British Regiments at the Front, The Story of Their Battle Honours

  THE SCOTS GREYS

("Second to None")

The 2nd Dragoons (Royal Scots Greys), whose motto is "Second to None," are pictured to British eyes and imaginations in that wonderful painting, "Scotland for Ever." The Charge of the Light Brigade, great and glorious as it was, is, and ever will be, is perpetually linked with the Charge of the Heavy Brigade, under Scarlett, when, faced with a vastly superior force of the enemy, it offered such heroic assistance, that, had it not been for this, the glory of the immortal six hundred might not have been sung in the same triumphant voice. It was a gallant feat on the part of the "Heavies"—a feat which, though somewhat overshadowed by the dazzling "Charge of the Six Hundred," was nevertheless greatly influential in turning the tide of battle.

(Inseparately connected with the Scots Greys at the front to-day, is the Prince of Wales' Royal Lancers—the 12th. At Salamanca the "supple 12th" joined in the final charge which routed the French cavalry. At Vittoria the Greys saw Joseph deprived of his crown, and were fortunately present at the conquest of San Sebastian. In Egypt they won honours under Abercromby, and to-day the emblazonment of the mystic sphinx on their standard bears witness to the most heroic deeds. What they have done, that they can do, and their gallant deeds in the present super-war show that while the Scots Greys are still second to none, the 12th Lancers are among the first in every glorious deed.)

The charge of the Greys and Inniskillings has been graphically described by many writers. Perhaps the words "Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill," describe most vividly the terrific struggle. But Kinglake tells the story tensely:

When we read to-day that the 5th British Cavalry Brigade, under General Chetwode, fought a brilliant action with German cavalry, in the course of which the 12th Lancers and Royal Scots Greys routed the enemy, spearing large numbers in flight, our thoughts fly back to the old days, when the 12th Lancers and the "Second to Nones" anticipated these feats of valour.

It was at Ramillies that the Scots Greys galloped straight through a difficult morass, with an infantry battle raging round them. On they went, till they gained the approach to the heights beyond. Then they dashed up the steep acclivity to the heights, and down the other side, where they thundered like an avalanche on the enemy's Household Brigade. The impact of that sudden crash seemed to shake the battlefield. Says one who was there: "The crash of our meeting rose above the noise of battle; it was like sudden thunder." The French fought with the utmost desperation, but they were matched this time, not with nondescript and poorly trained Continental troops, but with picked British, and were literally swept away before the Scots Greys. Many battalions of infantry under their protection were cut to pieces by the Scots Greys and the Royal Irish Dragoons, the predecessors of the 5th (Royal Irish) Lancers. Still the Greys pursued their devastating career through Autreglise, and, at a point beyond, overtook the French Régiment du Roi, and secured its surrender. All that night, like flying demons, they pursued the retreating enemy, and what they did is traditionally summed up in the fact that they returned with no less than sixteen standards—truly a noble achievement!

Again, at Malplaquet, the Scots Greys and the Royal Irish Dragoons came up against their old enemies the French Household Brigade. In three victorious charges they sustained the honour of their old victories over them, routing them utterly. Fate seems specially to have designed the Scots Greys and the Royal Irish to combat the French Household Brigade in days gone by, for, on many occasions when they have met, the pride of the latter has fallen before the valour of the former. Not only at Malplaquet, but also at Dettingen, the Greys, having cut their way through the French Cuirassiers, launched themselves irresistibly upon the French Household Cavalry. On this occasion, they swept them from the banks of the river, and wrested from them their crowning glory—their white standard of damask, embroidered with gold and silver, bearing in its centre a thunderbolt above their motto "Sensere Gigantes." So to-day it may be said that the giants who fell three times before the Scots Greys are now in the company of the Brobdignags.

Some other battles in which the Greys multiplied their glories are as follow:—Drouet, Oudenarde, Bethune, St. Venant, Aire, Bouchain, Sheriffmuir, and Fontenoy.

Apart, and not yet apart, from their glorious traditions of battle, the Greys have a peculiar romance centring round one of their number, who fought for long years in their midst before it was ultimately discovered that their comrade of many fights was a woman. How, why, and where Christian Davies (née Cavanagh) first entered the army is a matter of some doubt, but we first hear of her in the Netherlands as a private soldier, whither, as the story goes, she had gone to find her husband. Here she lived the life of the ordinary soldier, and maintained her disguise through everything, even flirting with the Dutch girls to such an extent that she was forced to fight a duel with a jealous sergeant, whom she wounded severely. On account of this she was obliged to leave the regiment, but immediately joined the Scots Greys. While living and fighting with these, she discovered her husband, but, being enamoured of the free soldier's life more than of him, she bade him wait till the conclusion of the war. Mean while, at her desire, he and she passed as brothers.

It was during the charge of the Scots Greys at Ramillies that Christian Davies met with a serious wound at the hands of a French dragoon, and, being brought to hospital, she confessed, to the surprise and admiration of all, that she was a woman. On her recovery, she still accompanied the army, as a vivandière, in which capacity she was extremely popular. Ultimately, when the terrors of war had made her twice a widow, she returned to England, where Queen Anne graciously received her in audience, and presented her with a bounty of £50, together with a pension of 1s. a day. At her funeral in Chelsea, in 1739, she was accorded full military honours, and all the Scots Greys, at least, know well that three full volleys were fired above her grave.

It is worth noting that the Royal Scots Greys, who, in the past, have fought fiercely against the Russians, have now as their Colonel-in-Chief H.I.M. Nicolas II., Emperor of Russia, K.G.—no longer an enemy, but a friend and an ally.

  15TH HUSSARS (THE KING'S)

("Elliot's Light Horse.")

One of the most thrilling and romantic episodes in cavalry fighting is the historic achievement of the 15th Hussars at Emsdorf. It was in July, 1760, that Major Erskine halted his troopers near the German village of Emsdorf, and bade them pluck the fresh twigs from the overhanging oaks, with a word of exhortation to the effect that they would acquit themselves with the firmness and stubbornness which have always been ascribed to that symbolic tree. Not long after this, the 15th formed part of the Prince of Brunswick's troops, which had surrounded six battalions of French infantry, together with some artillery, and a regiment of hussars. The enemy eventually broke through, and fled, pursued by the 15th, who were unassisted. So hot was the pursuit, and so terrible the punishment inflicted by our hussars, that the enemy was forced to surrender no less than 177 officers, 2,482 men, nine guns, six pairs of colours, and all the rams and baggage.

All England rang with this achievement of the 15th Light Dragoons, and never has a squadron received so whole-hearted a eulogy as that contained in the General Order issued by the Prince of Brunswick. For many a day "Elliott's Regiment" bore "Emsdorf" on its guidons and appointments, while upon their helmets was written, "Five battalions of French defeated and taken by this regiment, with their colours, and nine pieces of cannon. Emsdorf, 16th July, 1760." Now, as the regiment has become Hussars, the helmet has given place to the busby with no inscription; the guidons have disappeared, but the name "Emsdorf" may still be seen on the drum-cloth.

The 15th were prominent in all the achievements of our army during the next few years of that campaign. Many are the stories of dashing assault, grim fighting and heroic rescue, related of them during that time. When the Duke of Brunswick was surrounded by French Hussars at Friedburg, and it seemed impossible to prevent his capture, the 15th Hussars clapped spurs to their horses, and, with a terrific yell, swept down upon the French at full gallop. It was a body of determined men against overwhelming numbers; for, when they had driven back the hussars, they were still involved with the converging squadrons. But, with desperate valour they held their own until they had extricated their leader, and then they rode back, leaving double their number of the enemy dead on the field.

The 15th Hussars were in the thick of the fight at Waterloo, and they bravely upheld that honour. After suffering great loss in the enemy's fire they made a dashing charge through storms of lead from both flanks against a superior force of cuirassiers, whom they drove back with heavy losses. The Official Record states: "From this period the regiment made furious charges … at one moment it was cutting down the musketeers, at the next it was engaged with lancers, and, when these were driven back, it encountered cuirassiers." For this glorious exploit they paid honourably with three officers, two sergeants, and twenty-three privates killed; seven officers, three sergeants and forty privates wounded.

The 15th Hussars rendered heroic service in the Afghan War of 1878-80, when the treacherous Shere Ali was discovered favouring Russian intrigue. Many were the brilliant achievements of the 15th during this war, from Ali Musjid up to the investment of the Sherpur Cantonments, the final relief by Gough's Brigade, and the complete victory at Kandahar.

  18th HUSSARS

(Drogheda Light Horse)

The generic name of the 18th Hussars (Drogheda Light Horse) was bestowed specifically upon the corps raised in Ireland in 1759 by the Marquis of Drogheda, and numbered as the 19th Light Dragoons. It was renumbered as the 18th Light Dragoons in 1763, became a Hussar corps in 1807, and was disbanded as the 18th Light Dragoons in 1821.

The present 18th Hussars were raised at Leeds in 1858, and inherited the honours of the Drogheda Light Horse proper. The silver trumpets used by the Drogheda Light Horse, and now in the possession of the 18th Hussars, were provided out of the proceeds of the sale of the captured horses at the Battle of Waterloo. The motto of the 18th Hussars is "Pro Rege, pro Lege, pro Patria Conamur" (We fight for King, Law, and Country).

There is a traditional romance in the annals of the 18th Hussars which has its confirmation in modern history. A beautiful Spanish lady, finding herself a refugee with Wellington's forces in the Peninsula, fell in love with a young English officer named Harry Smith, and married him. By statesmanship and prowess in war he rose to be Sir Harry Smith, who commanded the forces that defeated the Boers at Boomplatz. Subsequently, the town of Ladysmith was so named after his wife. In this way the Peninsula is linked with South Africa in the annals of the 18th Hussars, not only by equal deeds in each campaign, but by a never-to-be-forgotten romance of real life.

  THE GRENADIER GUARDS

("The Old Eyes")

High in the estimation of every son and daughter of Britain stands that heroic band, the British Grenadiers. Their deeds have brought a fine thrill to every heart, and a stirring song to every voice; and, though there have been times when a pall of necessary silence, covering a "certain liveliness," has been imposed by the fog of a world-war, we have felt calmly assured that behind that fog our British Grenadiers were doing, or dying, in a way that must awaken the old thrill, and inspire a new song.

It has always been one of the greatest aids to success in battle to sum up the daring deeds of the past; the successes against fearful odds; the forlorn hopes bravely led; the breaches filled with our British dead; the stubborn resistance, and sometimes complete annihilation of one part for the success of the whole; the lofty sacrifice of the foremost, so that the hindmost may turn the tide of battle; and the heroic dash to certain death, which has always given birth to victory. And this aid of tradition has been accorded by their own deeds, and by the nation's appreciation, to none more strongly than to the British Grenadiers.

Yet it must be remembered that the Grenadier Guards, though they share the honour and glory of all Grenadiers, were never really Grenadiers proper. They won the name at Waterloo, where they vanquished the French Grenadiers. Sharing the name, they share and perpetuate the memory of the song, which in the first place referred to the Grenadiers who threw the grenades "from the glacis." But, as a good old British song may gain in volume as it rolls down the years, there is no reason why the well-known air in question should not attach to the Grenadier Guards.

Well does the historian say that "their annals indeed may almost be said to be identical with those of the British Army, as in every campaign of importance—every campaign which has had a material bearing on the fortunes of the Commonwealth—their services have been called into requisition. They have shared in our greatest battles. Their serried ranks stood firm at Fontenoy; turned the tide of battle at Quatre Bras; withstood unshaken the assaults of Napoleon's brilliant chivalry at Waterloo, and ascended with stately movement the bristling heights of the Alma."

Mr. J. J. Hart, who was with the Grenadiers in the Boer War, gives a graphic description of the battle near Senekal:

  THE COLDSTREAM GUARDS

("The Nulli Secondus Club")

History tells again how, in 1661, Charles, distrusting the soldiers in his service, called the 1st Foot Guards back to England. Following upon this, he speedily dismissed his Commonwealth soldiers, and, of all the Puritan regiments, he retained but one—the Coldstream Guards. This was the regiment which Monk had marched from Coldstream to the King's aid; hence their retention. An interesting story is related about them. It is said that when they were ordered to lay down their arms in repudiation of the Commonwealth, and commanded to resume them again, as the 2nd Foot Guards, they stood obstinately defiant, on the verge of mutiny. King Charles was dumbfounded, but Monk was equal to the situation. "Sire," he said, "this regiment refuses to be known as second to any in the British Army." On this, Charles, who was quick to the occasion with unworded gratitude for their timely help in a critical situation, cried: "Coldstream Guards, take up your arms!" and from that time forward they have been the Coldstream Guards.

Who can ever forget the glorious achievement of the Coldstream Guards at St. Amand in 1793? As soon as the Brigade of Guards gained contact with our then Allies-the Prussians and the Austrians—General Knobelsdorf, of the Prussian Army, welcomed them with, "I have reserved for the Coldstream Guards the honour, the especial glory, of dislodging the French from their entrenchments. As British troops you have only to show yourselves, and the enemy will retire."

The Coldstreamers rather wondered at his flowery flattery. They did not know, and he omitted to tell them, that the honour he had reserved for them was one which had been offered three times to 5,000 Austrians and three times missed by them, with a loss of 1,700 men. The Coldstreamers, therefore, prepared for the battle in complete ignorance of the fact that they were expected to do, with 600 rank and file, what 5,000 Austrians had failed to accomplish in three attempts. Not that it would have made much difference, for the British soldier can always count on doing the impossible about fifty times in a century.

The Coldstreamers, ready and eager, moved to the attack, and the Prussian General moved with them as far as safety would permit; then, desirous apparently that they should achieve this "especial glory" without any interference from him, he waved them on with his sword and magnanimously galloped away.

Hell opened then on the Coldstream Guards. The wood before them spurted flame. Batteries from right and left lumbered up, and, under cover of the undergrowth, tore lanes through them at close range. Never, up to that time, in the history of battles, had there been such quick and fearful slaughter of our troops. In a few minutes two of the companies were reduced by one-half. Ensign Howard went down with the colours, and on every hand rank and file were blown to pieces. Sergeant-Major Darling, one of the many heroes of that awful fight, had one arm shattered by a cannon ball, but he fought on with the other with such tenacity that his deeds were afterwards described as "prodigies of valour." A French officer, seeing so many men go down before him, pressed forward and engaged him in a fierce combat. But Darling laid him low and continued his terrible work until another ball carried away one of his legs. Thus, bereft of a leg and an arm, he was taken prisoner. General Knobelsdorf, the Prussian, lived through that day, but many, too many, of the Coldstreamers went to their last account, fighting gloriously. You may, under some conditions, beat a Coldstreamer, but you will never, never convince him that you have done so.

At Inkerman the Coldstream Guards, a few hundred strong, actually stood up to 4,000 Russians for a time, during which there was the bloodiest struggle ever witnessed. The fight was round the Sandbag Battery, where 700 British had held their own until reinforced by the Guards, and it was of such a nature that each guard must needs be a small battalion on his own account to do any good at all. Back to back the Coldstreamers fought till their ammunition was exhausted. Then they took their muskets and clubbed the pressing hosts in such fashion that they made space enough to form into line. Thus, with levelled steel, they charged. The enemy was thrown into utter confusion by their terrific onslaught, and, taking advantage of this, the Coldstreamers regained their own lines, having inflicted tremendous loss.

And the Russian in Germany to-day knows all about it. He has not forgotten the Coldstreamer of former days, any more than the Coldstreamer has forgotten the glorious deeds of the Russian; and, no doubt, if they could sit by the same camp-fire, many such a battle story would be told, through the interpreter, of those good old days "when we flew at each other's throats."

  THE ROYAL SCOTS

("Pontius Pilate's Body Guard")

The Royal Scots (1st Foot, or Lothian Regiment) are old in story. Several hundreds of years before the battle of Blenheim, which is among the first of their honours, the Royal Scots had traced their earlier glories on the roll of fame. Few European battlefields could disclaim acquaintance with them, and there are few on which they have not been responsible for terrific slaughter, and a large share in the crux of victory. Their ancestors far back fought under Gustavus Adolphus: their lineal descendents fight now under King George; and the bridge between that time and this has been held by them heroically.

It is interesting to trace their battles from the first. Long, long ago, fighting for Sweden, they captured and defended Rugenwald in Pomerania. Being wrecked on a hostile coast, with Adolphus eighty miles away, these Scots were led by Munro, with what might seem to us an absurd hope of victory. All day they waited in the caves by the sea shore, starving, wet, and cold—waited for the night, so that, under the cover of darkness, they might bring their desperate plan to fruition. Darkness fell; the moon rose, and these hungry Scots went forth to the attack. In one stroke they captured Rugenwald, and held it against repeated attempts on the part of the enemy to retake it. For nine weeks they gripped this place, and held on tooth and nail till Hepburn's men, fighting mile after mile to their relief, came up.

Hepburn's men! They were Scots, every one of them. Men who, led by Hepburn himself, captured Frankfort on the Oder. He took them to the attack waist deep through the mud and water of the moat. At the great battle of Leipzig, "the battle of the Nations," Gustavus held these men in reserve. Then, when the issue was in danger, he flung them forward. The musketry fire galled them severely, but through it all the pikemen went cheering on, and put the enemy to an inglorious rout.

Later, in 1632, Hepburn, who was somewhat a soldier of fortune, found himself on his way to aid the King of France. In 1634 he led his regiments against the Austrians and Spaniards. Here he was joined by Scots from France, and Scots from Sweden. Other Scots came up from the four quarters of the compass, as if by a gathering of the clans, and three years later there were 8,000 of them serving under the King of France. Those 8,000 are the martial sires of the present Royal Scots.

As to the heroic achievements of the Royal Scots, we may instance the battle of Wynendale. General Webb (Thackeray's favourite General of "Colonel Esmond") won that battle with an army of 8,000 men against 22,000 Frenchmen. It was his work to take supplies from Ostend to Marlborough's army in the field. Near the wood of Wynendale he detected the preponderating force of the enemy intent on intercepting his mission, but, in order to do this, they must traverse the wood. The odds were nearly three to one against Webb, but, relying on his men as much as on his own generalship, he decided to put up a fight of fights. The way of the enemy's approach was a great glade through the wood, and to right and left of this he placed detachments of his troops while he stationed the main body of his army at the point where they must debouch. Then he waited. That long wait for the oncoming host has been much described: how for a time they gazed up the long avenue through which the foe must come; how every man felt that tense expectancy, which lends to the simple sounds of nature a meaning of their own, and how 8,000 staunch hearts went back to the old folks at home with tenderness, and possible regret, before the descent of an avalanche which threatened to bereave their hearths.

But at length the enemy teemed in at the further end of the glade. On they came, warily scanning the wood, but it was not till the Royal Scots poured a volley into them that the enemy actually realized what was happening. When the smoke cleared away, confusion reigned in their ranks; they rallied, and came on with greater determination, but again they were hurled into disorder and death by the British fire. Yet a third time they attempted it, and with all the bravery of the French, but a third time they met with that penetrating fire that none but the British, with their ugly bulldog pertinacity, can stand. They failed to forge their way through the storm of lead, and at last retired in confusion, leaving one third their number of British as victors of the field.

The Royal Scots have more than once been helped out of a difficulty by other regiments. For instance, at Schellenberg in 1714, the ultimate victory, after three daring attempts on the part of the Royal Scots, who fought their way up against a heavy fire from the heights above, was made sure by the Scots Greys, who dismounted and rushed to their assistance. This engagement cost the French a valuable position, and 16 guns.

This help in the time of extreme peril was balanced by the Royal Scots at the battle of Lundy's Lane, where they arrived in the nick of time to make up 2,800 British against 5,000 Americans. After a hard fight the enemy was driven back, but they opened again with a devastating fire of musketry and artillery, following it up with a most determined charge. So desperate was their onslaught that the British guns were captured, and immediately following on this, the Royal Scots performed a deed which is underlined in history. They recaptured those guns, and left the enemy bewildered. This was the closest fight imaginable. In the thick of it, the opposing cannon almost spoke into each others' mouths. So close they were, that neither side could say, "This is my gun." In point of fact, in the heat of the moment a British limber carried off an American gun, and an American a British gun. On that field the contact between British and American was extremely close. In these days it is just as close, but not exactly in the same fierce spirit.

One of the foremost of the exploits of the Royal Scots was the defence of Tangier against the Moors in 1678. In Port Henrietta some 160 of the Royal Scots had been isolated. In order to facilitate their escape their comrades in the town created a diversion by leading a general attack. In the midst of this the Scots got as far as the first trench surrounding the fort, but, at the outer one, which was 12 feet deep, they came into close grips with the enemy. There it was sheer knife-fighting, and many Royal Scots went to the bottom of the pit. One hundred and twenty of them filled it full, and over that bridge of silence forty survivors hewed their way through.

The last charge at Wepener is described in the History of the Boer War as follows "The Royal Scots saw the Boers rushing and their warrior hearts beat quick with joy. Shortly, like a man in a dream, their Captain gave the word, 'Fix bayonets!' It was done in a trice. 'Ready!' The men loaded their rifles. 'A volley, my lads, and then the steel! Altogether—' The whistle blows, the flame flies along the parapet. Then, over the stone wall, sprang the Royal Scots. Once they shouted, once only. Then the slaying began…. Fifty thousand savage throats swelled the battle chorus. Ever since the siege began the black warriors had been gathered in their thousands on the heights, watching with fascinated interest the struggle of the white men. Like the spectators of a medieval tournament they had applauded the gallant deeds of the combatants, and, as they saw the British soldiers holding out day after day, night after night, against the assault of numerous odds, they came to have a profound trust and confidence in the 'big heart' of the Queen's soldiers. When, therefore, they saw the Royal Scots launch themselves like a living bolt at five times their number, they held their breath for a time, wondering what the end might be. But when they saw the bloody bayonets of the 1st Foot scatter and utterly destroy the hated Dutchman they opened their throats and yelled their applause across the river."

  THE "FIGHTING FIFTH"

("The Shiners")

The "Fighting Fifth" (Northumberland Fusiliers) have a peculiar paradox in their history. They were first raised in 1674 by Prince William of Orange, the Dutchman, and, in the last Boer War, they were fighting against the Dutch themselves. But even stranger things than that have come to pass in these later days when we have good cause to call our old allies our enemies, and our old enemies our allies.

The "Fighting Fifth" derived their regimental name, the Northumberland Fusiliers, from Hugh, Earl Percy, afterwards Duke of Northumberland, who commanded the regiment during the American War of Independence. For their fighting in the seventeenth century Prince William assembled them before the whole army, and publicly rewarded them for their services. It must be remembered that there were still services to come, for, when the Prince returned to England, fourteen years later, to deprive his father-in-law of his throne, the "Fighting Fifth" had not forgotten his kind offices. On this occasion they were regarded by the English with pride and admiration. "Even the peasants," says Macaulay, "whispered to one another as they marched by: 'There be our own lads; there be the brave fellows who hurled back the French on the field of Seneffe!'"

The "Fighting Fifth" gained many laurels in Portugal and Spain, where, on more than one occasion, they drove the enemy before them in utter confusion. It is in this war that their fighting traditions are chiefly founded.

At Ciudad Rodrigo it was the "Fighting Fifth" who stormed the approach. Afterwards they fought their way with fusil and steel through Salamanca, Nivelle, Vittoria, Orthes, and Toulouse, right up to Paris.

One of their greatest achievements was the successful defence of Gibraltar, when the Spaniards made their first attempt to recover it. Since that time there is scarce a page of fighting history up to the time of the Napoleonic Wars that contains no deed of this bull-dog regiment.

Their nickname is almost as old as their regiment. It was at the siege of Maestricht in 1676, when the regiment was only two years old, that a section of these men, only 200 strong, assaulted the Dauphin bastion—an affair out of which, after the most sanguinary combat, no more than fifty emerged. Yet maddened, rather than daunted, these fifty, with some few reinforcements, made a further attack on the bastion; and this time they took it, but only to meet with disaster. The place was mined, and a terrible explosion killed a large number, and covered others in wreckage. Many, however, emerged, and these proceeded to hold the position.

The tale of how they entered Badajoz stirs the blood. The 2nd Battalion led the storming party. Their way led over a narrow bridge. Here, under a terrible fire, the foremost fell in heaps; but their comrades pressed forward over their prostrate bodies, and planted ladders against the beetling walls of the castle. For a time the "Fighting Fifth" suffered heavily. Again and again the desperate attackers reached the summit of the walls, only to be hurled back by the enemy. Here they swarmed up like bees, to be swept down again by a raking fire; there, another ladder broken, another overturned, with men everywhere falling and climbing, climbing and falling. The chance of scaling those walls seemed hopeless, and at length the Fifth paused, and looked at one another. Then, at that psychological moment, the cheering of the enemy above broke the spell. Their cheers were answered by a fierce shout from our men, who rushed to the attack with a never-give-in determination that finally gained the ramparts, and drove the garrison out of the castle, out of the town, and into the distance, not without great slaughter. It was at Badajoz that the Fifth lost their brave colonel, who struck in at that psychological moment, and led the final victorious onslaught. He fell, shot through the heart, at the very moment that victory was assured. "None that night," says Napier, "died with more glory; yet many died, and there was much glory." The taking of Badajoz was indeed a piece of work which required all the dogged tenacity of purpose to be found in such fearless heroes as the "Fighting Fifth."

  THE LIVERPOOL REGIMENT

("The Leather Hats")

The Liverpool Regiment, like the 5th Dragoon Guards, was raised to help James, and, like them, it sided with the right against him. When James tried to place Roman Catholic officers over English regiments, with the help of the Liverpool Regiment, the colonel and five officers strongly objected. James sent his son, Fitzjames, Duke of Berwick, to Portsmouth, to correct them; but on this, and the issue of it, the country rose, saying unanimously that James was wrong, and the "six Portsmouth captains" were right. James had to flee from a country which entertained ideas so strange to his way of thinking. In memory of this protest against oppression, the portraits of those "six Portsmouth captains" are preserved to this day by the regiment. Once having definitely seceded, the Liverpool Regiment went further in the defence of liberty, and fought fiercely at the Boyne.

But it was in the Netherlands that the "Leather Hats" performed their first great feat of valour. Lord Cutts, whom they dubbed "The Salamander"—because, where the fire was hottest, there was Cutts to be found—ordered them, against all sane strategy, to storm the fortress of Venloo. Everyone said it was impossible to take it, but the Liverpool Regiment, who were actually facing the matter, got a different view into their heads. They said nothing, but obeyed commands—and took it. "Over bastion, fausse, bray and raveline," says a graphic chronicler, "over trench, glacis and escarpment, Cutts led his dare-devils; the ditches were heaped with the dead, till the living walked over them, and—the enemy ran upon the farther side." It was a magnificent feat of arms, and a fitting preface to Blenheim, Dettingen, Lucknow, and their glorious deeds at the front to-day.

  THE NORFOLKS

("The Holy Boys")

Of the Norfolk Regiment, then known as the 9th (East Norfolk) Regiment, Napier said, with a happy mixture of blame and praise: "They were guilty of a fierce neglect of orders in taking a path leading immediately to the enemy." Indeed, that is exactly what they did at the battle of Roliça on the 17th August, 1808. Their intrepidity and fine carelessness in regard to their lives were on that day the subject of unstinted praise on the part of the whole French army, who, in those times it must be remembered, were our enemies. A brief description of the battle will show the stern stuff that the Norfolks are made of.

The enemy, under Laborde, held a very strong position, and it was Wellington's object to drive them from it at the earliest opportunity. The Norfolks, under Brigadier Nightingale, came up with Wellington's army from Obidos, three columns strong. The 9th occupied the position in the centre, which fronted the enemy in possession of a natural fortress of gigantic crags, looming steep and forbidding against the sky. The only way of ascent was by means of some zigzag tracks, which, at many points, were open to the enemy's fire.

Under these conditions, it would have been possible for our men to proceed by halt and rush, with a slow but sure caution; but the Norfolks, flinging all caution to the winds, hurled themselves forward to get at the enemy as quickly as possible. They swarmed up the heights, giving the foe a hot example of their musketry fire as they swung forward. It is said that their exploit was in full view of both armies as the smoke of their firing marked their passage from crag to crag. The rapidity of their advance was so great that the other regiments of the central column were left far behind. Laborde, taking advantage of their prominent position, proceeded to throw the greater part of his army against them, thinking to wipe them out before they could receive support. This was partially successful, for the enemy's fierce onslaught bore the 2nd battalion back. Fiercely; the Norfolks contested every inch of the way, and it was a wonder of wonders that they lost so little ground against overwhelming odds before the 1st battalion came to their assistance. Then, with scarce a breathing space, they re-formed their ranks, and, with a hearty British cheer, swept forward and upward again.

That heroic and dashing encounter, in which the battle was to the swift—for it will be remembered that they had outstripped the rest of the army—is one that can never be forgotten in the annals of our history. Slowly, point by point, they gained the advantage, and finally drove the enemy from the summit. But, having taken the position, they had to hold it again and again against the furious efforts of the enemy to dislodge them. The reckless dash of their ascent could only be equalled by the stubborn resistance with which they held on, and, time after time, Laborde's battalions were driven back. Finally, the Northumberland Fusiliers came to their assistance, and the enemy was forced to retire. This was a victory set upon a hill, and, in the same spirit in which it was witnessed that day by thousands of opposing forces, so it is for ever pictured in our minds. With the battle of Roliça in their traditions, the Norfolk Regiment, as we write, are no doubt adding to the list of their brilliant achievements.

In this battle a memorable act of heroism glorifies a page of history—a page written in the Norfolk blood of Sergeant-Major Richards. At the time when our skirmishers advanced rapidly, and the echo of their quick musketry fire hung reverberating in the ravine and hollow as they ran from cover to cover, two companies crept up two separate passes among the rocks and debouched upon the summit of the ridge. The foremost of the 9th, on emerging two or three at a time from their narrow passage, were ambushed by the enemy. Blake, their brave Colonel, was killed, and many of his men fell around him. When the ambuscade rushed forth to grips, Sergeant-Major Richards, though riddled with lead, and bleeding from a dozen bayonet wounds, stood over his beloved commander and fought to the death. This brave fellow, than whom there was never a braver, said, as he was dying, "I should not have cared so much if only our Colonel had been spared." In those few words, at such a moment, breathed the true spirit of the Norfolks, and that glorious simplicity of thought and singleness of eye—fine, grand, unconsciously sublime—runs through every line of our great Book of Battles. We are not glad that our enemy of to-day has not written such a book, nor do we trouble to wish he had: the fact is fixed that he has not. Indeed, he had never the material for such a book, for it is obvious that the same barbarous hand that struck out an innocent Louvain could not insert such an anachronism as the heroic death and noble sentiment of a Sergeant-Major Richards of the Norfolks.

But Roliça, although the most prominent of their honours, is only one among many that have been set to their credit. They have more than once been in a position of extreme peril. When Ruffin's brigade at Barrosa realised that the Norfolks were cut off through an error on the part of our Spanish Allies, they turned the whole fury of their overwhelming odds upon that single regiment. Then it was a case of fighting, and dying, back to back. All fought like heroes, and, like heroes, most of them died. It was only when Brigadier Dilkes came to their assistance that the few survivors were extricated from their hazardous position. Needless to say, the handful that remained joined at once with Dilkes' column, and assaulted the enemy's heights. A grim battle ensued, and at length a brilliant victory was gained.

In the history of the Norfolks is written one of the saddest incidents in the annals of our arms. It was they who, at Corunna, at dead of night, buried Sir John Moore, under the shadow of disaster—a sorrowful ending to an adverse passage which, although it concealed a marvellous achievement, few of us care to linger upon in days when victory is before us, and all thoughts of defeat forgotten.

At Fuentes d'Onoro, a description of which battle will be found in another chapter, the Norfolks, in company with many other regiments of our present expeditionary force, fought with all their customary vim; and at Salamanca their assault on the enemy was as if they had been let go from a catapult. At a time when they were fully 500 yards in front of our main body of troops, Wellington saw the chance of making use of them to capture a particular post held by the enemy. He sent his aide-de-camp scouring up to them with the hurried message: "Ninth! you are the only regiment ready; advance!" They required no further indication to grasp what was to be done; in fact, they would probably have done it in the natural course of events, without the order; they charged on, and at the point of the irresistible bayonet the post was taken.

Many a forlorn hope has been led by the Norfolks. One that remains indelibly stamped on our memory is that at San Sebastian, headed by a Scots lad, named Campbell. This poor fellow was terribly wounded in the first onslaught, receiving a bayonet thrust, and a heavy sabre gash. The young hero was not to die of his wounds however. Very much on the contrary, he lived to become Sir Colin Campbell, Commander-in-Chief in India; and, for his splendid services in suppressing the Indian Mutiny was created Baron Clyde.

Having come through many terrible fights with honour and glory, and without a stain, it is naturally the great regret of this famous regiment that they were not at present at Waterloo. But, though absent from our greatest field of victory, they were doing good work at the time in Canada. Yet it has come to their share in these days to reap honours in fields not far from Waterloo, and we live to learn that, in the deeds of to-day, and to-morrow, a Norfolk man is indeed as good as at least two Germans.