To oppose the fiery movements of the allied general, the enemy should have been combined, and in readiness; but they were equally unprepared and unsuspicious that an advance would be attempted. Napoleon’s orders to concentrate on the Tonnes, had been fatally neglected; and no preparation had yet commenced to evacuate the capital, if such a step should become necessary. Joseph was at issue with his generals; the latter on bad terms with each other; and, strange as it might appear, in a country laid open to unmerciful contributions, subordinate officers were acquiring wealth, while the king was without a guinea, and his major-general (Jourdan) actually subsisting upon credit. Every commander seemed to think and act for himself. Joseph issued orders, but none obeyed them—some general asserted that Lord Wellington would attempt to turn the French right;—others declaring that he would march direct on Madrid. One would have it that the north would be his field of operation,—another maintained that it would be the south, and in concert with Sir John Murray. All were referring to what might be the future, when the initial movements were already made; and Wellington was over the Esla, before, it was known in the enemies’ cantonments that a division had been even put in march!
None, save a military reader, can estimate this wonderful and successful operation. A part of Sir Thomas Graham’s corps traversed a distance of more than two hundred miles, its route running through the Tras as Montes, the wildest district imaginable. Over a rugged surface—hitherto unknown to any save the shepherd or muleteer—forty thousand men, with artillery, and all the equipages of war, were passed and placed in safety on the further banks of a river unopposed—not a French general believing that even a cloud was collected, when the tempest had already burst!
Merely waiting one day at Toro, to unite his left with the Gallician army, and enable the rear of his own divisions to close up, the allied general pushed rapidly for the Carion, his own troops beautifully in hand, and either flank protected by Spanish regulars and partidas. Too late, Joseph Buonaparte felt the danger of his position;—when the danger was discovered, it was irremediable; for with the certain stride of victory Wellington marched forward. The Pisuerga and the Arlanzan were passed, to use the language of an historian, “easily as if they contained no water”—and Burgos, that once had foiled his efforts, perished by the same hands which formerly had held it so successfully.
Thus far Lord Wellington’s rapid advance had been attended with splendid success; but bolder operations, and followed by more brilliant results, remained behind. On the 13th, masked by his own cavalry, and a swarm of Spanish partidas, he suddenly marched by his left, to turn the sources of the Ebro, place his army between that river and the Reynosa mountains, and cut the enemy from the sea. It was a bold and judicious, but difficult and precarious, attempt; and one from which a nervous commander would have recoiled. The line of march ran through a mountain country, whose features were singularly rugged. The valleys were deep; gullies and ravines constantly presented themselves; and the roads, narrow and broken, were unsuited for the transport of field equipage and artillery. Still Lord Wellington persevered; and, nobly seconded by his gallant followers, every obstacle was overcome. When the ordinary means of moving forward the artillery were found impracticable, the guns were dismounted, and lowered or swayed over precipices which threatened to bar their farther progress. On went the Anglo-Portuguese divisions, in ceaseless march; and, after six days of incessant exertion, the allied columns issued from their mountain routes, and entered the deep valley of Vittoria.
As yet I had never been fairly under fire; our march from the Esla to the Zadora had been one of manouvre, Lord Wellington turning every position with admirable skill; and the slight collisions which occasionally resulted, occurring always between the light troops. One irregular but dashing affair, on the preceding day, had taken place unexpectedly, between a part of the light division and Maranzin’s brigade, at the entrance of the valley of the Boveda, in which the French were severely handled, and narrowly escaped with the loss of their baggage, and five hundred men.
We reached Espigo, after a very long march, late in the evening of the 18th; and early next morning, moved on to Bayas, in the hope of forcing that pass, and cutting off the armies of the south, and centre. But Beille had taken a strong position, with the army of Portugal, to cover their passage through the defile of La Puebla. We were directed to attack in front, while the light division turned their position. A brief affair ensued, during which the armies of the south and centre threaded the defile, and came into line behind the Zadora. That object gained, Reille fell back, and crossed the river, and we bivouacked for that night upon the Bayas.
It was apparent to all that a great and decisive battle was at hand; King Joseph, with his immense pares and ambulances, was still in front of Vittoria; and although two huge convoys were ready for France, and one had been already despatched, still the quantity of baggage that remained was enormous, and the number of carriages almost incredible. The whole of his miserable Court had followed the steps of the royal fugitive. Traitors to their country, they had no mercy to expect; and in flight alone, was safety. The immense quantity of military stores—the accumulated mass of private plunder, collected for years before, and now heaped together in the confusion of a hurried retreat—the encumbrance of a numerous body of nobles and civilians,—all these tended to render Joseph’s position the more embarrassing.
If he retreated without a battle, all must be lost. He vacillated—valuable time slipped away—and at last he determined to “stand the hazard of the die;” and accordingly, took a position in front of Vittoria.
On the evening of the 20th, we received intelligence that the French were resolved to accept battle the next day; and it was ascertained that they were busily engaged in fortifying the ground that Marshal Jourdan had selected. I was now on the eve of my first field; and a feeling of anxiety and restlessness kept me waking, while two or three veterans, who were huddled into the same tent, slept so soundly that I envied them. At day-break the camp was in a bustle. The third, fourth, seventh, and light divisions, which formed the infantry of the centre, got speedily under arms; and, accompanied by a powerful artillery, and the whole of the heavy cavalry, we crossed the ridges behind which we had pitched our tents, and over a rugged and difficult surface, moved stoutly and steadily towards the points marked for our separate attacks. We took a position in front of the bridge of Nanclares, covered from the enemy’s fire by broken ground and underwood, and there awaited the movements of the third and seventh divisions, whom rougher ground and a greater distance had hitherto prevented from getting up.
About ten o’clock the action began, by General Hill seizing the village of Puebla, and Morillo attacking the heights that domineered it. A doubtful and protracted struggle for the possession of the latter ensued. The French supported Maranzin, who held it; and Sir Rowland detached Colonel Cadogan, with two battalions, to sustain the Spaniards. Fresh troops, from time to time, came into action. Villatte’s division were drawn from the centre, to maintain the heights. Hill reinforced the assailants; the contest still was doubtful; but Sir Rowland ended it by crossing the Zadora, pushing through the defile of Puebla, and carrying the village of Subijana de Alwa.
Three hours had passed; and amid the intervals of the fire at Subijana, a distant cannonade was faintly heard upon our left, and indicated that Graham was up, and coming into action. The light division had already crossed the bridge of Très Puentes; one brigade of the third had forced that of Mendoza, and another, with the seventh division, forded the river, and attacked the French right, in front of Margarita. We were desired now to advance; and, passing the bridge of Nan-clares, were followed by the heavy cavalry, who, forming on our right in squadrons, connected us with Sir Rowland’s left.
Already, fearing that he should be turned on both flanks, Joseph had issued orders to retreat; and, covered by a cloud of skirmishers, and under a tremendous fire of fifty pieces of artillery, he retired his columns on Gomecha, where his reserve was posted. Now the battle was at his height; the third division carried the village of Arinez, the 52d stormed Margarita; and the 87th seized Hermandad. But the last struggle was yet to come. Reille still maintained himself on the Upper Zadora, and, with eighty pieces of artillery in full and rapid play, the wreck of the armies of the south and centre were enabled to fall back, and make their last stand, between the villages of Ali and Armantia.
For a moment the storm of artillery arrested the onward progress of the allies. The battle raged furiously; but the struggle was fated to be short. Cole ordered the fourth division to advance. On rushed its noble battalions, untamed by a terrible cannonade and a heavy and well-supported musketry. The heights on the left of those occupied by the French were carried, and the doubtful conflict ended in a total route.
Throughout the day I had been busily employed. I occasionally carried orders; and the steadiness with which my noble horse faced fire, attested the value of the Empecinado’s present. I had procured at Frenada a very respectable animal, on which to mount Mark Antony; and, to do him justice, the fosterer seemed to follow like a shadow where I went. Just as we crowned the height, General R———— who was leading the column, beckoned to me, and I was directly at his side.
“Gallop back. Tell ————— to launch the cavalry boldly—see!— the French infantry are mobbed, and running!”
I had half wheeled round to convey the order, when, suddenly, my gallant charger gave a convulsive shudder, and sank under me. I sprang from the saddle before he had time to roll over, and called on the fosterer to dismount—made one step to take his horse, and execute the order, when a sharp stroke smote me on the head. All around became confused—memory fled—and for a time I recollected nothing but indistinctly.
When I did recover, I found myself under a small knoll, which sheltered us from ranging shots: the fosterer on one side, a twentieth grenadier on the other; and my excellent and valued friend Peter Grotty, seated on a dead horse, vis-à-vis, and giving orders for my resuscitation.
“But, hark! that hewy 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!”
Childe Harold.
To the buzz of voices round me I had been fully conscious for the last five minutes; but the first words I understood distinctly, was an earnest inquiry, on the part of Lieutenant Crotty, regarding the safety of what he termed “the stolen horse;” and great was his sorrow on learning that the charger was defunct.
“Blessed Bridget!” he exclaimed; “what a pity! Worth two hundred, if he was worth a taaster. * Well—it only shows that old swin’s true—What comes over the old lad’s back, whisks away under his belly. But I would like to know what the divil killed the rider? I’ve groped him all over, and sorra scratch I can find upon him but this clip upon the head, and many a worse I’ve got often at a hurling match. As he’s dead, however—”
“I am not dead, Peter!” I muttered.
“Then, upon my sowl I’m glad to hear it from such good authority!” returned Mr. Crotty. “Give him another taste out of the canteen! If there’s life in a man, brandy’s the thing to find it out. Here we are—safe and comfortable against every thing but shells;—I thought I heard the whiz of one of them a while ago—may the curse o’ God light upon their inventor! You must know 1 have a mortal dread of them—and I’ll tell ye why.—The day before Salamanca, when Marmont and my Lord were watching each other like two pickpockets, the column halted, to let the men cook dinner, if they had any to cook. Well—I had none,—so I set out on the ramble, to see if luck would stand my friend—and who should I find behind a big rock, and eating cold pork, but Pat Dogherty and Charley Blake, of the ould “rough and readies,”—the 13th. “Peter!” says Charley, “didye get ye’r dinner yet?” “Divil a pick!” says I; “and, what’s more, I wish somebody would tell me where it’s to come from?”
“Draw a chair,” says he, jokin’, “and take share of the pork.”
“Arrah, niver say it again,” says I, so down I pops upon the grass, and, feaks, made a beautiful dinner of it. Well—out came the canteens, in coorse; and we begins drinkin’—when bang goes two or three guns from the hill opposite us, on which the French were marchin’.
“What’s that?” says Charley. “Nothing,” says Pat Dogherty, “only that thief Marmont is bent upon some roguery; and just wants, by kickin’ up a row, to draw off the old lad’s attention—manin, ye see, Lord Wellington.”
“Blessed be God! we’re as safe here as if we were in Kilmainham Gaol,” says I, looking up at the rock that was between us and the French. “If Marmont batters away till he rises the price of gunpowder, he’ll do us no harm.” Well, Pat Dogherty stepped round, to see what the firing was about—and Charley Blake had lifted the canteen:—“Here’s the pope!” says he, taking a pull of the spirits; and giving the health of his reverence out o’ compliment to me, because he thought I was a Catholic. As he said the words, down drops an eight-inch shell between us. “Murder!” says I, rowlin’ myself down the hill, like a butter-firkin. “What’s that?” says Charley, who was always a stupid divil, and never could bear to be interrupted in his drink. Och! before I could make him sensible, bang went the shell! and when Pat and I got up, we found Charley as dead as a mackarel; and dinner, drink, and Pat Dogherty’s new cloak-case, blown regularly to the divil! No wonder I hate the whiz of them—— “Well, how do ye find yerself?”
“Oh—pretty well; but a confounded dizziness of the head annoys me.”
“Well,—take another drop. Look round, Mark—isn’t that the name ye answer to? Turn a man or two over, and you’ll find a fresh canteen, for this one’s empty.”
Indeed, there was no great difficulty in obtaining a liberal supply; for the hollow that Peter Crotty had selected as uniting safety with comfort, was thickly studded with dead and dying men: and there was scarcely a corpse, particularly a Frenchman’s, from which a canteen was not obtainable.
In the mean time, the roar of battle gradually subsided into a spattering fire of musketry, interspersed by the booming of heavy guns, as the horse artillery hung upon the French rear, and cannonaded the dense masses of broken soldiery who hurried off in the direction of Salvatierra. But, lightened of their anus, and covered by their cavalry who still showed a steady front, they reached Metaueo, closely followed; there night ended the pursuit, and the victors and the vanquished claimed that season for repose which previous fatigue had rendered so desirable to both.
There is no defeat on record, in which a beaten army lost so much and lost so little, contradictory as the statement may appear. The whole materiel of war, the entire park of artillery, with stores, ammunition, trophies, treasure, and the most enormous collection of plunder that ever an invading army attempted to carry from the country it had for years despoiled, fell into the hands of the victors, or rather into those of the degraded wretches who followed them,—while in men the French loss scarcely exceeded that of the conquerors.
Before we had been an hour on the field, we were picked up, stowed away in a French calech, from which a danseuse on King Joseph’s establishment had been ejected—and carried through the wreck of the enemy’s plunder and military stores, into a city it had only vacated at midday. Mr. Crotty’s wound was not very important, as the ball had passed clean through the thigh, and the hemorrhage been stopped by a proper ligature. Mine was a more serious accident, and gave me considerable annoyance for several weeks after it occurred. It is true that I had much reason to be thankful, if I would only put faith in the report of my medical attendant; for he demonstrated, clear as an axiom, that had the ball struck me the eighteenth part of an inch in “fuller front,” it would have popped through the “os frontis” to a moral, and I should have been then “past praying for.”
Three weeks elapsed—the painful effects occasioned by the contusion gradually subsided, and within a month I was perfectly convalescent. As to Peter Crotty, his disabled member was speedily restored—and, at the end of a fortnight, he could have danced the pater-o-pee. One thing occasioned some surprise. Lord ‘Wellington, in the excitement of his victory, forgot to make personal inquiries after his old partner’s state of health,—and although his hospitality embraced the elite of his prisoners, and even the captured ladies were guests at his table during his brief sojourn at Vittoria, by some unaccountable oversight, a cover for Peter Crotty was forgotten—and if an invitation had been sent him for a quiet rubber at head quarters, unfortunately, it never reached its destination. Crotty, however, ascribed this apparent forgetfulness to its true cause—a press of business—and on one occasion, when we nearly ran against his lordship in the street, Peter bolted round the corner, feeling, very properly, that greetings in the market-place consumed valuable time, and between old friends were quite unnecessary.
The subsequent operations after the victory of the 21st of June, though not very important in themselves, proved the forerunners of great events. Soult came from Germany, by Napoleon’s order, to assume the chief command and rally the beaten armies. Joseph Buonaparte’s royal puppetism ended, and he retired into France—and Wellington followed up his victory by advancing to the Pyrenees, blockading Pampeluna, and regularly investing San Sebastian.
At Vittoria the mixed character of which an army is composed, was strikingly exhibited. Never, in the history of modern warfare, did defeat tempt the cupidity of the soldier with more extensive or more valuable booty,—and, to use the words of the historian, “the fighting troops marched upon gold and silver without stooping to pick it up.” But to others, the display of wealth was too trying for their moral endurance to withstand—the onward step of victory was stayed for filthy plunder, and, to the eternal disgrace of the delinquents, it was known that some officers, forgetting caste and honour, shared in “the disgraceful gain.” The evil consequences were so mischievous, as in some degree to paralyse the subsequent operations, and rob Vittoria of what would have otherwise been its grand results. The soldiers, instead of preparing food, and resting themselves after the battle, dispersed in the night to plunder, and were so fatigued, that when the rain came on next day, they were incapable of marching, and the allied army had more stragglers than the beaten one. Eighteen days after the Victory, twelve thousand five hundred men, chiefly British, were absent, most of them marauding in the mountains. *
No wonder, then, that the promptest means were used to thin the hospitals of the sick and wounded, and forward the convalescent to their regiments. Peter Crotty had been declared “ready for action and with some fifty privates and non-commissioned officers pronounced food for gunpowder” again. I determined to keep him company,—and on the morning of the 18th of July, we quitted Vittoria, a month after we had entered it, and took the route to rejoin the fourth division in the Pyrenees. We reached Leyra on the 22d, and then learned that San Sebastian had been sufficiently battered to warrant an assault—and, as it was generally believed, the attempt would be made next day.
Here was a noble opening for young ambition. Within a sharp ride of a beleaguered city—and it, too, on the very point of being carried by assault! Why, my father was a very prophet—and the glorious contingency he had only regarded with the eye of hope, was absolutely thrown by fortune in my way. I was also a free agent—and while Peter Crotty, “a man under authority,” of necessity, headed towards the mountains with “his charge of foot,” I had only to turn to the sea—and if I pleased, gain laurels in the breach, or there get “a quietus.” I consulted the fosterer—and he at once declared that it would not only be shameful but sinful, to let slip an opportunity of the kind, “for the Lord only knew when such luck would fall in our way again!”
Peter Crotty was taken into the number of our counsellors—and he confirmed Mark Antony’s reasoning to the very letter—accompanied by a long jeremiade at being prohibited by duty from engaging in an agreeable excursion. He, Peter, would never forget Badajoz—Lord! what fun there was after it—he did not particularise the fun that was at it, nor detail the pleasant accompaniments of men being blown up by the company. He, Peter, had been wounded, and resided afterwards at a widow’s house—a friendlier little woman he never met with,—she was better to him than a bad step-mother—they went regularly to mass—and he, Peter, was happy as the day was long. Indeed, he had great doubts about the propriety of marrying her at once—but her husband, not having “gone to glory,” but to Mexico, although he had not written for six months, still the devil, meaning the husband aforesaid—might be alive after all.—“Oh! blessed Mary 1 what fun you’ll have!” concluded Peter. “You may rob a church, murder a bishop, and bad luck to the inquiry, good nor bad, afterwards.”
Pleasure thus unexpectedly presented, and accompanied with such brilliant advantages, was not to be declined; and as I had recovered my lost horse, and procured a stout mule for the fosterer, we took the road to glory—namely, the cross one running through Gozueta to San Sebastian.
The defeat at Vittoria rendered the maintenance of this ancient fortress an object of great importance to the French. Hitherto the place had been greatly neglected, and even a part of its artillery removed. Instant orders, however, were issued by Joseph Buonaparte to restore the works, replace the guns, and render it, as far as possible, defensible. A garrison under General Key was hastily thrown in—and that of Gueteria, after blowing up that place, reinforced it—stores and provisions were sent by sea from France—whither, also, an enormous influx of Spanish and French refugees, who had sought safety in the city, were directed to repair—and with a brave garrison—and better still—a determined governor, San Sebastian prepared, by a vigorous and, as it was expected, a successful defence, to emulate those of Rodrigo, Badajoz, and Burgos, which had conferred so much honour on their respective commandants.
The investing army, amounting to about ten thousand men, was composed chiefly of the fifth division, and two Portuguese brigades,—General Graham commanded in chief—General Oswald en second—and Colonel Dickson directed the siege artillery, amounting to forty pieces of different descriptions, but all of heavy calibre.
On the night of the 10th, operations actively commenced. On the morning of the 17th, a strong outwork called San Bartolomeo, with the adjacent suburb of San Martin, were carried by assault—and on the 20th, the whole of the batteries commenced breaching at once, without having first ruined the defences—a departure from established practice which afterwards occasioned a galling failure, attended with a hewy loss of gallant men.
It was the evening of the 23d, when I and my foster brother topped a rising ground, which commanded a more immediate view of the beleaguered city, and the investing army which encompassed it. For fifteen miles the booming of hewy artillery gave us full assurance, that, if our intent was “up to the breach!” we were still in excellent time. The thunder of the British batteries seemed to redouble as we neared the fortress—and while the fire of the besieged was slack and feeble, compared with that of the assailants; the roar from the Chofre batteries was continuous—and the practice so beautiful and correct, that a new breach on the right of the main one, had been formed by that day’s fire, and the wall for thirty yards exhibited a perfect ruin.
It was a sight which, suddenly presented to an eye inexperienced in the “circumstance of war,” would never fade from memory. The sun was nearly setting—but there was no lack of light to induce the besiegers to silence the fire of their guns. The mortar battery, erected the preceding day to destroy the defences, and ruin a stockade which insulated the high curtain on the land front, had set the houses in the immediate vicinity of the great breach in flames; and, as they spread rapidly, the safety of the town from that wild element appeared as much endangered, as from the impending outburst of human violence. Although in immediate expectation of the assault, this calamity did not abate the confidence of the gallant old man who commanded; but for a day, and under an erroneous belief that the burning houses would isolate the breach if carried, the fearful trial was postponed. All was ready to deliver the assault—the storming parties were in the trenches—but on the morning, the fire still raged with such unconquered violence, that it was dreaded it would prove as formidable to the assailants, as it had been found embarrassing to the assailed—and consequently the storm was delayed, a circumstance, it was said, that abated the ardour of the troops, and tended much to produce the unfortunate failure which occurred next morning.
That awful pause—the day of the 24th, was not like the calm which precedes the tempest. The batteries on the Chofre sand-hills opened again, and a whirlwind of heavy shot enlarged the ruins at the breaches, and, as it was hoped, injured the defences materially. The fire of the garrison was nearly silenced—and while the means of aggression were evidently reduced, they laboured diligently to render those of resistance formidable and efficient. A cavalier that commanded the curtain was armed with field pieces—and every point, whether of the castle or the hill, which looked upon the breach or its approaches, was furnished with heavier artillery. The fausse brave beneath which the storming parties must advance, was lined with shells and other destructive missiles, to be rolled down upon the assailants as they advanced along its base—while every house within musket range was loop-holed, and the breach carefully retrenched; but even had it been crowned successfully, still a sheer descent of fifteen feet remained before the assailants could reach a street composed entirely of burning houses.
In war, there are wonderful accidents which lead frequently to failure or defeat—and from fortuitous circumstances, great results arise. In carrying a parallel across the Isthmus to reach the land defences, the working party broke through the water-course of a ruined aqueduct. An engineer boldly crept into the dark and narrow drain—explored it carefully—and at the end of two hundred and thirty yards, found himself separated from the counterscarp only by a door, and directly in face of the right demi-bastion of the horn-work. Here fortune had befriended the besiegers, and supplied them with an admirable mine. The engineers formed a globe of compression at the extremity, and loaded it with an enormous charge of powder—and though this dangerous operation was effected under the feet of the French sentries, none took alarm, and the work was silently and effectually completed.
The plan of attack was to assault the greater and lesser breaches together, when the spring of the mine, formed in the head of the aqueduct, should give the signal. It was expected that the explosion there would fill the ditch of the horn-work with rubbish—and in the confusion and surprise, the Portuguese might possibly escalade at that point, and effect a lodgement in the place. The Royals were directed against the great breach, supported by the ninth regiment—and the thirty-eighth were ordered to carry the smaller one. An elite detachment, formed of the three light companies of these regiments, attended by an engineer and ladder party, were designed to have escaladed the high curtain, while the breaches were assaulted, and clear the enemy from it with the bayonet; and to this party, Mark Antony and I attached ourselves.
Soon after midnight, the storming parties with the columns of attack entered the trenches—and within three hundred yards of the breaches, waited impatiently for sun-rise, when it had been arranged that the assault was to be given.
There is no use in concealing it—that interval of two hours was the most anxious passage of my history. I felt that, as it on the hazard of a die, life or death depended. Darkness and silence prevailed—the latter only broken by the thunder of the breaching batteries, which were kept in full play upon the breaches and defences. Many an anxious inquiry was made to know “how time went,”—many an eager look was cast eastward to watch for early dawn—but hundreds were fated never to witness the rising of another sun. While it was still dark, the globe of compression formed in the head of the aqueduct was fired. The storming parties rushed forward from the trenches—and the work of death began.
The explosion of the mine was unfortunately not heard at the Chofre batteries, and the guns, instead of ceasing, continued in full play upon the place. Hence, the assailants as they advanced, were scourged by a double fire, and suffered more from the grape of their own batteries than the enemy’s cannonade. The narrow slip of ground by which the stormers approached the breaches, contracted between the river on one side, and the retaining wall of the horn-work on the other, was embarrassed with rocks and pools of water, and consequently, the movement of the column became disorderly. Under a withering fire, the breach was gained—up flew the leading officers—a few gallant soldiers followed—but the supports moved slowly—the troops came straggling to the breach—and instead of mounting to the assistance of the gallant few who had already crowned the ruins, the greater portion of the assailants stopped at the bottom, and interchanged musketry with the French who lined the ramparts, and kept up a deadly fusilade on the disordered mass below. The towers of Los Hornos and Mesquitas opened a hewy flanking fire; and from the St. Elmo and the Mirador, grape fell in torrents upon the broken column—the Castle threw shells with great precision—grenades were flung from the ramparts—a stream of fire issued from the loop-holed houses—while flames raging behind the breach, seemed to forbid approach, even had offensive means been unemployed.
Still though the men fell by fifties, their officers endeavoured to rally them and crown the breach anew; but every moment the chances of success became more desperate. The regiments got intermixed, and that terrible confusion of troops mobbed in a narrow space between the breach and the Urumea, became irretrievable. At that moment the remnant of our light companies pushed through the disordered column, and Campbell, its chivalrous leader, followed by a daring few, gained the summit. Mid-way up, my foster-brother fell—while I, with a dozen or two, a second time reached the rampart. We held it but a moment. Under the storm of musketry all went down; and there were but two or three standing, when a bullet stretched me beside those with whom “life had ended.”
It was the final effort; the remnant of the assailants hurried off, the regiments mobbed together, to seek shelter in the trenches; marking, unhappily and too plainly, the lines of the advance and retreat with the bodies of the dead and dying. The French fire ceased; and although the British batteries opened with redoubled violence on the enemy’s defences to cover the retirement of the shattered columns, several of the gallant defenders of the breach braved the storm, to remove the wounded within the town, and save them from the indiscriminating destruction which the British artillery poured alike on friend and foe.
For a minute I was unconscious of what was passing; and when memory returned, I was in the act of being turned over by a French soldier, who found, that from hwing fallen on my face, my present position was not exactly favourable for his intended operations. I looked wildly round; several men in blue uniforms were examining the fallen soldiers, who lay thickly on the summit of the breach as lewes in autumn. Different objects influenced the examination: some were seeking plunder—others, on a nobler errand, were separating the wounded from the dead, to remove the former out of fire, and obtain for them surgical assistance. As the grenadier rolled me over, an officer stepped forward and inquired if I were “living or dead?” The voice was perfectly familiar; with my cuff I wiped away the blood, which, trickling from my forehead, had partially prevented me from looking at the speaker before. “Is that Cammaran?” I muttered, as I caught a glance of his well-remembered features.
“Ha!” exclaimed the Frenchman,—“‘my name! Sacre!—who have we here? Baise his head, Antoine. By heaven!—the very man on earth I would shed my heart’s blood to save!” Next moment he was kneeling at my side—and held me gently in his arms, until I was lifted by four soldiers from the ground, and removed carefully from the breach and out of the range of fire.
“Are you much hurt, my friend?” inquired the gallant Frenchman. “And where is your companion, my brave deliverer?”
“Alas!” I replied, “I fear that he is lost to me. He fell half way up the breach—and—”
‘Ere my reply was given, Cammaran, after directing the party to bear me to a neighbouring church which the French had converted into an hospital, rushed to the breach again. Calling on a soldier to follow, he descended the ruins of the broken wall, and, among a heap of dead and dying, commenced looking for the object of his search. It was a daring, an almost desperate attempt; for, irritated at the failure of the storming parties, every gun in battery was madly turned against the breach and curtain, and showers of round and grape-shot splintered against the unbroken masonry, or knocked the rubbish wildly about, occasioning double danger to all within its reach. Undismayed, the gallant Frenchman persevered; and to his unfeigned delight, in a man who had raised himself upon one elbow and was gazing despondingly around, he recognised the person he risked so much danger to discover—his former camarado—the fosterer.
With the assistance of the grenadier who accompanied him, Mark Antony was carried safely from the breach; and in a few minutes after my wounds had been carefully dressed, I had the happiness to find my foster brother placed on a mattress beside my own, and hear the French surgeon, on a hasty examination, announce to Captain Cammaran the gratifying intelligence, that Mark Antony was “not past praying for” yet, but, with moderate good luck, might still survive, to do “the state some service,” and figure in another breach.
“Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;
Their tongues prefer strange orisons on high;
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies;
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion—Victory!”
Childe Harold.
Day broke through the stained windows of the church; and the cannonade, so fierce and incessant when I was being carried from the breach, died suddenly away and not a gun was heard. I inquired what might have caused this extraordinary silence, and learned from an hospital-assistant that an hour’s truce had been agreed on between the besiegers and besieged, to permit the wounded to be succoured, and allow helpless wretches who would otherwise have been drowned by the rising of the Urumea, to be carried beyond the influence of the tide, and taken either to the trenches or the town. On this work of mercy Cammaran was absent; and, as Mark Antony and myself were sufficiently recovered to converse, we began to make mutual inquiries touching our present position and future prospects.
“Upon my conscience,” observed the fosterer, “now that we have made the experiment, I can’t say that I can either discover the advantages your honoured father held out by letter, or the fun Mr. Crotty described by ‘word of mouth,’ as attendin’ these same sieges and assaults. To my mind Vittoria was the thing;—beautiful day-light;—your enemy decently before ye—if a man dropped, his comrades stepped over him as if they were treading upon eggs, and he was removed to the rear with every civility, to find a full flask on every body he turned over, if he only had the luck to be settled in a decent neighbourhood. Here—if this be fun, may the Lord deliver us from such fun in future! We are stuck down for two hours shivering in a ditch. Whiz! goes a mine—‘That’s our mine, and the signal,’ says one engineer—‘The divil welcome the news!’ says a second—and off we go blundering in the dark, the Lord knows where. Before we’re well in motion, bang goes another explosion! ‘That’s the enemy’s says another—and not a doubt about that, for up go the forlorn hope, body and bones. ‘Push on, lads,’ cry the officers;—one falls over a d——-d rock, another souses into a pool of water; on one side the French are firing like the divil—on the other, and I suppose, out of personal respect, our own batteries consider it a compliment to knock us over by the dozen. Well, we top the breach at last—and a beautiful prospect it is!—In front, a jump of twenty feet into a blazing house, or you’r shot down right and left, like crows in a wheatfield. “Arrah!” said Mark Antony, “if your father wrote every day in the week, not forgettin’ Sunday, the divil a such a night of pleasure will I put in if I can help it. But, Mister Hector, what do ye suppose they’ll do with us?”
“Why, possibly, keep us here for half our lives, and send us into France to put in the remainder of them pleasantly.”
“Ah, then, if they do,” said the fosterer, “they’r cuter * than they think. By all that’s beautiful!” and Mark flourished his sounder arm over the blanket,—“I’ll be off in a fortnight.”
“No, not so soon,” said a voice—laughingly; and Cammaran stepped from behind a wooden screen which had hidden him while approaching. At the same moment a salvo of artillery thundered from the Chofre battery—the guns of San Sebastian replied. The truce had expired—and the game of death had recommenced.
“So end civilities,” said the Frenchman; “still it is comfortable to know, that the calls of humanity have been attended to. I have applied for what you call in England ‘a billet’—that is, the commandant’s permission to reside during your convalesence in a private house, instead of being exposed, as you would be otherwise, to the inconvenience of a crowded hospital. For this indulgence I have given my parole, and that leaves you at liberty to visit any part of the city within the enceinte of the place when you are able to walk abroad. I know that my good friend here, even if leg and arm were not hors de combat as they are, would scarcely run away, when that act would compromise my honour.”
“Oh—by this book;” exclaimed the fosterer, raising himself upon his elbow—“we’re fairly ruined, Hector avourneeine! Here we’re regularly on the langle. Arrah—Mister Cammaran, dear, I know ye meant it for the best—but, why the divil did ye make a bargain of the kind? De ye think ye could get dacently out of it? Och—if we were only back in the country we were in, when we first became acquainted with that Empecinado, as they call him—it was no sayin’ what luck might turn up still. This moment, going to be hanged—the next, drinking as if ye were at a priest’s funeral. ‘Turn him out to be shot,’ was the order one minute—while, ‘turn him for brandy and water,’ was the next. One minute you wern’t master of a scultogue—the next ye were riding in the saddle of a French marshal. Of all the inns I ever stopped at, I never met any where they pay scores as they do in Spain. You go to bed in peace and quietness, and you’re bundled out before you’re well asleep, to be told, that you must light your way through a yard-full of hussars, and swim a river afterwards that would give a water-dog rheumatism for life. You stop at the next public house, and receive all manner of civility. Of course, you’re expected to pay up. Not at all: one black look from an ill-visaged gentleman who accompanies you; and the account is rubbed off the slate in a jiffy. Excepting there was over much shooting and hanging—a pleasanter excursion I never would desire—but, may the Lord forgive us! we were not sufficiently thankful at the time.”
“Well,—my dear friend,” said Captain Cammaran, with a smile. “My engagement is only binding while you are invalided. When perfectly recovered, my parole is easily recalled—and I have no doubt you will be very comfortable in La Mota. Plenty of fresh air—and free liberty to seek any corner you may fancy, as the least unlikely for a shell to drop upon. In the mean time, I recommend you to accept the billet I have obtained—and by the way, in the house of a Spaniard in worse odour with the old commandant than Don Francisco La Pablos, you could hardly have been established. But I have already ordered apartments to be prepared, and will see that every attention shall be paid to you. This place will be presently intolerable, and the sooner you remove to your new quarters all the better.”
The last remark was unhappily correct. The church filled rapidly with the wounded. Every minute fresh sufferers were brought in—and the scene of butchery—merciful and necessary—which commenced, was to us, particularly disgusting. It was wonderful how differently men submitted to sad alternatives,—death or amputation. One, an officer of faultless symmetry, sternly rejected the advice of his kind attendants. “Nothing but the removal of the fractured limb can save you—you will die, otherwise,” said the French surgeon. “Well—be it so,” returned the sufferer calmly, “death is preferable to deformity. Lose no time with me—you may be serviceable to my poor comrade.” Immediately beside him, a young lad was stretched—I should say he was not nineteen—-a fine, florid, healthy looking Englishman. His wound had been a severe contusion—and a passing observation of the French surgeons, announced that his was a hopeless case. And yet, death visited him in mercy. He appeared to undergo no pain—and in fancy, conversed with a “darling mother” and his “little sister,” as he termed them—babbled about green fields and expired with a smile upon his lips, under the firm belief that he had returned to the home he loved, and was re-united to those dear objects whom he idolized.
I never felt myself more relieved, than when a French fatigue-party came, to remove, me on a stretcher. Weak from loss of blood—dispirited at the painful recollection that I was now about to undergo imprisonment, to whose duration none could name the limit—every thing around was calculated to increase those feelings of despondency. The gloomy building seemed desecrated by the purposes it had been turned to—and where the faithful had worshipped, the penitent had told the tale of sin and shame, and been forgiven—where love had been hallowed by holy rite, and supplications for the soul’s weal of the departed had arisen—in that the temple of peace, war’s horrid consequences were exhibited—and, in all the terrible variety which attends on death by violence, many a spirit was escaping from its mortal coil.
The house where I was about to take up my residence was situated close to the harbour, and, being at a distance from the breaches, was consequently, out of the fire of the besiegers. As we passed through the streets, I could not but remark the melancholy and deserted appearance that all around presented. The shops were unopened—the private dwellings jealously closed up—and the terrified inhabitants seemed not yet satisfied that the assault had failed, and danger was over for the present. When we reached the domicile of La Pablos, we found that our arrival had been duly announced. We were admitted into a narrow court-yard—and at the door of his mansion, the owner was waiting to receive us.
The appearance of my future host was not particularly prepossessing. Although stricken in years, his carriage was lofty and unbroken—and the expression of his countenance seemed that of a proud and daring spirit, obliged to bend for a time to circumstances, and stoop to a thraldom from which it secretly recoiled.
The Spaniard showed the way in—and I was placed on a comfortable bed, in an apartment very clean, but very plainly furnished. At the opposite side of the hall, a room had been provided for Mark Antony—for whose transit to these his new quarters, after I had been safely deposited, the stretcher and fatigue party were despatched.
“I will send you some linen—and that is more than many of our people could afford. In turn of duty, the escort of the convoy which marched for France on the 19th fell to my lot—and bitterly I lamented that I was not fated to witness the defeat, which we all considered as so certainly attendant on Lord Wellington’s advance upon Vittoria. The thing seems incomprehensible—and even yet we regard the king’s disaster almost as a dream. Well—let it pass—c’est fortune de guerre. The Emperor’s lieutenant is in the Pyrenees—and now, my Lord Wellington, look sharp!”
“Might not that cautionary hint, my dear Cammaran, be equally serviceable to your friend, the Duke of Dalmatia?” I replied, with a smile.
“No—no. From secret intelligence which has reached the fortress, a very few days will end your leader’s visionary prospects. What! enter France—carry the war over the frontier, and pollute the sacred soil! The thunderbolt is charged—and the hand is already present that will hurl it. But I must go. Duty will engage me the whole day, but in the evening I will visit you.”—Then turning to our host, Cammaran commended me and my companion to his especial attention.
“Let nothing in this case be wanted, Senhor—you stand already not very favourably with the Governor. Adieu, for a time, my friend”—and pressing my hand, the Frenchman took his departure.
I never saw a countenance on which scorn, hatred, and revenge, seemed struggling for mastery, until I noticed that of Don Francisco. When the door of the court-yard closed, he poured forth a torrent of anathemas—then turning to me, his features instantly relaxed—and approaching my couch he took my hand in his.
“Stranger, you are welcome. The name of Englishman I respect—and the Spaniard is an ingrate who does not. If my manner in receiving you was not as warm as it might have been, ascribe it to the true cause—the pestilential presence of yonder foreigner. The sight of these insolent oppressors turns my blood to gall—their very language is discord to my ears—I hate them with all a Spaniard’s hatred. But why display impotent rage in words?—‘Tis womanly—yet still, while the hand dares not strike a blow, the tongue finds some relief in venting the feelings of a surcharged breast—a maddened brain—in curses.”
I looked at La Pablos. His features were convulsed with passion. I had heard that many severities had been exercised by the French during the Peninsular conflict—and I concluded that Don Francisco had been one of the unhappy Spaniards who had suffered from the oppression of the invaders. The arrival of the fosterer, for that time, ended our conversation—the host quitting me to attend to this his second guest, and minister to the wants of Mark Antony.
Four days passed away—I had sufficiently recovered to be enabled to leave my room; and, leaning on the arm of a French soldier, who was daily in attendance on me by a special order from the Governor, I walked for a short distance every morning on the ramparts which overlooked the bay. My wound, though severe at the time that I received it, was one that healed rapidly—the bullet having slanted from the rib it struck against, and instead of taking what would have been otherwise a mortal direction, it inflicted a painful, but fortunately what proved a superficial injury, The fosterer was also convalescent—the ball had passed through his thigh without injuring the bone in its transit—his arm healed rapidly—and in a few days more the learned leach who attended us, announced that Mark Antony would be, as the fosterer termed it himself, “right upon his pins again.”
So far we had reason for self-gratulation—and as far as kindness from the host, and constant attentions on the part of Cammaran would go, we had no reason to complain of our captivity. But other circumstances allayed the satisfaction we should otherwise have felt—for every day the prospect of deliverance became more distant, and matters assumed a gloomier aspect.
Lord Wellington, on hearing of the miscarriage at San Sebastian, came down from the covering army to ascertain the causes of the failure, and, as it was reported, to adopt immediate means to remedy the disaster, and make himself master of the place. But, alas! our hopes that the speedy capture of the city would restore us to liberty again, ended on the morning of the 27th. Overnight, the batteries had been disarmed and the guns removed to Passages—the siege was turned into a blockade—and taking advantage of the confusion, the garrison sallied from the horn-work, surprised the soldiers in the trenches, and carried back more than two hundred prisoners. Rumour also was busy on the wing. It was said that Soult had already taken the offensive—that the allied forces in advance, had been attacked, defeated, and driven back—and an order, directing Sir Thomas Graham to march on the Bidassoa with all his disposable troops, confirmed the unwelcome news.
The intelligence that Napoleon’s lieutenant had actually commenced operations to relieve Pampeluna and San Sebastian, and afterwards celebrate his maker’s birth-day in Vittoria, was perfectly correct. On the same morning and hour, while we had made our sanguinary and unsuccessful attempt upon the fortress, Soult commenced his daring operations, by driving in the pickets and scaling the pass of Altobisco.
Although desperately outnumbered, the allies held their mountain position most obstinately—and for hours the combat raged with unabated fury, among wild and Alpine heights five thousand feet above the level of the sea. This protracted defence allowed time for others of the allied brigades to come, while a dense fog prevented the French marshal from executing the general attack he intended to have made with overwhelming numbers. Cole held his position with comparatively little loss—and when night came, finding his right turned at Orbaiceta, he cleverly retreated during the darkness, carrying ten thousand men safely through mountain passes, which rendered a regressive movement in the face of thirty thousand French bayonets a delicate and dangerous attempt. The position of Roncesvalles was consequently abandoned—and the first great effort from which Soult had expected far different results, left him with the allied brigades still like lions in the passes, and seven leagues of Alpine country interposed between him and Pampeluna, the grand object of his operations.
On the morning of the 26th, the French marshal resumed the offensive. A day of occasional combats and severe marching, while the English generals slowly and steadily fell back, produced no greater results than those attendant upon yesterday. Night came—and Soult, with altered convictions as to the probability of eventual success, waited for morning to try his fortunes in the field anew.
The third trial was certainly more propitious. The Aretesque and Maya passes were attacked in great force, and, aided by a partial surprise, the French were enabled to drive the pickets back upon their supports,—and eventually, but after the most desperate fighting, the allied position was won. Four Portuguese guns were captured—and the French, elevated by this success, pressed the reduced battalions, who still retired, but slowly and sullenly, blocking up each ridge or pass they defended with the bodies of the dead and dying. At six o’clock, completely worn out with fatigue, their numbers reduced to a third, their ammunition almost expended, the rocky heights of Atchiola were about to be abandoned—but at the moment, a brigade of the seventh division came opportunely up—the battle was sternly renewed, and the French forced to retire from the disputed mountain, and occupy the pass of Maya which they had won so dearly. In these sanguinary and protracted combats, Soult, with an expenditure of fifteen hundred men, gained a few miles of mountain and four disabled guns—a miserable trophy for such a waste of blood.
Nothing could surpass the triumph of the garrison when the intelligence of the marshal’s advance was confirmed—and the affairs of these three days mountain warfare were grossly mistated. Roncesvalles and Linzoain were described as brilliant actions—glorious to the arms of France; while Maya was exaggerated into a crowning victory.
But the hours of Soult’s temporary success were numbered. On his return from San Sebastian, Wellington heard of the French attack on the evening of the 27th, and hurrying forward to San Estevan, which he reached the morning of the 28th—there ascertained the true position of affairs. His plans were formed with his accustomed rapidity and decision—and he determined to concentrate in front of Pampeluna, and retreat by the valley of the Lanz.
In the meantime, the fortress profiting by the cessation of the investment, received ample supplies of stores and ammunition by sea from France, and in return transmitted back the sick and wounded, thus getting relieved of the most troublesome incumbrance with which a beleaguered city is incommoded. New defences were planned and executed—former damages repaired—the works were generally strengthened—the magazines stored with powder and provisions—and San Sebastian was, in this interval, rendered stronger than when the besiegers first broke ground.
All these events to me held out a melancholy prospect. It was already intimated that on the first favourable opportunity the prisoners would be forwarded to France—and in that case, captivity and the war would be coeval. A yearning after home momentarily increased. Isidora was ever present—and I cursed the hour that, for the bauble, fame, I had quitted the land of liberty and love. Mark Antony bore thraldom even more impatiently than I. He cursed France, Spain, and Portugal in a breath—read a letter from the rat-catcher once a day—and another, I fancy from the lady of his love, “every minute i’ th’ hour.”
“What the devil are we to do, Mark?” I inquired, after we had groaned in unison until both were weary of complaining.
“Do!” exclaimed the fosterer, “Give the thieves leg-bail, and ‘cut our lucky’ the first opportunity.”
There was wisdom in Mark Antony’s advice, and I determined to follow it.