be found were gathered in, we marched
from the scene of our late victory, and took up our position behind
the Isla. The news of our victory was received in England with much
joy, and our own regiment, the 28th, was spoken of with peculiar
honor. These contests in Spain called forth much newspaper praise, and
awakened the lyre of many a poet in the halls of old England. Perhaps
the following lines from Southey, written on this battle, may be
acceptable to the reader:

  “Though the four quarters of the world have seen
  The British valor proved triumphantly
  Upon the French, in many a field far famed,
  Yet may the noble island in her rolls
  Of glory write Barossa’s name. For there
  Not by the issue of deliberate plans,
  Consulted well, was the fierce conflict won,--
  Nor by the leader’s eye intuitive,
  Nor force of either arm of war, nor art
  Of skilled artillerist, nor the discipline
  Of troops to absolute obedience trained,--
  But by the spring and impulse of the heart,
  Brought fairly to the trial, when all else
  Seemed like a wrestler’s garment thrown aside,
  By individual courage, and the sense
  Of honor, their old country’s and their own,
  There to be forfeited, or there upheld,--
  This warmed the soldier’s soul, and gave his hand
  The strength that carries with it victory.
  More to enhance their praise, the day was fought
  Against all circumstance; a painful march
  Through twenty hours of night and day prolonged
  Forespent the British troops, and hope delayed
  Had left their spirits palled. But when the word
  Was given to turn, and charge, and win the heights,
  The welcome order came to them like rain
  Upon a traveller in the thirsty sands.
  Rejoicing, up the ascent, and in the front
  Of danger, they with steady step advanced,
  And with the insupportable bayonet
  Drove down the foe. The vanquished victor saw,
  And thought of Talavera, and deplored
  His eagle lost. But England saw, well pleased,
  Her old ascendency that day sustained;
  And Scotland, shouting over all her hills,
  Among her worthies ranked another Graham.”

[Sidenote: GREAT PRIVATION.]

The brilliant success gained on the heights of Barossa was but the
prelude of other victories. The star of Napoleon, so long in the
ascendant, had begun to decline in the horizon. Obliged to draw off
many of his troops, those that remained felt the want of his guiding
hand. Division reigned in the councils of his generals; and the
British leader, ever ready to take advantage, and ever on the watch
for opportunity, saw his favorable moment, and followed it up. The
French had retreated from Portugal, followed at every step by the army
of the English. After the battle of Barossa, Graham had withdrawn
from the command of our army, and joined that of Wellington, while
Sir Thomas Picton took his place. We remained for a number of days
near our position, while these changes were taking place, and then
orders arrived that we should proceed at once to the mountains of the
Sierra Morena, to assist in harassing the retreat of the French. We
had scarcely commenced our march when our provisions began to fail,
owing to the conduct of the Portuguese government, who would not supply
their troops with provisions; and so they were unable to continue the
pursuit, while numbers were perishing for want of food. Our generals
could not see their allies suffering thus, and our own supplies were
shared with them, and we were all put upon short allowance. Half a
pound of bread, and half a pound of salt pork, was all that we received
for a day’s provision. And we were ascending mountains covered with
woods and deep forests, infested by guerillas, who often fell upon
and murdered our men, if they strayed away from the ranks. To prevent
this was impossible; for, if there were provisions in the country, men
in our starving condition would not fail to obtain them; but scarcely
anything could be found, at this season. The French army were also
suffering for want of food, and, as they preceded us in their retreat,
they either devoured or destroyed everything that could sustain life.
The poor peasants on their route fled from their homes, and shrunk
equally from French and English, for they well knew that either would
equally deprive them of the little they possessed. The sufferings of
the peasantry were truly terrible. In the third day of our march, a
scene occurred which I shall never forget. We were slowly toiling up
a huge mountain, so exhausted, from fatigue and want, that we could
hardly proceed. When about half-way to the summit, we perceived before
us a large house. Some of our men hastened to it at once, hoping to
procure some provision. The slight fastenings of the door soon yielded
to their eager haste, and they were about to rush in, when their steps
were arrested by the misery the scene presented. The floor was covered
with persons in a state of actual starvation. Thirty women and children
had already expired; and, scattered around among the corpses, lay
fifteen or sixteen more wretched beings, still breathing, but unable
to speak. Hungry as we were, the hearts of the soldiers were moved at
the scene, and our next day’s provision was cheerfully contributed to
rescue them from death. But this kindness could only delay their fate.
They were too weak to seek for more food; they had scarcely strength to
eat the little we could offer them; and it is more than probable that
every one perished.

The next day my comrade, who had been fast failing, declared himself
unable to proceed. He was a fine fellow,--one that I had known in
Ireland, and to whom I was much attached. Feeble as we were, we could
not leave him behind, and we carried him a short distance; but he
soon died. Permission was given us to carry him a little way from the
camp to bury him. We hollowed out a shallow grave, wrapped him in his
blanket, and left him to his fate. Near the spot where we interred
him was a small house, which we entered, and were fortunate enough to
obtain a little wine. While in the house, we heard a scream, as of
fear. We hastened out, and saw several of our soldiers running swiftly
towards the camp, from the place where we had interred our comrade.
They had dug him up, for the purpose of robbing him of his blanket. As
they were ripping it open, the knife entered the flesh, and he began
to struggle. It was this that had so frightened them. We went to the
poor fellow, finished removing his blanket, and found that he was
still alive. Want and fatigue had produced a state of insensibility
resembling death, from which he had been aroused by the pain of his
wound. We shared with him the little wine we had obtained, which so
revived him that he was able to accompany us back from his own funeral.
He soon after recovered, and returned home to Ireland.

[Sidenote: SINGULAR INCIDENT.]

[Sidenote: EFFORTS TO OBTAIN FOOD.]

A day or two after this occurrence, I left the company, with one of my
companions, and went higher up the mountain, in search of wild pigs,
which are sometimes found there. This was absolutely against our
orders; but, as we were literally starving to death, the consequences
of disobedience, and the dangers of our journey, weighed but little
in the balance. I agreed to search one side of the mountain, while he
ascended the other, and we were to meet at the top. When about half-way
up the mountain, I was stopped by a ball whizzing close past my ear.
Thinking that it might be my comrade, who did not see me, I turned,
and, looking around, soon saw the green feather of my assailant,
projecting over a rock. At this I was somewhat alarmed; for he was so
completely hid behind the rock that I could not fire at him, and I knew
that he was reloading his musket. In a moment more he fired again, but,
fortunately for me, his musket flashed in the pan. There was still only
his feather in sight; at this I fired, and struck it. I then reloaded
as hastily as possible, and advanced cautiously up the mountain, hoping
to get sight of him. As I was coming round the point of the rock, he
sprang forward, laid down his gun, spread out his arms, and exposed
himself to my shot. I knew, by his motions, that he had no ammunition,
and as I had no desire to kill him, I fixed my bayonet on my gun, as
if I would make a charge, and then advanced towards him, in a friendly
manner. But, when I was within twice the length of my gun from him,
he picked up his musket and attacked me. Darting back to avoid his
bayonet, I fired my own gun, and he fell to the ground. I examined his
knapsack, and found that it bore the mark of the 95th rifle brigade
of our own division. He was a guerilla, and had doubtless killed the
man whose knapsack he bore. I examined his canteen, and found, to my
great surprise, a pint of Jamaica brandy. In my exhausted state, this
was a discovery which gave me the greatest pleasure. I took some of
it, and, feeling quite refreshed, pursued my search for game. I had
not gone far before I discovered a small pig, which I succeeded in
shooting. This I carried with me to the top of the mountain, where I
found my comrade awaiting me. He had been less successful than myself,
having found nothing. He asked me how I had fared. I told him that
I had shot an old hog and a little pig, at which he expressed great
pleasure. I then showed him the contents of the canteen, which he
joyfully shared with me; and, having related my adventure, we retraced
our steps to the camp. We concealed our treasure as well as we were
able; but, notwithstanding all our care, the first person we saw, on
our return, was the adjutant. He came up to us, and demanded where we
had been. Upon the mountain, in search of food, was my reply. He told
me, if he should report us, as he was required to do, we should be
shot for disobeying orders. I answered, that it made little difference
with us; it would only hasten affairs, as it was impossible to survive
much longer without food. “Did you find any?” he asked. We showed him
our prize. He would gladly have purchased it of us; but food, in our
condition, was far more precious than money, and we refused his offer
of a doubloon, with the assurance that five would be no temptation
to part with it. But, on arrival at our quarters, as we were cutting
up the pig, gratitude for his kindness, in not reporting us, so far
overcame our selfishness, that we sent him a quarter of it. The
remainder made our mess a fine meal; and we certainly were never in a
better condition to estimate the value of food than when we devoured
the little pig of the Morena.

[Sidenote: GUERILLAS.]

I have alluded to the annoyance by guerillas, or, as they were
sometimes called, Partidas. These were principally, at first, Spanish
peasants, who, unable to present any efficient force against the
French, and unwilling to submit to them, threw themselves into
the mountains, and, being well acquainted with all the passes and
hiding-places, did the French much damage, by cutting off their
communications, robbing their stores, and murdering every one who dared
to stray from the main army. As the war proceeded, their numbers were
enlarged by all those who were weary of the restraints of law;--every
robber that feared a jail, or could break from one; every smuggler
whose trade had been interrupted,--and there were thousands of these,
as there still are, in Spain; every one who was weary of the restraints
of his life, and sought for excitement; and all idlers who preferred
the wild and reckless daring of these troops to the drill and watch
of the army, were found either as associate or chief in these bands.
They soon became regularly organized, chose their chiefs, and had
watchwords, by which they could obtain a safe pass all over the
country. They were professedly our allies, but they were almost as
much a terror to us as to our foes. They proved, however, invaluable
to our army, as a means of communication with each other, and as spies
on the movements of our enemies. It was impossible for the French to
communicate with each other at all, except by sending strong escorts,
and these were often cut off; while, on our side, news could be sent
with almost the rapidity of telegraph, and this undoubtedly was a
great advantage to us. The chiefs of these bands were often obliged
to procure subsistence and treasure for themselves, by robbing their
own countrymen; and, indeed, one of the principal causes of the sudden
growth of these bands was the hope of intercepting the public and
private plate, which was being carried from all parts of Spain to
be coined into money. Yet, though most of the bands were worthless
characters, there were some among them of more noble spirit. Some were
actuated by revenge--some by a gallant, enterprising spirit--and a few
by an honest ambition to serve their country.

Our troops often met with many adventures with these foes; and many
were the weary hours, in our toilsome marches, that were beguiled by
the recital of their hair-breadth escapes, or their own wonderful
adventures. Some of these were of so much interest that I cannot
refrain from a desire to recount a few to my readers.

[Sidenote: A GUERILLA’S VENGEANCE.]

Don Julian Sanchez was the son of a farmer, on the banks of the Guebra.
The little cottage where he resided, with his parents and one sister,
was the abode of happiness and plenty. In an evil hour, the French army
passed that way. Their cattle were driven away and slaughtered, and
their little harvest, just reaped, became the prey of the plunderers.
Terrified and despairing, Julian fled, with his parents and sister,
to the woods. But his parents were old, and, before they could reach
the shelter of the wood, they were overtaken, carried back to the
cottage, and murdered, in cold blood, on their own hearthstone. Julian
and his sister concealed themselves in a cave; but the next day he
left her there, and went to see if he could obtain any trace of his
parents. Directing his course to their little cottage, he found their
murdered corpses. Revenge and anger, in a spirit like Julian’s, was
deep, not loud. He shed no tear, uttered no complaint,--but calmly
proceeded to inter the bodies of his parents in a humble grave. Then,
kneeling on the sod, he swore revenge on their murderers,--a revenge
which should be followed till his latest breath. He returned to his
sister; but, as he approached the cave where he had left her, what a
sight met his view! A party of the hated army were just issuing from
its precincts. The body of his beautiful sister lay on the ground
naked,--dishonored,--the victim of a vile outrage. Julian gazed for a
moment on the scene. He had no time for tears, and he had sworn to live
for revenge,--a vow which now burned itself in deeper characters upon
his soul. He turned away. A huge rock overhung the cave. He ascended
it, and, secreting himself in a little fissure where he could be heard,
not seen, he gazed for a few moments on the chief of the band, till
every line of his countenance was impressed on his soul. Then, calling
to him from the rock, he said, “You hear me, but you see me not. I am a
Spaniard, the son of those parents you murdered yesterday--the brother
of her whose corpse lies before you. You are their murderer; and I
swear, by the Holy Virgin, that I will never lose sight for one day of
your path, until my hands are imbrued in your heart’s best blood! You
may think to escape me; but remember, you shall die by my hand!”

In a moment, the troops of the French were on the rock. They searched
everywhere for the speaker, but no trace of him could be found, until,
just as they had relinquished their search, one of the number fell
dead by the blow of an unseen assassin. He was the first of the band
that fell. Months passed away. Julian had never since met his foe;
but the frequent death of his followers, and the daring exploits of
robbery that were constantly performing in his camp, often called
to mind the voice he had heard. A few months after, in battle, this
officer was attacked, and would have been killed, had not a Spaniard
saved his life, at the risk of his own. He turned to thank his
unknown deliverer, but was met with so fierce a look of hate, that he
involuntarily shrunk from it. “I desire no thanks,” said the Spaniard;
“your life is mine, and none but me shall take it.” The voice was
recognized, but its owner had glided away in the confusion. A year had
elapsed, when this officer was again sent to the banks of the Guebra,
and took up his quarters in the very house Julian’s father formerly
occupied. The first night of his stop there was enlivened by the
arrival of four of the same party who had met with him the year before.
In joyous mood, they had seated themselves around the table, and were
discussing the events of the campaign. Suddenly they were startled by a
deep voice, which the officer had cause to remember, and Julian, with
four of his associates, glided into the room. So sudden, so unexpected,
was the attack, that they had not time to grasp their swords, ere
they were pinioned and led away. Julian and the chief alone remained.
“Look at me,” said Julian; “do you know me? In this very room, a year
ago, my parents fell by your murderous hand. The stain of their blood
still remains to witness against you. In that wood lies the corpse of
my idolized and only sister. You were her assassin. You heard my vow.
Not for one day have I left your steps. Twice have I warded death from
your head; but when I saw you desecrate again this hearthstone by your
accursed presence, I knew that your time had come. Frenchman, prepare
to die!”

After the death of this man, Julian succeeded in organizing a regular
band. At the head of these, he would again and again assault the enemy,
even though they outnumbered his own band many times. Another instance
of his daring intrepidity, at a time when we were suffering for want of
provisions, and of the patience with which he followed up his designs,
deserves to be recorded. It was the custom of the French garrison to
send out their cattle beyond the walls every morning, for the purpose
of grazing, under the protection of a guard, which at once kept them
from wandering too far, and also watched the movements of the Spanish
army. Don Julian determined, if possible, to surprise the herd. For
this purpose, he concealed himself, with his band, day after day,
among the broken ground, near the river. But the guard was still too
powerful and vigilant to allow him to make the attempt. At length, as
if to reward him for his patience, fortune threw in his way, not only
the object for which he sought, but one of far more importance to him.
On a certain day, the governor of the place where the garrison was
stationed came out, accompanied by a very slender escort, and ventured
imprudently to cross the river, at the self-same spot where Julian lay
concealed. He was instantly surrounded, and made prisoner. Almost at
the same moment, the cattle, frightened by the explosion of a shell
which fell among them, ran towards the river. The guard followed, but
overtook them at such a distance from the city, that Julian thought
himself justified in making the attack. It was attended with perfect
success, and governor and cattle were conveyed in triumph to the
British headquarters.

Another of these chiefs was named Juan Martin Diaz, or the
“Empecinado.” When the news of the detention of Ferdinand at Bayonne
first reached Spain, he was engaged as a farmer. Young, ardent, and
daring, he threw aside his plough, and persuaded a neighboring youth,
only sixteen, to join him. Their first object was to procure horses
and arms. They took post upon the high road from France to Madrid,
for the purpose of intercepting the French couriers. An occasion soon
occurred. A party of six men were riding past a narrow defile. An old
woman went out and arrested the progress of the last two, by offering
them some fruit for sale. She detained them until the others were in
advance some distance; then the two youths fired from their covert, and
their victims fell. Long before the others returned for their comrades,
their horses and arms were far away. These boys were soon joined by
others, of which Juan was the chief; and, as he grew older and had more
experience, his band increased, until it numbered one thousand five
hundred men. With these he performed the most daring exploits, cutting
off supplies, and intercepting convoys. By his intelligence, activity,
and bravery, he was enabled to do the enemy much mischief. In vain were
armies sent to surround his band. They concealed themselves in their
fastnesses, and baffled them all, until his very name became a terror
to the French armies. He gave no quarter to the conquered; and such was
his discipline of his followers, and his generosity in the division of
the spoils, that he became the idol of his band, and they were willing
to undertake any exploit at his bidding.

[Sidenote: DARING EXPLOIT OF JUAN MARTIN DIAZ.]

A convoy was conveying, in a carriage, a lady, a relative of Marshal
Moncey. The coach was escorted by twelve soldiers, in the centre of two
columns of six thousand each, about a mile asunder. The Empecinado,
with only eight of his followers, was concealed close to the town of
Caraveas. He allowed the leading column to pass, then boldly rushed
upon the convoy, put to death the whole of the escort, seized and
carried off the carriage; and, when the alarm was given, Martin and
his prize were in safety in the mountains, where he effectually eluded
the search made after him. He saved the life of the lady, who was
sent to his own house, and had every attention paid her. This convoy
was a very rich prize of money and jewels. This he divided among his
men, reserving only a small share for himself. He often met with very
narrow escapes. On one occasion, he was unhorsed and disarmed, and the
sword of his opponent passed through his arm, and entered his side.
His wound seemed to give him new courage. He suddenly sprang at his
foe, and, seizing him by the neck, dragged him to the ground. He fell
with him, however, but continued to keep uppermost. The other refusing
to surrender, the Empecinado held him fast with one hand, while with
the other he snatched up a stone, and beat him to death. On another
occasion, he was nearly made prisoner by some Spanish troops in the
pay of the French; and, finding every other hope of escape impossible,
he threw himself down an immense precipice, rather than fall into
their hands. His fall was broken by the projecting limbs of trees,
covered with very thick foliage. He was discovered here by one of his
followers, and taken home. He recovered finally, after suffering a
severe illness, which for some time prevented his taking the field.

[Sidenote: EXPLOITS OF XAVIER MINA.]

The most distinguished of these courageous leaders was Xavier Mina. He
was a student at Pamplona when the revolution broke out. His father
was a considerable land-owner, and deputy for one of the valleys of
Navarre. Some act of injustice, practised towards his father, had
driven young Xavier to desperation. His resolution was taken. He threw
aside his studies, went to his native village, and, summoning around
him the young men of his acquaintance, related his wrongs, and urged
them to join him in his career of revenge. Moved by his enthusiastic
address, twelve of his companions volunteered to join him. Arming
themselves with muskets and ammunition, they sought the mountain
passes, and maintained themselves, while awaiting opportunities of
action, by subsisting on the sheep belonging to Mina’s father. His
first adventure was to surprise a party of seven artillery-men, who
were carrying two pieces of cannon and a quantity of ammunition from
Saragossa to Pamplona. When the news of this success reached his
village, others were encouraged to volunteer. His next exploit was,
with his band of twenty, to attack a general officer, who was escorted
by twenty-four foot and twelve horsemen. Stationing his men in a narrow
defile, he gave orders to fire as they were descending, each one having
selected his man. Twenty of the escort were thus levelled to the earth,
before they had any intimation of their danger. The general was one of
the number. The rest of the escort were made prisoners, and a large sum
of money fell into Mina’s hands. This he distributed among his men,
advising them to send part to their families, and retain no more than
would suffice for the expenses of their own interment, exposed as they
now continually were to death. The men were thus raised in their own
estimation, and in that of their countrymen, wherever this was told;
and volunteers soon presented themselves in abundance, attracted by a
success which was reported everywhere with the usual exaggerations.
He received, however, only such persons as he regarded as a valuable
acquisition to his band. These wore a red ribbon in their hats, and a
red collar to their jackets. In Arragon, a band of fifty robbers were
adding to the miseries of that unhappy country. Having heard of their
atrocities, Mina turned his course thither. He succeeded in surprising
them. The greater part were killed on the spot, and the remainder sent
as prisoners to Tarragona. Rations were voluntarily raised for his
people, wherever they were expected, and given as freely at one time
as they were paid for at another by the spoils of the enemy. It was in
vain that the French made repeated efforts to crush this enterprising
enemy. If his band were dispersed, it was only to unite, and, by
striking a blow in some weak point, render themselves more formidable
than before.

A large number of prisoners, and an amount of treasure, were to be
sent from Vittoria to France. Twelve hundred men accompanied it as an
escort. At the Puerto de Arlaban, they were attacked by the seemingly
omnipresent Mina, of whose absence, in another part of the country,
they thought themselves assured. They were entirely routed; but,
unfortunately, two hundred of the prisoners were slain in the contest.
Information of the journey of this escort had been procured from a new
recruit in Mina’s band, who had his own object to accomplish by it.
He was a gentleman of some standing, who was engaged to a beautiful
Spanish lady. Her affections had been stolen from him by a wounded
French officer, quartered in her father’s house. He had recovered, and
was now taking his bride home to France. The former lover had sworn
a deep revenge, and, unable himself to accomplish this object, had
enlisted the powerful Mina on his side. When the band returned to their
haunts, they carried with them six ladies, who were guilty of the same
crime, viz., having accepted, as husbands, French officers. Their fate
was, indeed, a sad one. The contest for them had been fierce in the
extreme. They had seen their protectors, one by one, fall around them,
fighting until the last breath in their defence; and now they were left
helpless to the mercy of their conquerors. A mock trial was instituted.
They were found guilty of aiding the enemies of their country, and all
of them executed.

But Mina was not always successful. Not long after this, he had
attacked and overcome a party of French. As he was conveying his
prisoners to Robres, he was betrayed by one of his own men, and was
attacked as suddenly as he had fallen upon others. His band were
scattered, many of them slain, and he escaped, with great difficulty,
with his own life. One week afterward, he appeared in the Rioja, with
five thousand men, and attacked a Polish regiment, which was retiring
to France. They were entirely routed. Mina enlarged his band by an
accession of every one of the Spanish prisoners whom he had liberated,
and filled his coffers with the booty. One million of francs fell into
his hands, besides the equipages, arms and stores of all kinds, and a
quantity of church plate. Two weeks after, he captured another convoy,
going from Valencia to France. General Abbé now bent his whole force to
disperse his troops. For three days in succession he followed Mina’s
troops to their haunts, and each day defeated them; so that, on the
last day, Mina was obliged again to flee alone for his life. Yet, not
discouraged, he struggled on with various success, until at length he
fell into the hands of the French, who sent him a prisoner to France.
Great rejoicings were made when the capture of this formidable enemy
was reported; but they soon found that they had little reason for
joy, for his place at the head of the band was taken by his uncle,
Francisco, who proved himself, if possible, even more formidable than
his nephew. His various adventures would well fill a volume, and it is
easy to see the interest they must have possessed when related around
the bivouac fire on those mountains, where no one knew but that any
moment might bring his army around them.

But to return to my own history. We were still pursuing our weary
course, sometimes coming within sight of our enemies, and sometimes
marching and counter-marching, when our leaders thought best to avoid
a battle. We were still suffering the pangs of hunger, our principal
food being a supply of ground bark. The soldiers continued to wander
away, and often escaped, with their lives, from imminent peril. One of
our men observed, at a little distance from the camp, a commotion in
the bushes, which he thought was occasioned by some wild animal; and he
hastened out to secure it. Creeping cautiously along under the bushes,
his course was suddenly arrested by a bullet flying over him. Having
passed around a rock which concealed him from the camp, he hastily
jumped up, and looked round. He soon spied a woman sitting near a small
spring, with a child in her arms, as he thought; but, concluding that
it was best to be on his guard, he crept cautiously near her, and soon
saw that she was thoroughly armed, and what seemed to be a child was
something which certainly did not possess life. The shot had evidently
been fired by her, and she was watching for his reäppearance. He fired,
and killed her. On taking her arms, he discovered that it was one of
the guerillas, dressed in female apparel, and evidently intended for a
decoy. Judging from articles found around him, all our troops had not
been so successful as was our soldier in discovering the disguise.

[Sidenote: ADVENTURES IN SEARCH OF FOOD.]

There are not many villages on these mountains, and but few scattered
habitations. The next day after the adventure I have just related, a
small party of us again left in search of food. We soon found, in a
beautiful valley, a small house. We knocked for admission. There was
no answer; so, without further ceremony, the door was broken down, and
we entered. A fire was found burning on the hearth, showing, however
desolate the hut might now be, it had not long wanted inhabitants. We
found, however, no food, and were turning away, quite disappointed,
when one of our number spied an open hole in the garden. We found
there, to our great delight, two pigs of wine, which our near approach
had probably disturbed its owners in their attempts to conceal. These
pig-skins were to us quite a curiosity. The skin is taken as entire as
possible from the animal, and turned so that the hair will be inside,
and then preserved in such a way as to make it capable of holding wine.
These are the common wine-casks of the country. I have often seen loads
of them; and so perfectly do they retain their resemblance; that any
one unaccustomed to the sight would say, at once, that they were loads
of dead porkers. We took our wine, and returned as rapidly as possible
to the lines, to share our good fortune with our comrades.

[Sidenote: DEPARTURE FOR BADAJOS.]

A day or two after this, as we were encamped on one of the hills which
overlooked the country to a great distance, a movement on the plains
below attracted the attention of our officers. Scouts were instantly
sent out, to learn the nature of it. Animation again appeared in the
faces of our men; for, even if it were the enemy, we all felt it would
be far better to win an honorable death in an open battle, than to
perish daily, as we were doing, by hunger and murder. It was not long
before our messengers returned, spurring their horses, and joy in every
feature of their countenances. As soon as they came within hearing,
they flung up their caps in the air, shouting, “Relief, relief! our
commissariat is coming! It will soon be here!” The excitement among
our men was intense. They could hardly be restrained from rushing down
immediately to break upon the long-expected, long-delayed supplies.
When, at length, they came near, and we saw the baggage-wagons,
accompanied by a strong escort, the ill-repressed enthusiasm of the
men burst forth in one long, deafening shout, that reverberated from
the tops of those mountains for miles around. The scene then presented
by our camp was, indeed, an exciting one. Officers were engaged on all
sides in distributing provisions to the starving troops, and these in
administering cordials and refreshments to their sick comrades. Many
of the sick, who were apparently near their end, revived and soon
recovered. The same escort brought information that the destination
of Wellington’s army was now to be changed, and our division of it
was directed to proceed immediately to Badajos. This, too, was joyful
news; and, with the morrow’s dawn, everything was ready for motion.
Tents were struck, our baggage stored, and order everywhere restored.
Once more we had an aim, an object; and, with this, it was easy to
become again docile and obedient. I shall never forget the sensation of
pleasure that throbbed in our hearts, as our last column defiled down
the mountain, and we bade farewell to those haunts, which had been so
nearly fatal to us all. Our course was immediately directed to Badajos,
and, on the 3d of May, we sat down three leagues from its walls.



CHAPTER V.

  Badajos.--Its Capture by the French.--Attempts to retake it by
  the English.--Wellington invests it in Person.--Assault upon Fort
  Christoval.--Storming of the Town.--Terrific Conflict.--The place
  sacked by the Victors.--Disgraceful Drunkenness and Debauchery of the
  Troops.--The Main Body of the Army depart for Beira.

[Sidenote: BADAJOS.]

Badajos, the capital of the Spanish province of Estremadura, is
situated near the Portuguese frontier, at the confluence of the
small stream of the Rivillas with the Guadiana. It is very strongly
fortified, both nature and art having contributed their stores to
render its position impregnable. A huge rock, one hundred feet high,
overlooks the meeting of the waters. On the top of this rock rises an
old castle, venerable from its age, and itself a strong fortification.
The town occupies a triangular space between the rivers, and is
protected by eight curtains and bastions, from twenty-three to thirty
feet high, with good counterscarps, covered way and glacis. On the
left bank of the Guadiana there is a lunette, covering a dam and
sluice, which commands an inundation. Beyond the Rivillas stands an
isolated redoubt, called the Picurina. This is four hundred yards
from the town. Two hundred yards from the ramparts, rises a defective
crown-work, called the Pardaleras. On the right bank of the Guadiana
rises a hill, crowned by a regular fort, three hundred feet square,
called San Christoval. A bridge, supported by twenty-two stone
arches, crosses the stream, and this is protected by a bridge head.
The strength of this place made its possession a desirable object to
both parties. It had been early invested by the French, under Soult,
and vigorously assaulted. It was, however, well defended, and would
probably have maintained its position, had it not been for the weakness
and inefficiency of its commanding officers, which caused the battle of
the Gebora to terminate in a shameful defeat and immense loss to the
Spanish army. Rafael Menacho was next made commander of the place. He
sustained the siege with great spirit, and everything seemed to promise
favorably, when Menacho was unfortunately killed, during a sally, and
the command devolved upon Imas, a man most unfitted for this situation.
He surrendered, almost without a struggle, to the French; although
he had received certain information that a strong army was moving to
his assistance, and would soon raise the siege. He demanded that his
grenadiers should march out of the breach. Permission was granted, but
they were obliged themselves to enlarge it, before they could do so.
The French immediately took possession of the city, and strengthened
its defences. Lord Wellington was much chagrined at the loss of this
place, and early in May sent Lord William Stewart to invest it. The
siege was carried on with vigor, but under great disadvantages,
arising from want of the proper materials for construction of the
works. In endeavoring to erect their batteries, the engineers were
obliged to labor exposed to a heavy fire from the city, which proved
so destructive, that, before one small battery against one of the
outworks of the town was completed, seven hundred men and five officers
had fallen. When, at length, on the morning of the 11th of May, this
battery was completed, before night five of its guns were silenced by
the enemy, and the rest were so exposed that it was impossible to man
them. The same day news reached our army that the French army were
coming to the relief of Badajos. Immediately our commander took steps
to raise the siege, as to remain there would have exposed our whole
force to destruction. On the night of the 13th, he removed all his
artillery and platforms; and on that of the 14th, his guns and stores.
But so secretly was this done, that the French were entirely ignorant
of it, until, as the rear guard were about being drawn off, they made
a sally, and, of course, discovered it. Soon after this, the battle of
Albuera occurred.

[Sidenote: ASSAULT UPON FORT CHRISTOVAL.]

Our own division was not, however, engaged in this battle, having been
ordered to Campo Mayor, where, on the 24th, orders reached us that we
were again to march for Badajos, Lord Wellington having resolved to
invest it in person. We immediately marched, and arrived on the evening
of the 27th, where we found Lord Wellington, with ten thousand men.
During the absence of our army, Phillipon, the governor of the place,
had entirely destroyed the little remains of fortifications left by
them, repaired all his own damages, and procured a fresh supply of
wine and vegetables from the country. He had also mounted more guns,
and interested the towns-people on his side. The works of the siege
were commenced under Wellington’s own direction, on the 29th, and
carried on a week, with various success. Then it was resolved to make
an assault upon Fort Christoval. The storming party, preceded by a
forlorn hope, and led by Major McIntosh, with the engineer Forster as
a guide, reached the glacis and descended to the ditch about midnight,
on the night of the sixth of June. The French had, however, cleared all
the rubbish away, so that seven feet perpendicular still remained; and
above this were many obstacles, such as carts chained together, pointed
beams of wood, and large shells ranged along the ramparts, to roll
down upon the assailants. The forlorn hope, finding that the breach
was still impracticable, was retiring, with little loss, when they met
the main body, leaping into the ditch with ladders, and the ascent was
again attempted; but the ladders were too short, and the confusion and
mischief occasioned by the bursting of the shells was so great that
the assailants again retired, with the loss of more than one hundred
men. Two nights after, a second attack was made, but met with no better
success. The British troops, with loud shouts, jumped into the ditch.
The French defied them to come on, and at the same time rolled barrels
of powder and shells down, while the musketry made fearful and rapid
havoc. In a little time, the two leading columns united at the main
breach; the supports also came up; confusion arose about the ladders,
of which only a few could be reared; and the enemy, standing on the
ramparts, bayoneted the foremost assailants, overturned the ladders,
and again poured their destructive fire upon the crowd below. One
hundred and forty men had already fallen, and yet not a single foot
had been gained, nor was there one bright spot in the darkness to
encourage them to proceed. The order was given to retire. The next day,
Wellington heard that the army of Soult was again advancing to attack
him; and as to receive battle there would throw all the disadvantage
on his side, he thought best to raise the siege. On the 10th, the
stores were all removed, and the siege turned to a blockade, which was
afterwards terminated, when the armies of Marmont and Soult, having
effected a junction, advanced to its relief. It was nearly a year
before the allied army again found it desirable to approach Badajos.
Meanwhile the war was carried on with great activity, although with
varied success.

My own time was passed with the regiment to which I belonged, either in
the mountains, or in foraging or bringing supplies, as circumstances
dictated. Although again and again engaged in light skirmishes with
small bodies of the enemy, occupied as our own regiment were, it was
not my fortune to engage in a general battle, until the last siege of
Badajos. And as this city was one of the most important, and its siege
the best sustained of any on the Peninsula, I shall give an account of
it more in detail than I have thought best to do of the rest.

[Sidenote: LAST SIEGE OF BADAJOS.]

The unfavorable issue of the two former investments, had induced Lord
Wellington to wait until a combination of favorable circumstances
should at least give more hope of success. The auspicious moment had,
in his view, now arrived. The heavy rains which occur at this season
of the year would so raise the rivers in the high lands, where his
troops were located, that there would be no risk of their detention in
proceeding at once to the Alemtejo, while this same flow of waters,
in the more level portion occupied by the French, would prove a
fatal impediment to the junction of their forces, which were at this
time considerably scattered, owing to the difficulty of obtaining
provisions. Regiments were despatched, therefore, to bring all the
stores of clothing and provisions from the different points where they
had been left, and concentrate them near Badajos.

Wellington himself, having remained at his headquarters, on the Coa,
until the last moment, in order to conceal his real intentions, now
came in person to superintend the new works. As the French had
strongly occupied the stone bridge over the Guadiana, he ordered a
flying bridge to be thrown across, which was completed on the 15th of
March, 1812. Over this Major-general Beresford passed, and immediately
invested Badajos, with an army of fifteen thousand men. A covering army
of thirty thousand occupied different positions near; and, including a
division on its march from Beira, the whole of the allied forces now
in Estremadura numbered fifty-one thousand. The garrison of the enemy,
composed of French, Hessian and Spanish troops, was five thousand
strong. Phillipon, its brave commander, had been busily occupied, since
the last siege, in strengthening the defences of the place, and in
procuring supplies for the expected invasion. Every family was obliged
to keep three months’ provision on hand, or leave the place, and every
preparation was made for an obstinate and long-continued resistance.
General Picton took the chief command of the assailants. He was
alternately assisted by Generals Kempt, Colville, and Bowis.

The night of the 17th was ushered in by a violent storm of wind and
rain. It was extremely dark and uncomfortable; but, as the loud roar
of the tempest would effectually drown the noise of the pick-axes,
eighteen hundred men were ordered to break ground only one hundred and
sixty yards from the Picurina. They were accompanied by a guard of two
thousand men. So rapidly did they work, that, though it was late when
they commenced, before morning they had completed a communication four
thousand feet in length, and a parallel six hundred yards long, three
feet deep, and three wide. The next night these works were enlarged,
and two batteries traced out. To destroy these works was now the first
object of the besieged. On the 19th, thirteen hundred of their number
stole out of the city, unobserved, into the communication, and began to
destroy the parallel. They were soon discovered, however, and driven
away. As they rode up, part of the French cavalry entered into a mock
contest, giving the countersign in Portuguese, and were thus permitted
to pass the pickets; but they soon betrayed their real character, and
our troops, hastily seizing their arms, drove them back to the castle,
with a loss of three hundred men. One hundred and fifty of the British
fell, and, unfortunately, Colonel Fletcher, the chief engineer, was
badly wounded. Owing to this circumstance, and the continued wet and
boisterous state of the weather, the works advanced slowly; but the
batteries were at length completed. Owing to the heavy rains, the
parallel remained full of water, and it was found impossible to drain
it. But this was in some degree remedied by making an artificial
bottom of sandbags. One place yet remained, on the right bank of the
Guadiana, which Wellington had not invested. The eagle eye of Phillipon
soon perceived his advantage. He erected here three batteries, which
completely swept our works with a most destructive fire; and its
effect would have been yet greater, had it not been that the mud
obstructed the bound of the bullets. A courier was instantly despatched
to the fifth division, stationed at Campo Mayor, for assistance. But
misfortunes seldom come alone. The heavy rains had caused such a rise
in the river, that the flying bridges were swept away, and the trenches
filled with water. The provisions and ammunition of the army were
still on the other side of the river, so that we were soon in want of
both. To add to this, the earth thrown up for intrenchments became
so saturated with water that it crumbled away, and our labors were
for the time wholly suspended. A few days of fine weather, however,
relieved us from our unpleasant situation. The river subsided, another
flying bridge was constructed and row-boats obtained, so that the
communication might not again be interrupted, under any circumstances.
On the 25th the reinforcement from Campo Mayor arrived, and the
right bank of the Guadiana was immediately invested. The same day,
our batteries were opened upon the fort. The enemy were by no means
silent spectators of this invasion. They returned our fire with such
vigor, that several of our guns were dismounted, and quite a number of
officers killed. Marksmen were also stationed on the trenches, to shoot
every one who should show his head over the parapet.

General Picton now resolved to take the fort by assault. Its external
appearance did not indicate much strength, and he hoped for an easy
victory. But the event proved that these appearances were deceptive.
The fort was strong; the ditch fourteen feet perpendicular, and guarded
with thick, slanting poles, and from the top there were sixteen feet
of an earthen slope. Seven guns were mounted on the walls, and two
hundred men, each armed with two loaded muskets, stood ready to repel
all intruders. Loaded shells were also ranged along the walls, to be
pushed over, in case of an attack. General Kempt took the direction of
the assault, which was arranged for the night of the 25th. Five hundred
men were selected from the third division, of which two hundred were
stationed in the communication of San Roque, to prevent any assistance
reaching the fort from the town; one hundred occupied a position at the
right of the fort, one hundred at the left, and the remainder were held
as a reserve, under the command of Captain Powis.

About nine o’clock, the signal was given, and the troops moved forward.
The night was very clear, although there was no moon; and the fort,
which had loomed up in the darkness still and silent, as though
untenanted, answered back the first shot of the assailants with a
discharge that caused it to resemble a sheet of fire. The first attack
was directed against the palisades in the rear; but the strength of
these, and the destructive fire poured down upon them, obliged them to
seek some weaker part. They turned to the face of the fort; but here,
the depth of the ditch, and the slanting stakes at the top of it,
again baffled their attempts. The enemy lost not a moment in pouring
their fire upon the assailants, and the loud death-screams told that
the crisis was becoming more and more imminent. The alarm-bells in the
city itself now rung out their shrill sounds, the guns on the walls
and on the castle opened on the assailants, rockets were thrown up
by the besieged, and the answering shots from the trenches served to
increase the tumult. All eyes were turned in the direction of the fort.
A battalion, hastily sent out from the city, advanced to its aid; but
they had scarcely entered the communication, when the troops stationed
there rushed to the onset, and in a few moments they were driven back
within the walls. By the light of those streams of fire, which ascended
every moment from the Picurina, dark forms might be seen struggling on
the ramparts, in all the energy of determined contest. Continued rounds
of artillery had broken down the palisades in front, and the assailants
were fighting, hand to hand, for an entrance.

The party in the rear of the fort had thrown their ladders, like
bridges, across the ditch, resting them on the slanting stakes, and
springing on them, drove back their guards. Fifty men, bearing axes,
now discovered the gate, which soon fell beneath their blows, and they
rushed in to a nearer contest. The little garrison, stern in their
resistance, did what they could. Powis, Gips, Holloway and Oates, fell
on the ramparts. Nixon, Shaw, and Rudd, were not long behind. Scarcely
an officer was left; and yet the struggle continued. At length, when
only eighty-six men remained, they surrendered, and the Picurina passed
to the allies. Only one hour had that fierce conflict lasted, yet of
our troops four officers and fifty men had fallen, and fifteen officers
and two hundred and fifty men were wounded. Phillipon felt deeply the
loss of this fort. He did not conceal from his soldiers the increase
of danger to their city from it; but he stimulated their courage by
reminding them that death was far preferable to an abode in the English
prison-ships. They deeply felt that appeal, and, with the first dawn of
light, their guns were manned with renewed activity. These were turned
against the fort, and so raked it that it was impossible for our troops
to remain there, and it was deserted. This victory gave fresh courage
to the besiegers. Our whole force was occupied, the three succeeding
nights, in erecting new batteries, and in extending the parallels and
communications. In the daytime, comparatively little could be done,
as the fire from the town so galled the workmen. Repeatedly they
dismounted our guns, and destroyed the defences which had been erected
to shield the laborers, so that we were obliged to wait until the
darkness prevented their marksmen from taking aim, in order to carry on
our works. The night of the 27th, an attempt was made to destroy the
dam, which had been built for the purpose of forming an inundation,
and lessening the space where our troops could work; but the moon had
now made her appearance, and shone so brightly that the effort was
unsuccessful.

On this night a most daring feat was performed by one of the French.
Having disguised himself, he crept over the wall, and concealed himself
until he had caught the watchword for the night. Then, boldly mingling
with the troops, he proceeded to the works. Here the engineer had
placed a line to mark the direction of the sap. Just before the workmen
arrived, he moved the string, until he brought it within complete range
of the castle guns. The men commenced work at once, but the light of
the moon enabled the guns to tell with fearful precision upon them; and
it was not until a severe loss had been sustained, that the mistake
was discovered. Meanwhile, the intruder stole quietly back to his old
quarters, which he reached unmolested.

Soult, trusting to the strong intrenchments of the place, had but
little fear that it would finally surrender; but he knew a hard-fought
battle was inevitable. He therefore endeavored, as much as possible,
to concentrate his forces near; but, while they were marching for
this purpose, Graham and Hill attacked their flanks, and forced them
to take another direction. The whole of the Spanish army now moved on
to the Ronda hills, and threatened to attack Seville. This movement
obliged Soult to detach a large part of his army to the assistance of
this city, and had, as the event proved, fatally delayed his march to
Badajos. On the 30th, Wellington received information that Soult had
resumed his march, and would soon arrive; but this news only served to
hasten the preparations for the attack. Forty-eight pieces of artillery
were now constantly playing against the San Roque, and the siege
advanced at all points. Still the San Roque stood firm. General Picton
was the more anxious for its destruction, as the inundation, which was
caused by the dam, and protected by this lunette, prevented the free
action of the troops.

On the night of the 1st of April, several brave fellows determined
to see if they could not accomplish by stratagem what open force
had failed to effect. Two officers placed themselves at the head of
a small company of sappers. Under cover of the darkness, and their
motions encumbered by the powder they were obliged to carry, they stole
rapidly, but noiselessly, into the camp of the enemy. It was, indeed,
a dangerous experiment. The least noise, the slightest accident, might
alarm the sentinel; and then, they well knew, none would return to tell
their fate. Scarcely venturing to breathe, they reached, in safety, a
spot near the place. One of the officers then went to examine the dam.
During his absence, the rest of the party could see the sentinel, as
he approached within a very few feet of where they lay concealed. They
saw, if they could dispose of him without noise, they might probably
accomplish their aim undiscovered. The officer, having examined the
dam, now returned, just as the sentinel approached. “Now, boys, is
your time,” he whispered. “Remember, one word, one sound, and we are
lost.” Riquet, a powerful Irishman, selected for this purpose, seized
his cloak, and stood prepared. As the man was passing, he sprang
forward, and, throwing his cloak over him, he was in an instant gagged
and bound. Then, rapidly and silently, the powder was placed against
the dam, the train laid, and the match applied. They waited a moment,
to see that it was not extinguished, and then hastily retreated. A few
moments passed, and the loud explosion was the first intelligence the
enemy had of the intrusion. All eyes were bent anxiously upon the spot,
but our hopes were destined to a sad disappointment. The dam stood
firm, and the inundations still remained. But, although this brave
attempt had failed, it soon became apparent to our general that the
crisis was rapidly approaching. The bastions of the Trinidad and the
Santa Maria had already given way; the breaches were daily enlarging,
and hope grew strong that we should succeed in reducing the place
before Soult should arrive. Nor were the enemy blind to their danger.
They had already built a strong intrenchment behind the walls. Now they
converted the nearest houses and garden-walls into a third line of
defence.

Rumors were continually circulating that the French army was close
at hand; but they were so uncertain that no dependence could be
placed upon them. About this time, however, certain intelligence was
brought that Soult had effected a junction with Drouet and Daricoa,
and was already at Albuera. No time was then to be lost. Wellington
himself examined the breaches, and pronounced them practicable, and
the night of the 6th of April was fixed for the assault. Rapidly the
news circulated among the army, and eighteen thousand daring soldiers
burned for that attack, that was to carry to posterity so dreadful a
tale. I shall never forget the effect on our own regiment, when it was
announced. General Sponsbury himself bore the tidings, and asked if our
regiment--the 28th of foot--was willing to lead the assault upon the
castle. This offer had already been made to the colonels of the 10th
and 17th regiments; but their men were suffering so severely from a
disease in the eyes, called the Jamaica Sands, that they declined the
honor. “My men have their eyes open, at such a time, general,” answered
our brave colonel; “nor is their leader ever blind to the interests of
king and country.” Then, turning to us, he cried, “What say you, my
lads? Are you willing to take the front ranks in this attack?” A loud
shout gave its affirmative to this appeal. Every heart thrilled at the
honor thus conferred, although all knew how perilous such a distinction
must necessarily be.

The dreaded yet longed-for night drew on, and our officers were busily
engaged in arranging the order of the attack, and in preparing the men
for their duty. Picton’s division was to cross the Rivillas river,
and scale the castle walls, which were from eighteen to twenty feet in
height, furnished with every means of destruction, and so narrow at the
top that their defenders could easily reach and overturn the ladders.

To Leith was appointed the distant bastion of San Vincente, where the
glacis was mined, the ditch deep, the scarp thirty feet high, and the
defenders of the parapet armed with three loaded muskets each, that
their first fire should be as deadly as possible.

The 4th and light divisions were to march against the breaches, well
furnished with ladders and axes, preceded by storming parties of five
hundred men, with their forlorn hopes. Major Wilson, of the 48th, was
directed to storm San Roque, and to General Power was assigned the
bridge head.

The morning had been very clear, but, as night approached, clouds
covered the horizon, as if to veil the bloody scenes of the night.
Fog rose thick from the rivers over every object, thus rendering
the darkness more complete. Unusual stillness prevailed, although
low murmurs pervaded the trenches, and, on the ramparts, lights
occasionally flitted here and there. Every few moments the deep-toned
voices of the sentinels broke in upon our ears, proclaiming that “all
was well in Badajos.”

The possession of this place had become a point of honor with the
soldiers on both sides. Three times had the French seen their foes
sit down before these almost impregnable walls. Twice had they been
obliged to retire, with heavy losses. The memory of these disasters,
revenge for those who had fallen, hatred of their foes, and a strong
desire for glory, now nerved each British arm for the contest; while
the honor of the French nation, the approval of their idolized emperor,
and, more than all, the danger to which their families would be exposed
in case of failure, combined with an equal thirst for glory, awakened
all the ardent enthusiasm of the French.

[Sidenote: THE FINAL ASSAULT.]

At ten o’clock a simultaneous assault was to be made on the castle, the
San Roque, the breaches, the Pardaleras, San Vincente, and the bridge
head, on the other side of the Guadiana.

The enemy were, as yet, all unconscious of the design of our general,
and the dark array of the British moved slowly and silently forward.
Every heart was full; for, although now unusual quiet reigned, every
one knew that it was but the prelude to that hour when death, in its
most terrible and ghastly forms, would be dealt on every side. In one
short half-hour the signal was to be given,--nay, even that little time
was lost. A lighted carcass was thrown up from the castle, and fell at
the very feet of the men in the third division, casting a lurid and
glaring light for yards around. The wild shout of alarm, the hurried
tones of the signal-bells, and the tumultuous rushing of the soldiers,
proclaimed that our array was discovered. Not a moment was to be lost.
“Forward, my men, forward!” passed from rank to rank. One wild, long,
deafening shout, responded, and then the besiegers dashed onward. In a
moment a circle of fire seemed to surround the doomed city.

Our own division, under charge of General Kempt, had crossed the narrow
plank that constituted the bridge over the Rivillas, under a heavy fire
of musketry, and then, re-forming, ran hastily up the rugged hill, to
the foot of the castle. Scarcely had we reached the walls, when our
brave general fell, severely wounded. His faithful aids-de-camp carried
him from the field; and, as they were passing to the trenches, he met
General Picton,--who, hurt by a fall, and unprepared for the advance
of the signal, had been left in the camp,--hastening onward. A few
hurried words passed between them, and General Picton ran on, to find
his brave soldiers already ascending the heavy ladders they had placed
against the castle walls. And well might those men be called brave,
who dared attempt to ascend those ladders, in spite of the showers of
heavy stones, logs of wood, and bursting shells, that rolled off the
parapet,--regardless, too, of that ceaseless roll of musketry, that
was telling with such fearful precision on their flanks,--forgetting,
apparently, that, even should they live to reach the top, they could
scarcely hope to survive the shock of that formidable front of pikes
and bayonets that rose to meet them. Deafening shouts echoed on every
side, as the besieged endeavored to throw down those heavy ladders; and
these were answered back by the groans of the dying, and the shrieks
of the soldiers that were crushed by their fall. Yet, not for a moment
daunted, those behind sprang on to the remaining ladders, and strove
which first should meet the death that seemed inevitable. But their
courage was fruitless. Every ladder was thrown down, and loud shouts of
victory ran along the walls. But the British, though foiled, were not
subdued. They fell back a few paces, and re-formed. Colonel Ridge then
sprang forward, and, seizing a ladder, placed it against the lowest
part of the castle wall, loudly calling to his men to follow. Officer
Canch succeeded in placing another beside him, and in an instant they
were fighting upon the ramparts. Ridge fell, pierced with a hundred
wounds; but, ere his assailants had time to strike again, those ladders
had poured their living load into the castle, and, step by step,
were its brave defenders forced, fighting, into the street. Here a
reinforcement induced them to pause, and a hard-fought conflict ensued.
But their assistants came too late,--the castle was ours.

[Illustration: STORMING OF BADAJOS AND SCALING OF THE WALLS BY THE
ENGLISH TROOPS.]

While these events were passing at the castle, more terrific, more
maddening, if possible, was the contest at the breaches. Just as the
firing at the castle commenced, two divisions reached the glacis. The
flash of a single musket from the covered way was the signal that the
French were ready, and yet all was still and dark. Hay packs were
thrown hastily into the ditches, and five hundred men sprang down the
ladders, which were placed there, without any opposition. Why was this
ominous stillness? But the assailants had hardly time to ask, when a
bright light shot up from the darkness, and revealed all the horrors of
the scene. The ramparts were crowded with dark figures and glittering
arms, while, below, the red columns of the British were rushing on,
like streams of burning lava. A crash of thunder followed that bright
light, and hundreds of shells and powder-barrels dashed the ill-fated
stormers into a thousand atoms. One instant the light division paused,
and then, as if maddened by that terrific sight, they flew down the
ladders, or leaped into the gulf below. A blaze of musketry poured its
dazzling light into the ditch, as the fourth division came up, and
descended with equal fury. But the enemy had made, at the bottom of the
ditch, a deep cut, which was filled with water. Into this snare the
head of the division fell, and more than a hundred men were drowned.
Those behind checked not an instant, but, turning to the left, came
to an unfinished intrenchment, which they mistook for the breaches.
It was covered in a moment; but, beyond it, still lay a deep and wide
chasm, between them and the ramparts they wished to gain. Confusion
necessarily ensued, for the assailants still crowded on, until the
ditch was full, and even then the press continued. Not for one moment
ceased the roar of the musketry upon those crowded troops, and the loud
shouts of the enemy, mingled with the din of bursting grenades and
shells. The roaring guns were answered back by the iron howitzers from
the battery, while the horrid explosions of the powder-barrels, the
whizzing flight of the blazing splinters, and the loud commands of the
officers, increased the confusion. Through all this the great breach
was at length reached, and the British trusted that the worst was over;
but, deep in those ruins, ponderous beams were set, and, firmly fixed
on their top, glittered a terrible array of sword-blades, sharp-pointed
and keen-edged, while ten feet before even that could be reached, the
ascent was covered with loose planks, studded with sharp iron points,
which penetrated the feet of the foremost, and sent them rolling back
on the troops behind.

Behind these sword-points, the shouting Frenchmen stood rejoicing in
their agony, and poured in their fire with ceaseless rapidity; for
every man had a number of muskets, and each one of these, beside the
ordinary charge, was loaded with a cylinder of wood, full of leaden
slugs, which scattered like hail, when discharged. Hundreds of men
had fallen, and hundreds more were dropping; but still the heroic
officers rushed on, and called for new trials. Yet, there glittered
the sword-blades, firm, immovable; and who might penetrate such a
barrier? Yet, so zealous were the men themselves, that those behind
strove to push the forward ranks on to the blades, that they might
thus themselves ascend on a bridge made of their bodies; but they
frustrated this attempt by dropping down, for none could tell who fell
from choice, and who by the effect of that dreadful fire, and many
who fell unhurt never rose again, crushed by the crowd. For a little
while after the commencement of this terrible attack, military order
was preserved; but the tumult and noise was such, that no command
could be distinctly heard; and the constant falling and struggling
of the wounded, who sought to avoid being trampled upon, broke the
formations, and order was impossible. Yet, officers of all stations
would rush out, and, followed by their men, make a desperate assault
on that glittering steel, and only fall back to swell the pile of dead
and dying. Two hours were spent in these vain efforts, and then the
remaining soldiers turned sadly and slowly away; for they felt that
the breach of the Trinidad was, indeed, impregnable. An opening still
remained in the curtain of the Santa Maria bastion, and to this they
directed their steps; but they found the approach to it impeded by
deep holes and cuts, and their fearfully lessening numbers told how
useless the attempt would be. Gathering in dark groups, they leaned
despairingly on their muskets, and looked with sullen desperation at
the ramparts of the Trinidad, where the enemy were seen, by the light
of the fire-balls which they threw up, aiming their guns with fearful
precision, and tauntingly asking, “Why they did not come into Badajos?”
And now, unwilling to be finally conquered, Captains Nicholas and Shaw,
with fifty men, collected from all regiments, made one more desperate
attempt to reach the Santa Maria breach. Already had they passed the
deep cuts, and toiled over two-thirds of the dangerous ground, when a
discharge of musketry levelled every man, except Shaw, to the earth.
Nicholas, and a large proportion of the rest, were mortally wounded.

After this, no further attempt was made; and yet the soldiers would not
retire, but remained passive and unflinching, under the fire of the
enemy. It was now midnight. Already two thousand brave men had fallen,
when Wellington, who was watching the progress of the attack from a
height close to the quarries, sent orders that the troops should retire
and re-form for a second assault. But so great was the confusion, that
many of the officers did not receive the orders, and so endeavored to
prevent the soldiers from leaving, which occasioned many deaths.

But the gallant defenders of Badajos, although successful at the
breaches, found that there was no time to look idly on. The whole city
was girdled by fire. The third division still maintained its ground
at the castle; the fifth were engaged at the Pardaleres, and on the
right of the Guadiana, while General Walker’s brigade was escalading
the bastion of San Vincente. This brigade had stolen silently along
the banks of the river, the noise of its ripple having drowned the
sound of their footsteps until they reached the barrier gate. Just
then the explosion took place at the breaches; and by its light the
French sentinels discovered their assailants. In an instant, a sharp
musketry was opened upon them. The Portuguese troops, panic-struck,
threw down the scaling-ladders which had been intrusted to them; but
the British snatched them up, and reared them against the walls, which,
in this place, were thirty feet high. Unfortunately, the ladders were
too short, and this placed them in a most perilous and uncomfortable
position. A small mine was sprung beneath their feet, adding its quota
to the fearful number of the dead; beams of wood and shells, fraught
with living fire, were rolled upon their heads, while showers of grape
from the flanks swept the ditch, dealing death-blows thick and fast
on every side. But, fortunately for our troops, the reinforcement
to assist in the defence of the castle was just at this time called
for, and a part of the walls lower than the rest was left unmanned.
Three ladders were hastily placed here, but they were still too
short. But British valor and ingenuity soon overcame this difficulty.
A soldier, raised in the arms of his comrades, sprang to the top;
another followed. These drew their comrades after them, and soon, in
spite of the constant fire which the French kept up, they ascended
in such numbers, that they could not be driven back. Dividing, on
their entrance, one-half entered the town, while the other, following
the ramparts, attacked and won three bastions. Just as the last was
yielding, General Walker fell, covered with wounds. A soldier, who
stood near him, cried out, “A mine! a mine!” At that word, those
troops which had crossed the strong barrier, whom neither the deepness
of the ditch nor the height of the wall could appal, who flinched not
a moment at the deadly fire of the enemy, shrank back at a chimera of
their own raising. Their opponents saw their advantage, and, making a
firm and deadly charge, drove them from the ramparts. But, before the
French had time to rejoice in their victory, a reserve, under Colonel
Nugent, made its appearance, and the fleeing soldiers returned, and
soon gained the field.

The party who had entered the town at the first attack on San Vincente
pursued their way through the streets. They met with no opposition,
however. All was still and silent as the grave, and yet the streets
were flooded with light, and every house illuminated. Sounding their
bugles, they advanced to the great square of the town, but still met
no enemy. All was bright and still, except that low murmurs were heard
from behind the lattices, and occasionally a shot was fired at them
from under the doors. Hence, leaving the square, they repaired to the
breaches, and attempted to surprise the garrison, by attacking them in
their rear. But they found them on the alert, and were soon obliged
to return to the streets. But the English were now pouring in on
every side, and the brave defenders of the ramparts and the breaches
turned to defend their homes. A short and desultory fight followed.
Generals Viellande and Phillipon, brave and determined to the last,
were both wounded; and, gradually falling back, they retreated, with
a few hundred soldiers, to San Christoval, where they surrendered to
Lord Fitzroy Somerset. Then loud shouts of victory! victory! resounded
through the streets, and found its joyful echo in many hearts.

[Sidenote: SACK OF THE CITY.]

During this siege, five thousand men and officers had fallen;
thirty-five hundred having lost their lives the night of the
assault,--twenty-four hundred at the breaches alone. If any one would
picture to himself the terrible scenes that occured at this spot, let
him imagine a lot of less than a hundred square yards, which, in the
short space of little more than two hours, was deluged by the blood
of twenty-four hundred men. Nor did all these fall by sudden death.
Some perished by steel, some by shot, some were drowned, some crushed
and mangled by heavy weights, others trampled down by the crowd,
and hundreds dashed to pieces by the fiery explosions; and all this
occurred where the only light was the intense glare of the explosions,
and the lurid flame of the burning dead, which came to mingle its
horrible stench with the sickening odors of the gunpowder, and the
nauseous smells of the exploding shells. Here, too, the groans of the
wounded were echoed back by the shrieks of the dying; and, ever and
anon, between the roar of the artillery and the thunder of the bursting
shells, were heard the bitter taunts of the enemy. Let any one imagine
all this, I say, and they may have some faint ideas of the horrors
of war. Yet, dreadful as this is, could the veil but drop here, the
soldier’s heart might still throb with pride, as he recounted the
hard-fought battle, where valor stood preëminent, and none yielded, but
to death, until the victory was won. But there is still another dark
and revolting page, which, in a history like this, designed to paint
the horrors as well as the glories of war, it were not well to omit.
I refer to the scenes which followed the victory, when Badajos lay at
the mercy of its conquering foe. If there is one feature of war more
repulsive than another, one from which every good feeling of the heart
shrinks back appalled, it is from the scene which invariably follows,
when permission is given to sack and plunder a conquered city. All
restraint is laid aside. Men’s passions, wound up almost to frenzy by
the exciting and maddening scenes through which they have passed, will
have a vent; and no sorrow is too holy, no place too sacred, to shield
its occupant from the storm. Our men scattered themselves through the
city, all with liberty to do what they pleased, to take what they
wanted. Houses were broken open, and robbed. If any resistance was
made, death was the certain penalty; and often death in such a form
that a soldier’s fate would have been mercy. All, it is true, were
not alike. In such an army there are always brave men, who, even in
such an hour, would scorn to commit a dishonorable action, and these
seconded the attempts of our officers to preserve at least a semblance
of order; but they were too few to accomplish much. All the dreadful
passions of human nature were excited, and they would have way. Many
lost their lives in vain attempts to check the cruelty and lust and
drunkenness of their own soldiers. For two days and nights Badajos
resounded with the shrieks and piteous lamentations of her defenceless
victims, with groans and shouts and imprecations, varied by the hissing
of fires from houses first plundered, then destroyed, the crashing of
doors and windows, and the almost ceaseless report of muskets used in
violence. It was not until the third day that the soldiers, exhausted
by their own excesses, could be collected in sufficient numbers to bury
the dead of their own regiments, while many of the wounded perished
solely from want of necessary care. I had imagined that the miseries
of intemperance were no unfamiliar sight to me; yet never before, or
since, has it been my lot to meet the madness which characterized the
eager search for liquor, on every side. An instance that occurred in
our own regiment, I will relate. Several of our men, and among them
some that I had known in Ireland, and should never have suspected of
such conduct, broke into a cellar where was stored a large quantity
of wine. There were many casks, and some of them contained wine that
bore the brand of scores of years. They tore down the doors for tables,
and commenced their mad feast. Bottles half emptied were thrown across
the cellar, and what would have sufficed a regiment for months, was
recklessly poured upon the floor. Unconscious, or not caring what they
did, they stopped not to draw the wine, but, knocking in the head
of the casks, proceeded to try their various qualities. At length,
overcome by intoxication, they sank upon the floor, and paid the
penalty of their rashness with their lives; for, when a diligent search
was made for absentees, they were discovered actually drowned in the
wine. Many were burned to death in houses which they themselves had
fired.

[Sidenote: A DISCOVERY.]

For my own part, I had been fortunate enough to pass through all the
horrors of the siege, and the bloody scenes of the assault, unhurt.
Excitement had rendered me reckless of danger, and I hurried on, scarce
knowing where I was or what I did. Now that this had passed, I felt
exhausted and weary, and very thirsty. My comrade and myself resolved
that our first search should be for something to drink. We hurried on,
until we reached a large store, where we thought we should find some
liquor. The fastenings of the outer door soon yielded to our efforts,
but the door to the cellar we found it impossible to open or break
down. Just at this moment, a band of pioneers happened to be passing,
who always carry with them huge hatchets. We called to them, and, with
their assistance, soon made our way to the cellar. But here a great
disappointment awaited us. We found no liquor, but only two tiers of
firkins, used for holding butter. One of our men, in anger, struck his
hatchet into one of them, when, to our great surprise, out rolled
whole handfuls of doubloons. We then struck the heads of the firkins
with the butt-ends of our muskets, but could not break them. The
hatchets, however, soon completed the work. When the heads were knocked
out, the money was so firmly pressed together that it came out in one
solid mass. Each one of us then took what we pleased. I placed three
handsful in my comrade’s knapsack, and he did the same by me. I then
filled my haversack, and even my stockings, with the precious treasure.
Part of our company remained as guard, while the rest went to report to
our commander the discovery we had made. I soon found that I had stored
more money than I was able to carry, so I threw a part of it in an old
well. Our commander immediately sent a detachment of men to empty the
cellar, and they brought away no less than eight mules’ burden of gold.
I cannot now recall its exact amount, but such was its value that our
officers determined to send it to Brussels, when the army should leave
Badajos.

[Sidenote: ATROCIOUS CONDUCT OF THE VICTORS.]

We take the following description of the scenes to which we have above
referred from an eye-witness. He says: “It has been the practice of
modern historians to describe, in the glowing language of exaggerated
eulogy, every act done by the British and their allies, while their
pens have been equally busy in vilifying and defaming all who were
opposed to them. Perhaps there is no circumstance to which this applies
with more force than the description usually given of the conduct of
the British armies and their allies after the taking of Badajos. While
their gallantry is praised to the utmost, their evil deeds are left to
find the light as they may; but ‘foul deeds will rise, though all the
earth overwhelm them.’” Before six o’clock on the morning of the 7th
of April, all organization among the assaulting columns had ceased,
and a scene of plunder and cruelty that it would be difficult to find
a parallel for took place. The army, so orderly the preceding day,--so
effective in its organizations,--seemed all at once transformed into a
vast band of brigands. The horde of Spaniards, as well as Portuguese
women and men, that now eagerly sought for admission to plunder,
augmented the number of this band to what the army had been before
the battle; and twenty thousand persons, armed with all power to act
as they thought fit, and almost all armed with weapons which could be
used at the pleasure of the bearers, for the purpose of enforcing any
wish they might seek to gratify, were let loose upon this devoted city.
Subject to no power of control from others, intoxication caused them
to lose all restraint on themselves. If the reader can for a moment
fancy a fine city, containing an immense population, among which may be
reckoned a proportion of the finest women Spain, or perhaps the world,
can boast of,--if he could fancy that population and these women left
to the mercy of twenty thousand infuriated and licentious soldiers,
for two days and two nights, he can well imagine the horrors enacted
in Badajos. Wine and spirit stores were first forced open, and casks
of the choicest wines and brandy dragged into the streets; and, when
the men had drank as much as they fancied, the heads of the vessels
were stove in, or the casks broken, so that the liquor ran about in
streams. In the town were large numbers of animals,--sheep, oxen, and
horses,--belonging to the garrison. These were among the first things
taken possession of; and the wealthy occupier of many a house was
glad to be allowed the employment of conducting them to our camp, as,
by so doing, he got away from a place where his life was not worth a
minute’s purchase. Terrible as was this scene, it was not possible to
avoid occasionally laughing; for the _conducteur_ was generally not
only compelled to drive a herd of cattle, but also obliged to carry
the bales of plunder taken by his employer perhaps from his own house.
And the stately gravity with which the Spaniard went through his
work, dressed in short breeches, frilled shirt, and a hat and plumes,
followed by our ragamuffin soldiers with fixed bayonets, presented a
scene that Cruikshank himself would have been puzzled to delineate
justly. The plunder so captured was deposited under a guard composed
principally of soldiers’ wives. A few hours were sufficient to despoil
the shops of their property. Night then closed in, and then a scene
took place that pen would fail to describe. Insult and infamy, fiendish
acts of violence and open-handed cruelty, everywhere prevailed. Age, as
well as youth, was alike unrespected, and perhaps not one house, and
scarcely a person, in this vast town, escaped injury. War is a terrible
engine, and when once set in motion, it is not possible to calculate
when or where it will stop.

[Sidenote: TERRIBLE DISORDER.]

“The 8th of April was a fearful day for the inhabitants. The soldiers
had become so reckless that no person’s life, of whatever sex, rank, or
station, was safe. If they entered a house that had not been despoiled
of its furniture and wines, they were at once destroyed. If it was
empty, they fired at the windows, or at the inmates, or often at each
other. Then they would sally into the streets, and amuse themselves by
firing at the church bells in the steeples, or at any one who might
be passing. Many of the soldiers were killed, while carrying away
their plunder, by the hands of those who, a few hours before, would
have risked their own lives to protect them. Hundreds of these fellows
took possession of the best warehouses, and acted as merchants; these
were ejected by a stronger party, who, after a fearful strife, would
displace them, only themselves to give place to others, with terrible
loss of life. To put a stop to such a frightful scene, it was necessary
to use some forbearance, as well as severity; for, to have punished
all who were guilty would have been to decimate the army. In the first
instance, parties from those regiments that had least participated
in the combat were ordered into the town to collect the hordes of
stragglers, that filled the streets with crimes too horrible to detail;
and, when this measure was found inadequate, a brigade of troops were
marched into the city, and were directed to stand by their arms, while
any marauders remained. Gibbets and triangles were erected, and many
of the men were flogged. A few hours so employed were sufficient to
purge the town of the robbers that still lurked in the streets, many of
whom were Spaniards and Portuguese, not connected with the army, and
infinitely worse than our troops. Towards evening tranquillity began
to return; but it was a fearful quiet, and might be likened to a ship
at sea, which, after having been plundered and dismasted by pirates,
should be left floating on the ocean, without a morsel of food to
supply the wants of its crew, or a stitch of canvas to cover its naked
masts. By degrees, however, the inhabitants returned, and families left
alive again became reünited; yet there was scarce a family that did not
mourn its dead.”

The same writer says: “Early on the morning of the 9th of April, a
great concourse of Spaniards, from the neighboring villages, thronged
our lines. They came to purchase the booty captured by our men; and
each succeeding hour increased the supply of their wants, numerous
and varied as they were, and our camp had the appearance of a vast
market. Some of the soldiers realized upwards of one thousand dollars
from the sale, and almost all gained handsomely by an enterprise in
which they had displayed so much devotion and bravery; and it is only
to be lamented that they tarnished laurels so nobly won, by traits of
barbarity which, for the sake of human nature, we hope have not often
found a parallel.”

It was not until order was in some measure restored that the wounded
and dead could be attended to; but now graves were dug, and the mangled
remains, so lately full of life and activity, burning with high hopes
and fond anticipations, were laid away, adding their numbers to the
vast pile of victims sacrificed to that Moloch--war. It is said that
when Wellington learned the number of the fallen, and the extent of his
loss in the death of those brave men, a passionate burst of tears told
how much he was affected by it.

[Sidenote: WELLINGTON STILL AT BADAJOS.]

For a few days Wellington lingered near Badajos, hoping that Soult,
to whom Phillipon had sent the fatal news even in the confusion of
his surrender, would be tempted from his intrenchments to risk a
battle with the allies, while the troops were flushed with victory.
But this general, although feeling deeply the loss of one of his most
impregnable fortresses, found himself too much occupied with the other
division of the allied army to venture on such a course.

It was Wellington’s intention, in case this battle did not take place,
to proceed immediately to Andalusia; but, learning that the Spanish
general had failed to garrison the fortresses already taken in a
suitable manner, he was obliged to alter his own course of action, in
order to secure former conquests. While he remained here, his time was
busily occupied in repairing the breaches, in levelling the trenches,
and restoring the injured fortifications. This being done, he placed
here, as a garrison, two regiments of Portuguese, and marched himself,
with the main body of his troops, upon Beira.



CHAPTER VI.

  Romantic Adventures of Sir Colquhoun Grant.--The Author ordered,
  with a Convoy, to Brussels.--Description of the Route.--The Pass of
  Roncesvalles.--Memorable Defeat of the Army of Charlemagne there.--A
  sudden Attack and Repulse.--The Author arrives at Brussels, and joins
  the Garrison of that Place.


Soon after our army left Badajos, the remarkable and interesting
adventures of Sir Colquhoun Grant, who was an officer in our army,
attracted general attention; and, though I did not myself learn all
the particulars I am about to relate until after my return from the
continent, they are in themselves of so interesting a nature, and so
closely connected with the success of our arms in the Peninsula, that I
trust my readers will deem these reasons a sufficient excuse for their
introduction here.

[Sidenote: ADVENTURES OF SIR COLQUHOUN GRANT.]

Intelligence had been brought to our commander that the army of
Portugal, under Marmont, was concentrating on the Tormes, and that
they were intending to attack the fortresses of Almeida and Ciudad. If
this was indeed so, it was all-important that he should immediately
march to their relief, as their garrisons and stores were far too
weak to sustain an attack or stand a siege. But, as Wellington could
not believe that the French general would take what seemed to him so
imprudent a course, he suspected that this information was only a ruse
to draw him from his position. It was absolutely necessary that he
should know the truth. Among his troops was an officer named Colquhoun
Grant. Gentlemanly and peculiarly attractive in his manners, bold even
to the utmost daring, and yet with so much subtlety of genius, tempered
with the wisest discretion, he seemed exactly fitted by nature for the
dangerous and delicate office which our commander-in-chief intrusted
to him, which was to watch Marmont’s proceedings, and, if possible,
to learn his true intentions. He secured the services of a Spanish
peasant, named Leon, whose own life it had been his good fortune to
preserve in a skirmish, and whose only sister Grant had rescued from
the guerillas, just as they were bearing her off. So grateful was poor
Leon, that he esteemed himself only too happy in being allowed to share
his master’s danger in this perilous enterprise. Having passed the
Tormes in the night, as morning was breaking, he rode boldly up to the
French camp, dressed in his own uniform and followed by his servant.
In answer to the challenge of the sentinel on duty, he informed him
that he was the bearer of a message to one of the principal officers
of the French army, and was admitted without hesitation. The wife of
this officer had accompanied her husband to Spain, and was in Badajos
at the time of its surrender. During the excesses which followed,
her house was entered by some ruffians, and she would have fallen a
victim to their rage, had it not been for the timely interference of
Grant, who rescued her from her assailants, and bore her to a place
of comparative safety. As a small memento of her gratitude, when the
army left, she wrote him a note expressing her heartfelt thanks, and
accompanied it by a valuable ring. Armed with the note and ring, he
proceeded at once to the tent of the officer, who gladly received him
as the bearer of information from his wife, and invited him to share
the hospitalities of the camp. Here he remained for three days, and,
by his adroitness in conversation, obtained exact information as to
Marmont’s object, and the preparation he had made, both of provisions
and scaling-ladders. While there, each day a Spanish peasant made his
appearance in the camp, laden with fruit for sale; and while Grant
was apparently busy in purchasing, he conveyed to him notes of his
information, which were immediately carried to Wellington. Just before
the night sentinels had taken their posts on the third evening, while
he was in earnest conversation with a number of the French officers, he
heard the low signal of the peasant outside the tent. He succeeded in
excusing his absence in such a manner as not to attract observation,
and received the alarming intelligence that he was known to be in the
French cantonments, and that a general order was even now circulating,
giving a description of his person, and commanding the soldiers to
use their utmost exertions to secure him. Guards had already been
stationed in a circle round the army, and escape seemed impossible.
Not a moment was to be lost. Leaving his horse with Leon, who was to
meet him at Huerta at daybreak, he crept past the sleeping soldiers,
and succeeded in reaching that village undiscovered. But it was now
daybreak, and the outward circle of the guards was yet to be passed.
Before him lay a deep river, fordable only at one point, and along
which videttes were posted, constantly patrolling back and forward,
meeting at the ford, while the whole battalion was engaged in the
search. Yet these difficulties did not daunt him. Leon and Grant met
at the house of a peasant, one of his agents, who had several of his
friends, wrapped in their large Spanish cloaks, ready to assist him.
They advanced towards the ford, one of them leading his horse, and
the others spreading their cloaks, as if estimating their comparative
width. Under this cover, he stole along down to the ford. Here, waiting
until the sentinels had separated their utmost distance, which was
three hundred yards, he boldly mounted his horse, and dashed into the
river. They both fired, but without success, and, without stopping to
reload, pursued him. A wood lay directly before him. This covert he
reached in safety, and was soon hid in its recesses. Here his faithful
Leon joined him, and all pursuit of both was baffled. Grant here
ascertained that the French were preparing to storm Ciudad Rodrigo,
or, at least, that they conversed freely of doing so. From this fact,
he judged it might be only a mask of their real intentions. These, if
possible, together with their numbers and the direction of their march,
he wished to discover. He therefore concealed himself in the branches
of a high tree, just where the road directs its course to the passes,
and beneath which the whole army must proceed. Here he counted every
battalion and gun, and found that their course was directed against
Ciudad. When the last soldier was out of sight, he descended from the
tree, and, entering the village they had just left, he discovered all
the scaling-ladders securely stored. He immediately wrote to Wellington
that he need have no fears for that fortress.

His next object was to discover whether Marmont was marching upon
Castello Branco or Coimbra. To reach the former place, it was necessary
to descend to the pass by a succession of ridges. He stationed himself
on one of the lowest of these, thinking that the dwarf oaks, of which
there was here a thick growth, would hide him; but, as the French
officers were descending from the ridge above, they happened to spy him
with their glasses, and despatched some dragoons in pursuit. Leon’s
lynx eyes, always on the watch, soon perceived them, and, alarming
his master, they rode forward a short distance, and then wheeled in
another direction. But now the alarm had spread, and all over the wood
the soldiers were engaged in eager search. Finding every pass beset by
their enemies, they left their horses, and fled on foot through the
thickest of the oaks. But these were not thick enough to veil them from
the officers, on the higher ridges, who, by the waving of their hats,
directed the chase. Efforts like these could not last long. Leon fell,
exhausted, and Grant refused to yield to his entreaties to leave him.
The enemy soon made their appearance, and, in despite of the earnest
entreaties and prayers of Grant, they killed poor Leon, and carried
Grant to Marmont’s tent. This general received him apparently with much
kindness, and invited him to dinner. While seated at the table, he
conversed freely with his prisoner, but closed by exacting from him a
parole that he would not suffer himself to be released by the Partidas
while passing through Spain. When Wellington discovered the capture
of this faithful servant, he offered a reward of two thousand dollars
to any one who would release him. Marmont then placed his prisoner
under a strong escort, and sent him to France. He also sent with him a
letter to the governor of Bayonne, designating him as a dangerous spy,
and recommending the governor to send him, in irons, immediately to
Paris. The gentlemanly conduct of Grant, during his journey, and his
lion-hearted bravery, so won upon the esteem of one of the officers of
his escort, that he acquainted him with the contents of the letter,
before reaching Bayonne. It was the custom for the prisoners, on
their arrival in this city, to wait on the authorities, and procure a
passport to Verdun. His friend the officer succeeded in delaying the
delivery of Marmont’s letter until these formalities had been attended
to. Grant’s object then would be to rejoin his regiment in Spain; but
he well knew that the search for him would be made in that direction.
He, therefore, resolved to go to Paris, because he judged that if the
governor of Bayonne did not succeed in recapturing him, he would,
for his own security, suppress the letter, in hopes the matter would
be no further thought of. He therefore went directly to the hotels,
and, finding that General Souham was going there on his return from
Spain, he boldly introduced himself, and requested permission to join
his party. Now, Souham had often heard of Grant, and was extremely
pleased to make his acquaintance, and of course yielded a ready assent
to his proposal. On their way, he conversed freely with him about
his adventures, little thinking that he was aiding him in one of the
most skilful of them all. While passing through Orleans, he had the
good fortune to meet an English agent, who gave him a recommendation
to another secret agent in Paris, whose assistance would be of great
use to him in effecting his final escape. When he arrived in Paris,
he took his leave of Souham, and then went directly to the house of
the Parisian agent. This gentleman received him with much kindness,
and having ascertained that no inquiry had been set on foot about his
escape, furnished him with a sum of money, and recommended to him to
take rooms in a very public street, and to attend and be interested
in the amusements of the city. He even appeared at the theatres, and
frequented the coffee-houses, as his friend was connected with the
police, and would give him seasonable warning, in case he should
be suspected. Several weeks passed away in this manner, when it so
happened that an American--one of his fellow-lodgers who was just
preparing to return home--was taken suddenly ill, and died. The evening
before his death, as Grant was sitting by his side, his passport was
brought to him, and laid upon a table near. It occurred to Grant, that,
in case of his death, he might possess himself of this passport without
injury to any one, which he accordingly did, and proceeded at once
with it, unquestioned, to the mouth of the Loire. He was delighted to
find here a ship just ready to sail for America. He went on board and
engaged his passage, and was told that the ship would sail by noon.
An hour had not elapsed, however, when a despatch was received from
Paris, informing the captain that important reasons existed why he
should delay his journey. The captain, annoyed by this interference
with his views, mentioned it to his passengers; and Grant, seeing at
once that he was in danger, threw himself upon the captain’s mercy,
by frankly explaining to him his real situation. This officer kindly
entered at once into his plans, advising him to assume the character
of a discontented sailor. Grant then dressed as a sailor, and, with
forty dollars in money which the captain gave him for that purpose,
went to the American consul, and deposited in his hands the money, as a
pledge that he would prosecute the captain for ill treatment, when he
should arrive in the States. In return for this, the consul furnished
him with the certificate of a discharged sailor, which permitted him to
pass from port to port, as if in search of a ship. He wandered about
thus for some days, when one day he saw a boatman sitting idly in his
boat, apparently with nothing to do. He accosted him, and, thinking
that he might be moulded to his purpose, he offered him ten Napoleons,
if he would row him to a small island which appeared in the distance,
where English ships often stopped to take in water. The boatman agreed
to do so that night. The evening was fair, and the boat made rapid
progress. Already the island rose upon their view in the distance, and
beyond it loomed up the dark masts of the English vessel which was
the harbor of safety and happiness to Grant. Already he had deemed
himself almost beyond the reach of danger, when suddenly he perceived
that the course of his guide was altered. He demanded the reason of
this, but no answer was returned. Drawing a knife from his pocket, he
was about to enforce his demand, when suddenly two men sprang up from
the bottom of the boat, where they had been concealed, and he saw that
to struggle against his fate would be useless. Still, his courage did
not desert him. He would yet be free. The dastardly boatman offered
to proceed to the island, if more money was paid him; but Grant, when
he had promised his ten Napoleons, had spent the last of his little
stock, and the boatman, notwithstanding his breach of contract,
demanded the whole. This demand, with great coolness and the utmost
resolution, was refused by Grant. One Napoleon he should have, but no
more. The boatman threatened to denounce him to the police; but Grant,
always prepared, told him, if he did, that he would at once accuse
him of aiding the escape of a prisoner of war, and would adduce the
great price of his boat as the proof of his guilt. This menace was too
powerful to be resisted, and Grant was allowed to depart unmolested.
In a few days Grant engaged a fisherman, who, with his son, pursued
his calling on the coast, to carry him to the island. The bargain was
this time faithfully performed; but fortune seemed everywhere against
him. There was not a ship at the island, and it was far too small
for him to venture to try concealment there. His next course was to
exchange clothes with the fisherman’s son, and take his place in the
boat. Having spent some time in fishing, they gradually bore off to the
south, where rumor said a large English ship-of-war was to be found.
In a few hours they obtained a glimpse of her, and were steering that
way, when a shot from a coast battery brought them to a full stop, and
a boat full of soldiers put off to board them. Hope again died away in
the heart of the adventurous traveller, at that dreaded sight; but he
would not yet despair. The boat drew near, and the fisherman, poor and
needy, had now an opportunity of enriching _himself_, by denouncing
his passenger. But the old man was true to his trust. He assured the
soldiers that Grant was his son; and, convinced of this, they only
warned him not to go out of the reach of the guns of the battery,
because the English vessel was on the coast. But the fisherman,
having given all the fish he had caught to the soldiers, told them if
he did not, his poor family would starve,--that this was their only
dependence,--and assured them that he was so well acquainted with the
coast that he could always escape the enemy. His prayers and presents
prevailed, and he was desired to wait under the battery till night,
and then depart; but, under pretence of arranging his escape from the
English vessel, he made the soldiers point out her bearings so exactly,
that when the darkness came, he lost not a moment in proceeding on
board, and the intrepid Grant soon found himself once more in safety
on her quarter-deck. The vessel soon sailed for England, and Grant was
received in London with all the popularity which his arduous services
demanded, and might now have obtained an honorable release from the
toilsome service in which he had been engaged; but he was a true
soldier at heart, and loved the toil and bustle of the camp, with all
its hardships, far better than the ease and comfort of courts. He asked
but one favor of his royal master, and this was to select a French
officer, of equal rank, who should be sent back to his own country,
that no doubt might remain of the propriety of his escape. This he
received permission to do; and he visited one of the prisons, where
the French were detained, for the purpose of making his selection.
Judge what must have been his astonishment, when the first person he
saw was the old fisherman who had so befriended him in his trouble! The
recognition was mutual; and the old man, whose heart longed for the old
familiar haunts of his childhood, out of sight of which he had never
been before, felt once more the dawn of hope in his bosom, as he saw
that face, so full of benevolence and kindness, bent on him in pitying
sorrow. His story was soon told. He and his son, venturing on the pass
which Grant had given him in return for his kindness, had ventured
out to sea in too near proximity to an English vessel. The captain,
totally unmindful of their papers, had sunk their little boat, their
only property, and brought them away to inhabit an English prison,
while his poor family was starving at home. The indignant Grant could
scarcely listen to the conclusion of the tale. He immediately obtained
their release, made them a present of a sum of money and a new boat,
and saw them once more embarked for France, blessing the happy hour
when they had shown such kindness to one so richly deserving of it. He
then returned himself to the Peninsula, and, within four months from
the time of his capture, he was again on the Tormes, watching the army
of Marmont, and only mourning that poor Leon was no longer alive to
accompany him.

Hoping that my readers will be interested in this long digression, I
will return at once to my own story.

[Sidenote: THE PASS OF RONCESVALLES.]

Before the victorious army of the allies left Badajos, Wellington
determined to send a convoy to Brussels with the treasure and spoils
found in that place. The regiments selected to form this convoy were
the 28th, the 80th, and 87th and 43d. We were to leave Badajos, and
pass through the northern part of Spain to Pampeluna, and through
the romantic gorge of the Roncesvalles to St. Jean Pied de Port, in
France, and from this place take the most direct course to Brussels.
The day before our army was to leave for Beira was the day selected
for our march. Our farewell words were soon spoken, and we were on
our way. No event of consequence had marked our course until we were
near Pampeluna. On the left of this place, near Roncesvalles, is the
beautiful valley of Bastan, one of the most fertile and delightful
valleys in Spain, and abounding in every species of plenty. From
Pampeluna to Zabieta, the road passes over a gentle ascent. From
Zabieta this ascent increases, and becomes extremely rough and
fatiguing near the village of Borquette. From this village it begins
to ascend very lofty mountains, but which are extremely fertile and
well wooded. Immediately after passing Borquette, the road ascends
a mountain, and then descends the same, when it enters upon the
memorable plain of Roncesvalles, where happened that memorable defeat
of Charlemagne, which has furnished so copious a theme for poetry and
romance. As there are few who have not heard of this celebrated pass,
perhaps the legend connected with it may not be uninteresting to my
readers.

Several Moorish chiefs, in the north-western part of Spain, had
implored the protection of this celebrated emperor, and invited him
to accept their vassalage. He at once assembled an army, crossed the
Pyrenees, penetrated as far as Saragossa, and received the submission
of all the neighboring lords. News of threatened hostilities on the
Rhenish frontiers caused him to hasten his march onward. Dividing his
army into two bodies, he advanced, in person, at the head of the first
division, leaving all the baggage with the rear guard, which comprised
a strong force, and was commanded by some of the most renowned of
his chieftains, among whom was Roland, the nephew of Charlemagne.
Mounted on heavy horses, and loaded with a complete armor of iron, the
soldiers pursued their march through the narrow passes of the Pyrenees,
without suspecting the neighborhood of an enemy. The king himself,
with his first division, passed from these intricate woods and narrow
defiles unmolested; but when the rear body, following leisurely at a
considerable distance, had reached this wild and lonely valley, the
woods and rocks around them suddenly bristled into life, and they were
attacked on all sides by the perfidious Gascons, whose light arms,
swift arrows, and knowledge of the country, gave them every advantage
over their opponents. In the first panic and confusion, the Franks were
driven down to the bottom of the pass, embarrassed by their arms and
baggage. The Gascons pressed them on every point, and slaughtered them
like a herd of deer, singling them out with their arrows from above,
and rolling down the rocks upon their heads. Never wanting in courage,
they fought until the last moment, and died unconquered. Roland and
his companions, the twelve peers of France, after innumerable deeds
of valor, were slain with the rest; and the Gascons, satiated with
carnage, and rich in plunder, dispersed among the mountains, leaving
Charlemagne to seek fruitlessly for vengeance.

During the lapse of many centuries, tradition has hung about this
famous spot, and the memory of Roland and his companions has been
consecrated in a thousand shapes throughout the country. When we
entered this famous pass, we could but recall the legends connected
with it. The mountains rose high and towering to the skies on
either side. Far up their rocky sides we could see mountain paths
descending, while here and there a shelf would exist that might give
a standing-place to a body of men. Huge crags seemed to bid defiance
even to the fleet steps of the mountain goat, while deep caverns opened
their mouths on every side, giving shelter to the hordes of banditti
which always infest those regions. The stroke of Roland’s sword upon
the rocks was pointed out to us by our guides; while, just beneath, we
noticed patches of the beautiful little wild-flower of the Pyrenees,
which is called the casque of Roland. I know of no fitter place for
the assault which took place here; certainly none which could give the
assailants a better advantage. But, ominous as the scenery appeared,
we crossed this famous pass in safety, and emerged, with gladdened and
lightened hearts, on the plain beyond, where rises the beautiful and
venerable abbey of Roncesvalles, whose moss-clad walls, which have felt
so heavily, and yet sustained so well, the hand of time, are covered
with mementos of its famous hero. On the further side of this plain,
the road, after passing over a small elevation, reaches the foot of
that tremendous mountain, called Mount Altobiscar, which separates
France from Spain. The ascent to this is very steep and laborious,
and almost impassable for carriages. A ravine descends from this into
French Navarre. Our party were leisurely descending into this ravine,
hardly anticipating danger, when suddenly our advance guards were
stopped by the report of a musket. The alarm was in a moment given,
and our arms prepared. On the huge rocks which rose above us a body of
men were seen descending, and in a moment they were upon us, preceding
their arrival by rolling huge stones down from the mountain, which
killed a number of our men. In a moment we had formed ourselves, as far
as the position of the ground would admit, into two squares; and, as
they drew near, we discharged our muskets into the midst. Nearly all
the foremost fell; but their places were soon supplied by others, who
came on with still more force. Their subtle chief was very active in
the affray. Fortunately, we had gained a part of the ground where there
was a wide shelf, which enabled us to meet the attack more in a body,
while the road to it was narrow, and the ground rough. Consequently,
they fell fast before our fire. A few minutes only the combat lasted,
and yet, on our own side, a hundred men had fallen. Fifty were killed
outright; and in several places men and horse had died simultaneously,
and so suddenly, that, falling together on their sides, they appeared
still alive,--the horse’s legs stretched out as in movement, the
rider’s feet in the stirrups, his bridle in hand, the sword raised to
strike, and the expression of the countenance undistorted, but with
such a look of resolution and defiance as gave to it a ghastly and
supernatural appearance. The loss of the assailants was still greater
than ours. Seeing that it would be impossible to attain their object,
which was, doubtless, to possess themselves of our baggage, they
retired in good order; and, as we considered our charge too valuable to
be left in such a spot, we did not attempt to pursue them.

[Sidenote: ARRIVAL AT BRUSSELS.]

No other incident of interest occurred in our route, and we found
ourselves, on the 3d of June, in safety in Brussels. The next day we
reported our arrival to the commanders there; and, on the 5th, our
charge was delivered up, and we were inspected, and then ordered to
join the garrison which was stationed in Brussels. Here I remained,
only performing garrison duty, until that great battle which decided
the fate of Europe, and sent the French emperor to his last and lonely
home on the barren rock of St. Helena.



CHAPTER VII.

  Brief Summary of Events for Four Years preceding the Battle of
  Waterloo.--Author’s Narrative resumed at that Period.--Preparation
  of Troops for the Battle.--Skirmishing preceding its
  Commencement.--Reception of the News at Brussels.--Departure
  of the English for the Field of Battle.--Disposition of the
  Forces.--Attack upon Hougomont.--Progress of the Battle.--Arrival of
  the Prussian Reinforcements.--Charge of the Old Guard.--Flight of
  the French.--The Author wounded, and left upon the Field.--Rescued
  by a Camp-follower.--Carried to the Hospital, and thence taken to
  England.--He quits the Service, and emigrates to America.--Conclusion.


These four years thus spent to me were days of quiet, unmarked by
aught that would interest my readers; but four years more eventful,
more fraught with heavy consequences of good or ill to Europe, have
seldom--perhaps never--been numbered in her eventful history. The
victorious banners of France were waving on every battle-field on the
continent. Wagram and Jena, Austerlitz and Friedland, echoed back the
glory of the conqueror’s name; and kings and emperors, in whose veins
flowed the blood of the Cæsars, had esteemed it an honor to claim
alliance with the plebeian child of Corsica. But the Russian bear and
the English lion had not yet yielded to his claims; and, gathering his
vast and victorious armies, he led them to face a sterner enemy and a
more subtle foe than they had ever yet contested. Half a million of
men, firm and confident in their own resources, had crossed the Niemen
under Bonaparte’s approving eye. A few months later, and the remnant
of that scattered army, in rags, wan and ghastly, staggered, like a
band of spectres, over that same river. No human might had struck them
down; but the ice of winter and the deep snows of the north, which
the fur-clad Russian glories in, had been the signal of death to the
light-hearted child of vine-clad France. He who had left France at the
head of such glorious armies had returned to his capital alone with his
own brave heart and iron courage, to find there that the arms and gold
of the allies had done their work.

[Sidenote: BONAPARTE’S ADDRESS BEFORE WATERLOO.]

From Spain, the French had retreated step by step. Ferdinand, soiled,
even in his youth, with flagrant crimes, had returned amid rejoicings
and banquets to his capital, to sink still deeper in shame and contempt
the Bourbon name, and to reward with dungeons and tears and blood the
brave hearts that had struggled so long and nobly for his kingdom.
Joseph had fled before him on foot, scarcely escaping with his life
from that kingdom, which might, indeed, have taken a glorious place
among the nations, had he had the courage or ability to carry out,
in the spirit that dictated them, the great and far-seeing plans of
his brother. On every side the nations turned their arms against the
falling emperor, until, at length, he who had disposed in his palace of
the thrones of Europe had only left one small island, which must have
seemed to him but a child’s bauble, in view of the past. He _would_
not rest here, and the events of the hundred days had roused again the
world to arms. The prestige of his name had won back the allegiance
of the French, and thousands had, as in days of yore, collected around
his standard. The battle which should decide the fate of Europe drew
on. France stood alone, on the one side, with her veteran troops, and
her memories of glorious victories, and, more than all, her emperor;
and on the other were the united forces of England and the continent.
Napoleon was confident of victory. On the 14th of June, in his own
resistless eloquence, he thus addressed his army, the last he was ever
destined to command:--“Soldiers, this day is the anniversary of Marengo
and Friedland, which twice decided the destiny of Europe. Then, as
after the battle of Austerlitz, as after the battle of Wagram, we were
too generous. We believed in the oaths and protestations of princes,
whom we left on their thrones. Now, however, leagued together, they
aim at the independence and the most sacred rights of France. They
have committed the most unjust aggressions. Let us, then, march and
meet them. Are not we and they still the same men? Soldiers, at Jena,
against these same Prussians, now so arrogant, you were one to three;
and at Montmirail, one to six. Let those among you who have been
captives to the English describe the nature of their prison-ships, and
the horrible sufferings they endured. The Saxons, the Belgians, the
Hanoverians, the soldiers of the Confederation of the Rhine, lament
that they are obliged to use their arms in the cause of princes who are
the enemies of justice and the rights of all nations. They know that
this coalition is insatiable. After having devoured twelve millions
of Poles, twelve millions of Italians, one million of Saxons, and six
millions of Belgians, it now wishes to devour the states of the second
rank in Germany.

“Madmen! a moment of prosperity has bewildered them! The oppression
and humiliation of the French people are beyond their reach; if they
enter France, they will find their tomb there! Soldiers, we have forced
marches to make, battles to fight, and dangers to encounter; but, if we
are firm, victory will be ours. The rights, the honor, the happiness of
the country, will be recovered. To every Frenchman who has a heart, the
moment is now arrived when he should either conquer or die.”

The plan which Napoleon had laid down was, by a rapid advance, to force
his way between the armies of Wellington and Blucher combined,--to
attack one with the mass of his forces, while he detached troops to
keep the other in check. Let us now turn our attention to the allies.

[Sidenote: SKIRMISHES BEFORE THE BATTLE.]

They had combined their whole strength at and near Brussels. The army
of Blucher, at this time, numbered about one hundred thousand men.
These occupied Charleroi, Namur, Givet and Liege. The headquarters
of the Anglo-Belgian army, under Wellington, were at Brussels. This
army numbered seventy-six thousand men; but thirty-five thousand of
these, however, were English, the flower of the Peninsular army having
been sent to America. The remainder were Hanoverians, Dutch and
Belgians. The right of the Prussian army communicated with the left of
the English; their commanders having so arranged their troops, that
wherever the attack of the French should be made, they might support
each other. They could not doubt that Napoleon’s mark was Brussels, but
as yet it had been impossible for them to learn by which of the four
great routes he intended to force his passage. Several prisoners had
been taken, but these either could not or would not communicate the
intelligence our commander was so desirous to obtain. On the morning of
the 15th, however, the movements of the French unfolded their designs.
Their second corps crossed the Sambre, and drove in Zeither’s outposts,
who fell back on Fleurus to concentrate with the Prussian corps. They
were hastily followed by the French army. The emperor’s purpose was
then to crush Blucher, before he could concentrate his own forces, much
less be assisted by the troops under Wellington. Immediately Zeither,
who had the command at Charleroi, sent out despatches to all the
commanders of Blucher’s army, summoning them to his aid. Then gallantly
marshalling the men who were under his command, they held their ground
bravely, though with great loss, until, finding it impossible longer to
withstand, they fell back in good order, on a position between Ligny
and Armand, where Blucher now awaited Napoleon’s attack, at the head
of his whole army. Though the emperor’s plan of beating the Prussian
army in detail had failed, he might still prevent the conjunction of
his forces with Wellington’s. He continued his march, therefore, on the
main road to Brussels from Charleroi. At Frasnes, some Nassau troops
had been stationed. These were, however, obliged to retire before the
French, who followed them as far as Quatre Bras, or four arms,--a farm,
so called because the roads from Charleroi to Brussels, and from Namur
to Nivelles, here cross each other. Here the French halted for the
night.

Lord Wellington, as I have said, held his headquarters at Brussels.
Not a rumor of Napoleon’s onward movement had, as yet, reached him.
That gay city presented many attractions to our gallant officers, and
festivals and parties had followed each other in quick succession. On
that very night the Duchess of Richmond gave a splendid ball, and it
was as gayly attended by the British officers as if the French had been
on the Seine, instead of the Sumbre. Wellington himself was there.
Sir Thomas Picton, too, our own brave commander in the Peninsular
campaign, who had but that day arrived from England, also met his
brother officers in this festal scene. The festivities were at their
height, when an officer in splashed and spattered uniform presented
himself at the door, and asking for the duke, communicated to him
the startling intelligence. For some moments the iron duke remained
in deep reflection, his countenance showing a resolution already
taken. Then, in a low and steady voice, he gave a few directions to a
staff-officer, and again mingled in the festivities of the hour. But,
before the ball was ended, the strains of courtly music were drowned
in the louder notes of preparation. The drum had beat to arms, and the
bugle summoned the assembly, while the Highland bagpipe added its wild
and martial call to the field. All were soon prepared and under arms,
and the fifth division filed from the park with the Brunswick corps,
and directed their course to the forest of Soignes.

[Illustration: COMBAT OF THE PRUSSIAN ARMY UNDER BLUCHER WITH THE
FRENCH.]

[Sidenote: BRUSSELS ON THE EVE OF THE BATTLE.]

Three o’clock pealed from the steeple-bells. All was now quiet; the
brigades, with their artillery and equipage, were gone, the crash of
music was heard no longer, the bustle of preparation had ceased, and an
ominous and heart-sinking silence succeeded the noise and hurry ever
attendant on a departure for the field of battle.

These incidents have been so beautifully described by Byron, that we
cannot resist the temptation to quote the passage:

  “There was a sound of revelry by night,
  And Belgium’s capital had gathered then,
  Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
  The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men.
  A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
  Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
  Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
  And all went merry as a marriage bell.
  But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell.

  “Did you not hear it? No! ’twas but the wind,
  Or the car rattling o’er the stony street;
  On with the dance! let joy be unconfined!
  No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet,
  To chase the glowing hours with flying feet!
  But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,--
  As if the clouds its echo would repeat,--
  And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before.
  Arm! arm! it is, it is the cannon’s opening roar!

  “Ah! then, and there was hurrying to and fro,
  And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
  And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago,
  Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness.
  And there were sudden partings, such as press
  The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs,
  Which ne’er might be repeated;--who could guess
  If evermore should meet those mutual eyes,
  Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!”

[Sidenote: THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE.]

By two o’clock the Duke of Wellington had left Brussels, and before
light he reached Bry, at which place Blucher was stopping, and there
the plan of the day was agreed upon. Napoleon resolved, with his own
troops, to attack the Prussian army, because that had concentrated
all its strength, while forty-five thousand men, under Ney, were to
give battle to the English. At early dawn, on the 16th, hostilities
were renewed. The morning, however, was occupied in slight skirmishes,
in which the soldiers in both armies showed their bravery. The main
contest between the English and the French commenced about three in
the afternoon. The French were drawn up among growing corn, so high as
nearly to conceal them from sight. The seventy-ninth and forty-second
regiments were thus taken by surprise, and nearly destroyed. Out of
eight hundred men, but ninety-six privates and four officers escaped.
At night the English general had possession of Quatre Bras. The number
of killed and wounded on the side of the allies was five thousand.
Blucher fought as stern a battle, but with less success. He had eighty
thousand men, while Napoleon was opposed to him with ninety thousand.
The French and Prussians felt for each other a mortal hatred, and
little quarter was either asked or given. When the night of the 16th
closed around them, thirty-five thousand men were left on the field of
battle,--twenty thousand of the Prussians, and fifteen thousand French.
Blucher had been forced to retire in the direction of Wavre, and so
skilfully were his movements made that it was noon on the 17th before
Napoleon discovered his retreat. As soon as Wellington learned that
Blucher had retreated, he gave orders to fall back from Quatre Bras to
the field of Waterloo. A heavy rain had fallen all day, and made the
roads almost impassable with mud. The English soldiers were wearied
with their day’s labor, and discouraged by the command to retreat; but
their spirits revived when, on reaching their bivouac for the night,
they were informed that the battle should be given on the next day. We
found little comfort, however, in our night’s position; for, as the
darkness closed in, the rain fell in torrents, and was accompanied by
heavy thunder.

The soldiers themselves, although no temptation would have been strong
enough to have induced them to turn away from the morrow’s battle,
still could not but feel the solemnity of the hour. Thousands of
those who had bivouacked with them the preceding night, in health
and spirits, were now cold and lifeless on the field of battle. The
morrow’s action could not be less severe, and in such an hour it was
not in human nature to be entirely unmindful of home and friends, whom
it was more than probable we should never see again. For my own part,
my thoughts reverted to my dear parents, and I could not but remember
that, had I not disregarded their wishes, I should now have been in
safety with them. My disobedience appeared to me in a very different
light from what it had formerly done; but I resolved to conceal my
feelings from every one. I was just endeavoring to compose myself
to sleep, when my comrade spoke to me, saying that it was deeply
impressed on his mind that he should not survive the morrow; and that
he wished to make an arrangement with me, that if he should die and I
should survive, I should inform his friends of the circumstances of
his death, and that he would do the same for me, in case he should be
the survivor. We then exchanged the last letters we had received from
home, so that each should have the address of the other’s parents. I
endeavored to conceal my own feelings, and cheer his, by reminding him
that it was far better to die on the field of glory than from fear; but
he turned away from me, and, with a burst of tears, that spoke the deep
feelings of his heart, he said, “_My mother!_” The familiar sound of
this precious name, and the sight of his sorrow, completely overcame
my attempts at concealment, and we wept together. Perhaps I may as well
mention here, that we had not been in the action twenty-five minutes
when he was shot down by my side. After my return to England, I visited
his parents, and informed them of the circumstances of his death; and I
can assure my readers that it was a painful task. We were not alone in
our sad feelings. The fierce contest of the elements, the discomforts
of our position, and the deep gloom which covered every object, all
served to deepen in every heart those feelings which, I venture to say,
even the bravest will experience in the stillness and silence of a
night preceding a battle.

With the early dawn of morning all the troops were in motion.
Wellington was to commence the action, while Blucher, with all his
army, with the exception of a single corps left to contend with Marshal
Grouchy, marched to support him.

[Sidenote: ORDER OF BATTLE.]

Our troops were drawn up before the village of Mont St. Jean, about
a mile and a half from the small town of Waterloo, on a rising
ground, which descended, by a gentle declivity, to a plain a mile in
breadth, beyond which rose the opposite heights of La Belle Alliance.
The first line was composed of those troops on whose discipline and
spirit the duke could most rely. These were the British, three corps
of Hanoverians and Belgians, and the men of Brunswick and Nassau. The
second line consisted of those whose courage and bravery were more
doubtful, and those regiments that had suffered most severely the
preceding day. Behind both of these lay the horse. Four roads crossed
each other in this position, affording great facilities for the
movements of the armies. It included, also, the chateau and houses of
Hougomont, and the farm-house and enclosures of La Haye Sainte, which
were very strongly occupied, and formed important outworks of defence.
The whole front of the British army extended, in all, about a mile.

The army of the French, meanwhile, had been marching all night, and
many of them did not reach the heights of La Belle Alliance until
late on the morning of the 18th. Napoleon had feared that the English
would continue their retreat to Brussels. It was, therefore, with much
pleasure that he saw them drawn up on the opposite heights. “At last,
then,” said he, “at last I have these English in my grasp.” Eighty
thousand French soldiers were seen moving, in close massive columns,
on the crest of the height, as they took up their several positions
for the day. When all was arranged, Bonaparte rode along the lines,
reviewing his troops; and when he had finished, and turned to ride
away, a loud shout of “Vive l’Empereur” rolled after him, which shook
the field on which they stood. He then ascended an observatory, a
little in the rear, where he could overlook both lines, and from this
point directed the battle. It was an eventful hour in the history of
this great man; and he felt, as did also his troops, how much depended
on the issue of the day. Victory alone would give the courage necessary
to send out reinforcements from a country where scarcely any were left
but old men and youth. Defeat would be decisive of the emperor’s fate.
These thoughts nerved the hearts of the French, and they fought with
unexampled impetuosity.

[Sidenote: ATTACK AT HOUGOMONT.]

About ten o’clock the action was commenced, by an attack upon the
gardens and wood of Hougomont. They were particularly anxious to gain
this post, as it commanded a large part of the British position. It
was furiously and incessantly assailed by the French, and as gallantly
defended by the English, under General Byng. The French pushed up to
the very walls of the chateau, and thrust their bayonets through the
door; but the Coldstream Guards held the court-yard with invincible
obstinacy, and the enemy were at length compelled to retire, leaving
fourteen hundred men in a little orchard, beside the walls, where it
does not seem so many could be laid. Every tree in the wood was pierced
with balls, their branches broken and destroyed, and the chateau itself
set on fire by the shells. Travellers inform us that the strokes which
proved so fatal to human life have not affected the trees; for, though
the holes still remain, their verdure is as beautiful as ever. Beneath
those trees, and in the forsaken garden, flowers continue to bloom.
The rose-trees and the vines, crushed and torn in the struggle, have
flowered in new beauty, and offer a strong contrast to the piles of
bones, broken swords, and shattered helmets, that lay scattered among
them.

When Napoleon saw that he had failed in taking Hougomont, he
strengthened his attack upon the main lines. Most of the British had
been drawn up in squares, not quite solid, but several files deep,
and arranged like the squares on a chess-board; so that, if any of
the enemy’s cavalry should push between the divisions, they could be
attacked in the rear, as well as in front. When, therefore, the French
artillery opened upon them, and whole ranks were mowed down, the
chasms were instantly filled, and not a foot of ground lost. But such
was the impetuosity of the French onset, that the light troops, drawn
up in front of these squares, were driven in, and the cavalry, which
should have supported them, fled on every side. The Brunswick infantry
now opened their fire upon the French cavalry, with a coolness and
intrepidity that made dreadful gaps in their squadrons, and strewed the
ground with men and horses that were advancing to the charge. But the
courage of the French did not desert them. Their artillery played, at
the distance of one hundred and fifty yards, on the British squares,
with dreadful execution. Their object was to push back the right wing
of the British, and establish themselves on the Nivelles road. But the
courage of their opponents rendered these efforts unavailing; and the
struggle here at length subsided, to rage with greater fury in other
parts of the field. A strong body of French infantry advanced, without
firing a shot, to the position occupied by Sir Thomas Picton and Kempt.
They had gained the heights, when Sir Thomas, forming his division into
a solid square, advanced to the charge with such effect, that, after
firing one volley, the French retreated. That volley, however, proved
fatal to our brave commander. A musket ball struck him in the temple,
and he expired without a struggle. After his fall, it was ascertained
that he had been wounded on the 16th, but had carefully concealed
it from every one but his servant. His wound, for want of surgical
assistance, had assumed a very serious aspect.

[Sidenote: PROGRESS OF THE BATTLE.]

Again the French pressed on, and, attacking the Highland division,
drove them back in great disorder. But the brigade of heavy cavalry
now came to their assistance, and again the assailants fell back. A
column, two thousand strong, bore down upon the 92d regiment, which
immediately formed itself into a line, and, charging on the foe, broke
their centre. The French were now reinforced by their cavalry, and
the British by the brigade of heavy dragoons. A contest then ensued
which has hardly a parallel in modern warfare. The determined valor of
the British, however, conquered, and the French retired behind their
infantry. It was at this time that Sir William Ponsonby was killed.
He led his brigade against the Polish lancers, and took two hundred
prisoners; but, riding on in advance of his troops, he entered a
newly-ploughed field, when his horse stuck in the mire, and he found
it impossible to proceed. At this instant, a body of lancers rode up.
Sir William saw that his fate was inevitable. He took out his watch and
a picture, and desired some one near to send them to his wife. A moment
after, he fell, pierced with seven lance wounds.

At the farm of La Haye Sainte, the French succeeded in cutting off
the communication of the German troops stationed there, and put them
all to the bayonet. Here they maintained their position, until the
final attack in the evening. The combat now raged with unabated fury.
Every inch of ground was disputed on both sides, and neither gave way
until every means of resistance was exhausted. The field of battle
was heaped with the dead; and yet the attack grew more impetuous, and
the resistance more obstinate. The continued reverberations of more
than six hundred pieces of artillery, the fire of the light troops,
the frequent explosions of caissons blown up by shells, the hissing of
balls, the clash of arms, the roar of the charges, and the shouts of
the soldiery, produced a commingling of sounds whose effect it would
be impossible to describe. Still, the contest raged on. After the
advantage gained at La Haye Sainte, Napoleon threw the masses of both
infantry and cavalry upon the British centre, which was now exposed.
The first battalions gave way under their impetuous attack, and the
French cavalry rushed on to carry the guns on the plains. An English
ambuscade ran to receive them. The slaughter was horrible. Neither
party yielded a step. Three times the French were on the point of
forcing their position, and three times they were driven back. They cut
to pieces the battalions of the English, who were slow or unskilful
in their movements, but could make no impression on the squares. In
vain were their repeated attacks. They were repulsed, with the most
sanguinary fury.

[Illustration: TERRIBLE CONTEST BETWEEN THE ENGLISH AND FRENCH ARMIES.]

Napoleon now advanced the whole centre of his infantry, to assist
the cavalry. They pressed on with an enthusiasm that overpowered all
resistance, and, for the moment, carried all before them. It was at
this critical period that our noble commander showed himself worthy
of a nation’s honor. Everywhere in the thickest of the fight, he was
seen cheering by his presence those who were almost ready to fail. He
seemed to bear a charmed life. Balls flew thick and fast around him,
and his staff-officers fell on every side; yet he moved on unharmed.
His unwearied exertions were at length successful in arresting the
progress of the French, and in wresting from them the advantages they
had gained. Again the attack on the chateau of Hougomont was renewed.
The cuirassiers poured the strength of their charge upon the 30th
regiment, who received them in a square, and immediately deployed
into a line, that the effect of their fire might be more fatal, while
the instant re-formation of the square protected them, in a degree,
from the next charge of the enemy. Leaving, at length, the 30th
regiment, they rushed on to the 69th, and succeeded in reaching them
before their square was formed, which enabled them to commit dreadful
slaughter. Before the British cavalry could rush to their relief, only
a few brave soldiers remained to effect their escape. Then, retiring to
their former position, the fire from three hundred pieces of artillery
was poured upon the whole line of the allies. The effect of this fire
was very destructive. One general officer reported to Wellington that
his brigade was reduced to one-third of its original numbers, and
that a temporary cessation was necessary to the very existence of his
troops. “What you propose,” was the answer of the duke, “is impossible.
You, I, and every Englishman on the field, must die in the spot we now
occupy.” “It is enough,” replied the general; “I, and every man under
my command, are determined to share your fate.”

Numerous were the instances on each side, among both officers and men,
of self-sacrifice to save their fellow-soldiers. But, notwithstanding
the gallant defence of the British, their situation now became,
critical in the extreme. The first line of their troops had suffered
severely, and those brought up to assist them could not always be
relied on. One Belgian regiment, which the duke himself was leading to
the contest, fled from the first fire, and left the duke to seek for
more devoted followers. Another, being ordered to support a charge, was
so long in doing it, that the duke sent word to their commander, either
to advance immediately, or to draw off his men altogether. He thanked
his Grace for the permission, and started for Brussels, alarming the
town with a report that the French were at his heels.

[Sidenote: ARRIVAL OF THE PRUSSIAN FORCE.]

The Duke of Wellington felt and expressed the greatest anxiety. He
exerted himself to the utmost to cheer his men; but, as he saw how
fatal were the French charges, he said to one of the officers near
him, “O that night, or Blucher, would come!” Napoleon saw, at last, as
he imagined, that the contest was nearly won. Already were couriers
sent off to Paris to announce to its anxious multitudes that victory
had crowned his efforts. Already had the shouts of victory! victory!
passed from rank to rank among the French, as they saw the lines of
the English tremble and fall back. But now a sound was heard which
stilled, for a moment, even the fierce tumult of the battle. It was
the voice of the trumpet, announcing the arrival of fresh troops; and
the most intense anxiety pervaded every heart, to learn to what army
they belonged. Both parties felt that the answer must decide the fate
of the day. Marshal Grouchy had been stationed, with thirty thousand
men, to control the movements of the Prussian army; and, in case of a
severe engagement, he was to advance with his men to assist Napoleon.
At daybreak, an aid-de-camp was sent, commanding him to be in readiness
at a moment’s warning. Soon after, another followed, requesting him
to march immediately to the scene of action. At ten o’clock, he had
not moved from his encampment. Still, Napoleon’s confidence in him
was unshaken. “He has committed a horrible fault,” said he; “but he
will repair it.” Every hour he had expected his arrival; and now,
when the first files of the new army emerged from the wood, he felt
almost certain that his hopes were realized. But the Prussian standard
was unfurled, and the English, with loud cheers and renewed courage,
returned to the charge. Even then, Napoleon persisted believing that
the Prussian army was only retreating before the marshal, and that he
would soon appear on the field. He was mistaken.

[Sidenote: CHARGE OF THE OLD GUARD.]

Grouchy, if report may be believed, corrupted by British gold, remained
in inglorious safety in his camp. He himself always maintained that
he believed the small detachment of the Prussian army which remained
near him was the whole of their force; and that, though the very ground
under him was shaken by the reverberation of the continued discharges
of artillery, he was acting up to his orders in remaining to check
the Prussians. Be this as it may, his conduct decided the fate of the
day.[B] “The destiny of Europe hung on the feeble intellect of a single
man; and his sluggish arm, in its tardy movements, swept crowns and
thrones before it, overturned one of the mightiest spirits the world
ever nurtured, and set back the day of Europe’s final emancipation
half a century. In a moment, Napoleon saw that he could not sustain
the attack of so many fresh troops, if once allowed to form a
junction with the allied forces; and so he determined to stake his
fate on one bold cast, and endeavor to pierce the allied centre, with
a grand charge of the Old Guard, and thus, throwing himself between
the two armies, fight them separately. For this purpose, the Imperial
Guard was called up, which had remained inactive during the whole
day, and divided into two immense columns, which were to meet at the
British centre. That under Reille no sooner entered the fire than it
disappeared like mist. The other was placed under Ney,--the bravest
of the brave,--and the order to advance given. Napoleon accompanied
them part way down the slope, and, halting for a moment in a hollow,
addressed them in his furious, impetuous manner. He told them that
the battle rested with them, and he relied on their valor. ‘Vive
l’Empereur!’ answered him, with a shout that was heard all over the
field of battle.

“The whole continental struggle exhibited no sublimer spectacle than
this last effort of Napoleon to save his sinking empire. Europe had
been put upon the plains of Waterloo to be battled for. The greatest
military energy and skill the world possessed had been tasked to the
utmost during the day. Thrones were tottering on the ensanguined
field, and the shadows of fugitive kings flitted through the smoke of
battle. Bonaparte’s star trembled in the zenith,--now blazing out in
its ancient splendor,--now suddenly paling before his anxious eye. At
length, when the Prussians appeared on the field, he resolved to stake
Europe on one bold throw. He saw his empire rest on a single charge.
The intense anxiety with which he watched the advance of that column,
and the terrible suspense he suffered when the smoke of battle wrapped
it from his sight, and the utter despair of his great heart when the
curtain lifted over a fugitive army, and the despairing shriek rung on
every side, ‘La garde recule,--la garde recule,’ make us for a single
moment forget all the carnage, in sympathy with his distress.

“Nothing could be more imposing than the movement of that grand column
to the assault. That guard had never yet recoiled before a human foe,
and the allied forces beheld with awe its firm and terrible advance to
the final charge. For a moment the batteries stopped playing, and the
firing ceased along the British lines, as, without the beating of a
drum or the blast of a bugle to cheer their steady courage, they moved
in dead silence over the plain. The next moment the artillery opened,
and the head of that gallant column seemed to sink into the earth. Rank
after rank went down, yet they neither stopped nor faltered. Dissolving
squadrons and whole battalions disappearing, one after another, in the
destructive fire, affected not their steady courage. The ranks closed
up as before, and each treading over his fallen comrade, pressed firmly
on. The horse which the gallant Ney rode fell under him; and he had
scarcely mounted another, before it also sunk to the earth. Again and
again did that unflinching man feel his steed sink down, until five had
been shot under him. Then, with his uniform riddled with bullets, and
his face singed and blackened with powder, he marched on foot, with
drawn sabre in hand, at the head of his men. In vain did the artillery
hurl its storm of fire and lead into that living mass. Up to the very
muzzles they pressed, and, driving the artillery-men from their own
pieces, pushed on through the English lines. But, at that moment, a
file of soldiers, who had lain flat upon the ground behind a low ridge
of earth, suddenly arose and poured a volley in their very faces.
Another and another followed, till one broad sheet of flame rolled
on their bosoms, and in such a fierce and unexpected flow that human
courage could not withstand it. They reeled, shook, staggered back,
then turned and fled. Ney was borne back in the refluent tide, and
hurried over the field. But for the crowd of fugitives that forced him
on, he would have stood alone, and fallen on his footsteps. As it was,
disdaining to give way, though the whole army was flying, that noble
marshal formed his men into two immense squares, and endeavored to stem
the terrific current; and would have done so, had it not been for the
thirty thousand fresh Prussians that pressed upon his exhausted ranks.
For a long time, those squares, under the unflinching Ney, stood, and
let the artillery plough through them. But the fate of Napoleon was
writ, and though Ney doubtless did what no other man in the army could
have done, the decree could not be reversed. The star that blazed so
brightly over the world went down with honor and in blood, and the
‘bravest of the brave’ had fought his last battle. It was worthy of his
great name; and the charge of the Old Guard at Waterloo, with him at
their head, will be pointed to by remotest generations with a shudder.”

[Illustration: FINAL CHARGE OF THE OLD GUARD.]

[Sidenote: WOUNDS OF THE AUTHOR.]

[Sidenote: SUFFERING UPON THE FIELD.]

Soon after Sir Robert Picton had received his death wound, while
our shattered regiment was charging on the French column, a bullet
pierced my left arm, the first wound I ever received in all my
engagements,--the mark of which is now plainly visible,--which obliged
me to fall back. I bled very freely; and this weakened me so much,
that, finding it impossible to continue my retreat over the pile of
dead and wounded with which the field was covered, I fell among them.
Here I lay for a few moments, endeavoring to recover my exhausted
strength. But here my situation was as dangerous as that of those
advancing to the charge. Balls were flying in every direction around
me, sometimes striking in the earth, soaked with the recent rains, and
throwing it in every direction; but oftener falling on the wounded, who
might yet have had a chance for life, and crushing them in a yet more
terrible death. Many a poor fellow, who had fallen from wounds, and the
weakness induced by exertion, with the loss of blood, was trampled to
death by the advancing cavalry. It was this, combined with an earnest
desire to see the progress of the battle, that induced me to endeavor
to change my location. I rose, and with great difficulty proceeded but
a few steps, when a second ball entered my thigh, which again brought
me to the ground. Scarcely had I fallen the second time, when a company
of Scotch Greys made a charge upon the French troops, not ten rods from
where I lay. I then gave up all hope of ever leaving that battle-field,
and expected never to rise again. Already, in imagination, I felt “the
iron heel of the horse” trampling out my little remnant of life. The
contest raged fearfully around us. Shots were exchanged thick and fast,
and every moment but heightened the horrors of the scene. The blood
flowed rapidly from my wounds, and my doom seemed inevitable. An old
tattered handkerchief was all that I could procure to stop the rapidly
exhausting hemorrhage. With my remaining hand and teeth I succeeded in
tearing this into strips, and stuffed it into my wounds with my fingers
as best I could. This arrested the crimson tide in some degree. I
knew not how severe my wounds might be; but, even if a chance of life
remained from them, I knew full well that I was exposed every moment to
share the fate of those who lay around me. Friends and enemies fell on
every side, and mingled their groans and blood in one common stream.
Our lines were driven back, and our brave men compelled to yield the
contest. Rivers of blood were poured out, and regiments of brave men
were cut down in rapid succession. Nothing could exceed the bravery
of the combatants on both sides. But the French light troops had this
advantage of the English,--they could load and fire more rapidly than
their enemies. The duke was compelled to see his plans frustrated,
and his lines cut to pieces and driven back by the emperor’s troops.
Victory seemed already decided against us. Our men were fleeing--the
enemy advancing with shouts of victory. The fate of the day seemed
settled, and to us soldiers it was so. It was not possible to rally
the men to another charge. But, at the moment when all seemed lost, a
bugle, with drum and fife, was heard advancing with rapid step. All
supposed it to be Grouchy’s regiment of fresh troops, ready to follow
up the victory, and completely destroy the remnant of the duke’s
forces. Consternation now filled every mind, and confusion and disorder
reigned. But the Prussian colors were seen hoisted, and it was then
announced that Blucher, with thirty thousand men, was at hand. A halt,
or rally, and renewed hopes animated every breast. This was the lucky
moment, and the fate of the day was at once changed. Report charges
Grouchy with being corrupted and bought by English gold,--that he sold
himself to the allied forces, and thus gave them the victory,--for,
had he come at that time, we should have been completely destroyed.
Grouchy never entered the fight, or rendered Napoleon any assistance
whatever. He was made immensely rich, and spent his life in the English
possessions. He has ever been regarded as the man who sold his country
and himself to the allies. His life was neither peaceful or happy. He
died in 1848. That Wellington never gained the victory at Waterloo
by fair and honorable means, is not and cannot be asserted. But gold
accomplished what neither the iron duke or his numerous allies could
accomplish by military prowess and skill. Napoleon would have gained
the victory of Waterloo, had not treachery and bribery done their
work. I must own the truth, although it be the lasting disgrace of my
nation. I fought hard against Napoleon, and for my king. My hands were
both blistered and burned black by holding my gun, which became so
hot, the flesh was nearly burnt off the palms of both my hands. While
I lay upon the ground covered with blood, unable to move, some one,
more able than the rest, shouted, “The French are retreating. Blucher,
with thirty thousand fresh troops has arrived, and is pursuing.” This
glad sound enabled me to raise my head, and soon, with great joy, I
saw that the French were truly falling back, and that our troops were
following. Again I felt that I had another chance for life; and this
thought gave me strength to reach my knapsack, from which I took a silk
handkerchief, and with my teeth and right hand succeeded in tearing it,
as I did the one before, and binding up tightly my wounds. This stopped
the flow of blood while I remained perfectly still; but the least
movement caused it to gush forth afresh. A little distance from me was
a small hill, and under its shelter I should be in comparative safety.
O, how I longed to reach it! Again and again I attempted to rise; but
every attempt was useless, and I was about resigning myself to my fate,
when I observed, only a short distance from me, a woman with a child
in her arms. This woman belonged to the company of camp-followers, who
were even now engaged in stripping the dead and wounded, with such
eager haste, that they often advanced too near the contending columns,
and paid with their lives their thirst for gold. In my travels it has
often been my lot to witness the birds of prey hovering over the still
living victim, only waiting till its power of resistance is lost,
to bury their beaks in the writhing and quivering flesh, to satisfy
their thirst for blood. I could think of nothing else, as I saw those
wretches, reckless of their own lives, in their anxiety to be first on
the ground, and lost to all feelings of humanity for others, stripping
from the yet warm dead everything of value upon their persons; not
hesitating to punish with death even the least resistance on the part
of the wounded, and making sport of their groans and sufferings. This
woman came quite near to me. She stooped to take a gold watch from the
pocket of an officer. As she raised herself, a shell struck the child,
as it lay sleeping in her arms, and severed its little body completely
in two. The shock struck the mother to the ground; but, soon recovering
herself, she sat up, gazed a moment upon the disfigured remains of her
child, and, apparently unmoved, continued her fiendish work. Thus does
war destroy all the finer feelings of the heart, and cherish those
passions which quench even the pure flame of a mother’s love for her
helpless and dependent child. To this woman I appealed for help; and,
with her assistance, succeeded in reaching the little hill to which I
have alluded, and remained there in safety until the fate of the day
was fully decided.

[Sidenote: FLIGHT OF THE FRENCH ARMY.]

Between eight and nine o’clock that night the last of the French troops
had withdrawn from the field, which had been fatal to so many thousands
of human beings. The clouds and rain, which had rendered the preceding
night so uncomfortable, had disappeared, and the full moon shone in
unclouded splendor. The English army, or, at least, that remnant of
them left alive, wearied out by the exhausting scenes of the day, had
returned to their bivouac of the night preceding, while the Prussians,
under Blucher, continued the pursuit of the flying and panic-stricken
French.

History informs us that the horrors of that night exceeded even the
tremendous scenes of the day. The French were in complete confusion.
Carriages and horsemen marched over the fainting and exhausted
infantry. The officers tried in vain to rally their men, that they
might retreat in order. The first flash of a Prussian gun would scatter
them, in the wildest confusion. Thousands fell in the confusion of
the retreat, and thousands more were crushed to death, or drowned
in crossing the rivers. Napoleon himself but just escaped with his
liberty. His carriage was stopped, his postilion and coachman killed,
and the door of his coach torn open just in season to witness his
escape from the other side. While Blucher led on the Prussians in this
murderous pursuit, the Duke of Wellington again led his army upon the
field of battle. The wild tumult and confusion which had pervaded it
through the day was now stilled, but the groans of the wounded and the
shrieks of the dying were heard on every side. The English re-trod the
battle-field, and searched out their wounded comrades, and hastily
dressed their wounds. They then constructed litters, and on these
carriages were the sick and wounded borne to the hospitals of Brussels
and Antwerp.

I have somewhere read a description, written by an eye-witness of the
scenes of the night and following day, which I will beg leave of my
readers to transcribe here. He says: “The mangled and lifeless bodies
were, even then, stripped of every covering--everything of the smallest
value was already carried off. The road between Waterloo and Brussels,
which passes for nine miles through the forest of Soigny, was choked up
with scattered baggage, broken wagons and dead horses. The heavy rains
and the great passage upon it rendered it almost impassable, so that it
was with extreme difficulty that the carriages containing the wounded
could be brought along. The way was lined with unfortunate men, who
had crept from the field; and many were unable to go further, and laid
down and died. Holes dug by the wayside served as their graves, and
the road for weeks afterwards was strewed with the tattered remains of
their clothes and accoutrements. In every village and hamlet,--in every
part of the country for thirty miles round,--the wounded were found
wandering, the Belgian and Dutch stragglers exerting themselves to
the utmost to reach their own homes. So great was the number of those
needing care, that, notwithstanding the most active exertions, the last
were not removed to Brussels until the Thursday following.

[Sidenote: THE SCENE AFTER THE BATTLE.]

“The desolation which reigned on the scene of action cannot be
described. The fields of corn were trampled down, and so completely
beaten into the mire that they had the appearance of stubble. The
ground was completely ploughed up, in many places, with the charge of
the cavalry; and the horses’ hoofs, deep stamped into the earth, left
the traces where many a dreadful struggle had been. The whole field was
strewed with the melancholy vestiges of devastation: soldiers’ caps,
pierced with many a ball,--eagles that had ornamented them,--badges of
the legion of honor,--cuirasses’ fragments,--broken arms, belts, and
scabbards, shreds of tattered cloth, shoes, cartridge-boxes, gloves,
Highland bonnets, feathers steeped in mud and gore,--French novels and
German testaments,--scattered music belonging to the bands,--packs of
cards, and innumerable papers of every description, thrown out of the
pockets of the dead, by those who had pillaged them,--love-letters, and
letters from mothers to sons, and from children to parents;--all, all
these, and a thousandfold more, that cannot be named, were scattered
about in every direction.”

The total loss of the allies, during the four days, was sixty-one
thousand and five hundred, and of the French forty-one thousand.

For my own part, I was fortunate enough to reach Brussels on the
following day; but it was not till the 20th that my wounds could be
attended to and dressed. So great was the number requiring surgical
attendance, that, although the utmost diligence was used by every
surgeon attached to the army, yet many died who might perhaps have
been saved, could immediate attention have been given to their wounds.
On this morning, the surgeon came to me, and, having examined my
arm, declared that it must be amputated. To this I stoutly refused
my consent. He still insisted upon it, saying that it would surely
mortify, and cause my death; but I said to him that, if I must die,
it should be with my arm attached. My readers may perhaps wonder at
my obstinacy; but their astonishment may possibly diminish, when they
learn that for _every joint_ amputated the operating surgeon obtained
an enormous price from the government; and I was confident, in my own
mind, that, in my wound, the fee lay at the foundation of his judgment.
He persisted, but I was firm; and thus kept my arm, which has since,
to my great joy, done me much good service. Others of my comrades in
arms were not so fortunate. All day long the business of amputation
went on, and at night three carts, laden with legs and arms, were
carried away, leaving many hundreds of poor fellows on the invalid list
for the remainder of their lives.

[Sidenote: RECOVERY FROM WOUNDS.]

I remained in the hospital at Brussels until September, when orders
came that all the invalid soldiers able to be removed should be
transported to England. There were four hundred and ninety shipped with
myself on board the Tiger, and on the 17th day of September we arrived
in Chatham. When our ship came into the harbor, we were welcomed with
military honors, as soldiers deserving well of their country, and a
national salute of sixty-two guns from Fort Pitt heralded our safe
arrival in port. I was immediately carried to the hospital, for I was
not yet recovered from my wounds, although able to be about part of the
time.

Here I remained until the 3d of December, when I was pronounced cured
by the surgeons of the hospital, or so far recovered from my wounds
as not to require hospital treatment. My wounds at this time were so
nearly healed that I could dress them myself, and I began to feel
that I was a man again. I was now ordered to return again to the
barracks, and wait until the board should meet to decide upon the
disabled soldiers. I was ordered to Chelsea, into the garrison, under
the command of Colonel McCabe, who treated me with great kindness and
attention. Here I remained until the 17th of the following May, when
orders were received for the invalid soldiers to go before the board
for inspection. They did not meet, however, until the 5th day of June,
when his Grace the Duke of York, commander-in-chief of the armies of
England, convened the board.

Our whole regiment was called, and every man examined; and, reader, how
many do you suppose there remained? We were one thousand strong, when
we commenced our Peninsular campaign. Only seven men, with our colonel,
who had lost one arm, were now alive! Nine hundred and ninety-two had
fallen upon the field of mortal strife, and only seven men, beside
myself, could be found, in less than one year after the bloody battle
of Waterloo! Such, reader, are some of the horrors of war. Nine hundred
and ninety-two men, in the prime of life and spirits, out of one
thousand, sacrificed to gratify the ambition of kings and nobles!

We passed the board; and what do you think, reader, was the
compensation we received for the service we had rendered our country
during those years of carnage and blood? One shilling sterling per day!
Less than one dollar and fifty cents per week was to be my pay for
life, if I remained in Great Britain. Yet even this I was thankful to
receive.

I returned, and remained in the garrison at Chelsea, with Colonel
McCabe, until March, 1818, when I left to visit Ireland. I was then
regularly mustered out of the British army, and returned again to my
home, to visit the loved scenes of childhood days, and my ever dear
parents, after an absence of eight years.

[Sidenote: CONCLUSION.]

For twelve years--that is, until 1830--I remained near my home, when,
in consequence of certain things in which I was engaged, I was advised
to leave the country with all possible haste. I accordingly petitioned
government to commute my pension,--that is, give it up under certain
conditions,--and settle in the American provinces. The officers whose
duty it was to attend to such business answered that I could receive
four years’ pay in advance, and two hundred and eighty acres of land in
Upper Canada, upon the relinquishment of my pension. These terms were
at once accepted by me, and drawing two years’ pay in Dublin, I sailed
for Quebec. Here I received the remainder of my pay. I immediately
proceeded to Montreal, where I took out the deed of my lands, which
I now hold. Not feeling perfectly safe in the British provinces, I
immediately started for the United States; on entering which, I felt
that I was again a free man, and am determined to remain such as long
as I live. I came into the immediate vicinity of Worcester, where I
have ever since remained; and, by persevering labor, have supported
thus far a large family of children. I expect to remain near or in
this city, where I shall be happy to see any of my readers, and relate
to them any of the incidents of my military life which it was not
possible for me to include in the preceding narrative.

In thus closing this brief history of my adventures, I can but look
back with regret upon the scenes of strife and bloodshed in which I
have been a participator; and if my description of the horrors of these
scenes, faint and imperfect though it be, should add but one particle
to that broad tide of influence that must be exerted ere the nations
of this world shall learn to make war no more, I shall indeed have
reason to rejoice, and to pray, with my readers, that that blessed
time may soon come, when all this bloody array shall be changed into
the peaceful implements of husbandry, and universal love and good-will
shall everywhere prevail.



ERRATA.


The following paragraph should have been inserted on page 28, after the
sentence ending on the 7th line:

Orders came to Dublin for militia volunteers. Knowing that I was in
as great danger, as a deserter, whilst in the militia as at home, and
being proud of the opportunity of volunteering, we were called by a
general order to Phoenix Park, where I volunteered from the Lowth
militia into the 28th regiment of foot, for foreign service, and
received eighteen guineas, as volunteer’s pay,--being the fourth time I
received the same sum.



FOOTNOTES:

[A] Headley.

[B] Headley.



TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  The sidenotes in this eBook appear in the original as page headers on
  odd numbered pages and have been moved to the beginning of the
  paragraphs to which they refer.

  The paragraph mentioned in the Errata should go between youth. and
  Preparations on page 28.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.





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