Adventures of a Soldier, Written by Himself Being the Memoirs of Edward Costello, K.S.F. Formerly a Non-Commissioned Officer in the Rifle Brigade, Late Captain in the British Legion, and Now One of the Wardens of the Tower of London; Comprising Narratives of the Campaigns in the Peninsula under the Duke of Wellington, and the Subsequent Civil Wars in Spain.

Adventures Of A Soldier

Written By Himself.

Being

The Memoirs

Of

Edward Costello, K.S.F.

FORMERLY A NON-COMMISSIONED OFFICER IN THE RIFLE BRIGADE, LATE CAPTAIN IN THE BRITISH LEGION, AND NOW ONE OF THE WARDENS OF THE TOWER OF LONDON;

Comprising

NARRATIVES OF THE CAMPAIGNS IN THE PENINSULA UNDER THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON, AND THE SUBSEQUENT CIVIL WARS IN SPAIN.

What, must I tell it thee? As o’er my ev’ning fire I musing sat Some few days since, my mind’s eye backward turn’d Upon the various changes I have pass’d— How in my youth with gay attire allur’d, And all the grand accoutrements of war, I left my peaceful home: Then my first battles, When clashing arms, and sights of blood were new: Then all the after-chances of the war; Ay, and that field, a well-fought field it was.

Count Basil.

Second Edition.

London: Colburn And Co., Publishers, Great Marlborough Street. 1852.

LONDON: Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.

To

General Sir A. F. Barnard, K.C.B, K.C.H.

&c. &c. &c.

Colonel Of The Rifle Brigade,

And Governor Of Chelsea College,

This Volume

Is most respectfully Dedicated,

By The Author,

Edward Costello.

Preface

To

The First Edition.

So many Lives of Soldiers have already been written, and by abler pens than mine, and so many tales have arisen out of the chequered scenes of the late Peninsular War, and the short existence of the British Legion, that I dare not be very sanguine of creating for my work any great degree of interest.

But every man’s life is a volume of change, felt and expressed according to his peculiar dispositions and feelings, which are as varied under a military as they can be under a civil life. Could the never to be forgotten Tom Crawley but give his own detail!—could Long Tom of Lincoln, once one of the smartest of our regiment, now the forlorn bone-picker of Knightsbridge, but pen his own eventful track—could Wilkie, Hetherington, Plunket, and many others of those humbler heroes, conquerors in such well-contested fields as Rodrigo, Badajoz, Salamanca, and Waterloo, &c., whose exploits form the principal attractions in this volume, and whose stubborn spirits and perforated bodies formed key-stones for the fame of our immortal Wellington, whose standard might have found a sandy support but for the individual bravery of the soldiers of his invincible divisions: could they but recount their varied casts of fortune—who would fail to read their histories and help to rear a cypress to their memories?

With these considerations, I send this volume forth, trusting that the reader will bear in mind that he who wrote it was both actor and spectator in the scenes he has narrated, and feels assured that by their perusal, he will be enabled to guess at what is generally felt and experienced by the individual soldier.

In the British Legion I held a medium rank. I saw not only what its soldiers were, but caught a glance at their officers: with them my military career flickered out its last moments of existence. Its brighter fortunes, short as they were, however, gave me sufficient opportunity to value those unfortunate men—my humbler comrades, and to be convinced by their deeds, that the British soldier, with sickness, oppression, the lash, and other distresses, still possessed his old spirit, and was as fitted to reap laurels as he had been in more glorious times.

Edward Costello.

Contents.

Chapter I.

Introduction of myself to the reader—To the service—Who would not be a Soldier?—A recruit—Wilkie—Cupid’s Row-dow—The service endangered by another—Arrival at Liverpool—I am made prisoner, but not by the French—Recaptured by our sergeant—Lichfield round-house—St. Paul’s—I join my regiment, and the regiment joins us—Great numbers of rank and file burnt alive 1

Chapter II.

I join Captain O’Hare’s company—He falls in a passion—The “fair” and “unfair” appointment—Disappointment—Things of a private nature—Tom Crawley—An example—The Hero—How to catch “flats” in “squads”—New way to tap a barrel—A Rifleman’s plan for sweeping chimneys and tap-rooms—Pipe-clay and parade—The regiment embark for Portugal 6

Chapter III.

Tom Plunket’s Military Career 11

Chapter IV.

Arrival in Portugal—Crauford’s forced marches—Teetotalism with a vengeance—The effect of the opposite extreme—Spanish mode of keeping a man from stealing wine—False reports—Talavera—We arrive the day after the fight—A battle scene—Sir Arthur Wellesley—General Cuesta—Dough Boy Hill—The fever—I am taken ill—Elvas hospital—How to cure a fever—Convalescence—Burial scenes—Our Sextons—March to my regiment—The Germans—Pig-skins in danger, our own also—Captain Pakenham—Hanging matters—Two dozen of each—Not sham pain—German discipline 19

Chapter V.

Old Trowsers—Sleeping and waking—O’Hare again—Colonel Beckwith—Two upon one—Meagher—Barba del Puerco—General Crauford taken by surprise—The Portuguese incorporation with the light division—Rodrigo—Gallegos—The Beacon night scenes on picquet—Lord Wellington—Napoleon’s Marriage—Crauford’s stratagem—The French spy—We retreat to Fort Conception 28

Chapter VI.

Villa de Mula—Night expedition to Villa de Puerco—Both parties retire—Death of Colonel Talbot—A soldier’s grave—The effects of a miscarriage—Fort Conception blown up—A mistake and no mistake—Another mistake, a ball in the right knee—The bridge over the Coa—A friend in need, a friend indeed—Charity abroad and at home—A surgeon’s advice—A blessing—A cough, an uncomfortable companion—Spanish apathy—We arrive at Fraxedas 34

Chapter VII.

Mondego—The Coimbra—Figueras—The maggots—Lisbon—Battle of Busaco—Retreat to Torres Vedras—Lord Wellington’s generalship—Belem—Jack ashore and Jonathan also—Yankey and Lankey—Billy M’Nabb—The Highland kite and Lowland tail—Josh. Hetherington—Sperum Poco—Portuguese piety—Aruda—Doing what the enemy left undone—Tom Crawley again—In state—A hot berth—Our enemies laugh at Tom in his glory 41

Chapter VIII.

The enemy retire upon Santarem—We retire upon Vallée—The bridge over the Rio Mayor—The French out-lying sentries—Their camp ground—Comparative quietude—The still—Escape from assassination—Tom Crawley’s ghost-story—The “Death and Glory men”—The charms of a Brunswickian appetite—Their desertions—Sergeant Fleming—His court-martial—We meet our enemies on the water and contend—A comment on both sides 50

Chapter IX.

General Crauford leaves for England—Sir William Erskine takes the command—Mounseer Strauss—We enter Santarem—Scenes of horror—Mile posts of the “grande armée”—Retaliations of the Portuguese—Two upon one—Pombal—Smart work—German gallantry—Auction—A new division—Redinha—An accident—Long Tom of Lincoln—The deserter—A return of favours 58

Chapter X.

Our march upon Condeixa—Tom Crawley again—Hot and cold—Affair of Casal Nova—Death of Major Stewart—The French continue retreating—The two brothers—Night scene—The French continue their havoc—The Caçadore—The pet goat—Lord Wellington again—Our old Colonel—The promise of the Staff—The Recruits—British enthusiasm inspired—The two French prisoners—Particulars of Massena’s retreat and state of his troops—St. Patrick’s Day—If I had a donkey—The river Caira—Our distressing privations—O’Brien and the old Patrone—Arrival at Friexedas—Adjutant Stewart killed—Sabugal—Carrying of the enemy’s position—Encomiums of our Colonel—Death of Lieut. Arbuthnot—Disagreeable bed-fellow—A light on the subject—Evacuation of Portugal by the French, Almeida excepted—The British follow into Spain—Arrival at Gallegos—The enemy active in Rodrigo—The skulker—Poor Burke—Expedition and disappointment in search of a convoy 66

Chapter XI.

Our advance videttes, and the French cavalry—Manœuvring in front of Villa Formosa—The Suttler and the Dragoons—Sergeant-Major Sharp—Morning of the 5th May—General Crauford returns—Portuguese welcome—Fuentes d’Onor—French Dragoon challenges to single combat—Retreat on Navez d’Aver—Charges of cavalry—A deep game by the French—Squaring it with the enemy—The 79th Highlanders—A prisoner against his will—The French sentry and General Crauford—The Light Dragoons again—Sergeant-Major Sharp again—Scene of discipline—That lash disappointed—The German fratricide 77

Chapter XII.

Almeida closely invested by the fifth division, but not close enough—Evacuation by the French—Suicide of the Colonel of the 4th—Sabugal—We cross the Coa—The comet—Much ado about nothing—Tom Crawley’s fears—March through Castello Branco—Portalegre, &c., to Campo Mayor—Tom Crawley poisoned—Blockade of Ciudad Rodrigo—Atalaya—Hunting excursion with the Staff—Our third battalion joins us—Colonel Barnard—Tommy Searchfield—Middy ashore—Deficiency of rations—A new arrival—His adventure—Spanish spite—The pigs—Rodrigo relieved by the French—Our division—We rejoin the army—Battle of El Bodon—We return to Guinaldo—Again invest Rodrigo—January, 1812—Fort Piquerine stormed—The stripping of the prisoners by the Portuguese—Tom Crawley again—Cure for a skulk 86

Chapter XIII.

Cold reception—Preparation to storm Rodrigo—I join the “Forlorn-Hope”—The breaches—General Crauford killed—Uniacke mortally wounded—Major Napier wounded—Taking of the town—A rough customer—Wilkie again—Death of Wilkie—A gift—The left breach after the battle—Wilkie’s grave—Horrors of a storm—This is my niece, Sir—The right breach—Captain Uniacke—The Light Division leave Rodrigo in disguise—Who the devil are those fellows?—We enter El Bodon 94

Chapter XIV.

Burial of General Crauford—Anecdote of Ladrone! Ladrone!—Corporal Miles—Burial of Uniacke—A French seat of honour in jeopardy—A wolf! a wolf!—Deserters shot—Scene of execution—March to Castello de Vide across the Tagus—Execution of Corporal Arnal for desertion—Badajoz—A man dreaming of his head being off with his head on; singular fulfilment—Tom Crawley’s dislike to conchology—His alarms—The Duke of Wellington saluted by the enemy—Remarkable feature of the case—A French curative or an ill-wind, &c. 102

Chapter XV.

Storming of Badajoz—I join the Forlorn-Hope again—Presentiments of Major O’Hare and Captain Jones—Their deaths—The stormers—The Ladder-men—I am wounded—The French prisoner—O’Brien—Sacking of the town—Scene of horror—Reflections—The Duke of Wellington and his men—Johnny Castles introduced with a rope round his neck—The drummer-boy—A firelock goes off, and so does a Corporal—I return to the camp—Casualties at Badajoz—The French prisoner and a new acquaintance—His account of the evacuation of Almeida—His opinion of the British soldiers 114

Chapter XVI.

I recover from my wounds and rejoin my regiment at Ituera—“Nine holes”—March for Salamanca—Sergeant Battersby—The grenadier and the murder of his wife, &c., &c.—Marmont out-manœuvred—Assault of Fort St. Vincent—Retreat of the enemy—We arrive at Rueda—The wine-vaults—My descent into one—Fright, &c.—Manœuvring of the two armies—Skirmishing—A gallant Frenchman—Pratt and his prisoner 126

Chapter XVII.

Battle of Salamanca—My wounds break out afresh—I go into the Hospital at Salamanca—The Germans and their prisoners—A recognition—Michael Connelly—His death and burial—Josh. Hetherington again—A new acquaintance—His accounts of the Guerillas, &c.—A keepsake for a sweetheart—The Guerilla—The army retrace their steps to Salamanca—Proceed to Rodrigo—Heavy wet—Spanish payment; acknowledgment—A dry coat—Lord Charles Spencer and his acorns—We continue our march—The babes in the wood—Hard skirmishing with the enemy’s advanced-guard—A woman in distress—Pepper—Hunger, cold, and fatigue—Finish of the Burgos retreat 133

Chapter XVIII.

Head-quarters at Grenalda—Don Julian Sanchez, the celebrated Guerilla Chief—Weakness of our numbers—Incorporation of Spaniards into our regiments—A thief—Punishment of, and opinion of the men—General orders for a collection among the men and officers to relieve Russian losses—A ball, in which thousands were present—Campaign of 1813 commenced—The Life Guards and the Blues join us—The French retreat to Burgos—Secret expedition for bread—Our surprise—Retreat—General Sir Lowry Cole—His temple spectacles made use of to reconnoitre—Our escape—A few remarks—Three alternatives—A cavalry affair on the 18th June—German brotherhood again 144

Chapter XIX.

We encamp near Puebla, on the road to Vittoria—Battle of Vittoria—A man obliged to hold his jaw—Affair of Bayonets—The 88th—Blanco—Daly—French defeated—A prisoner rescued—The carriage of Joseph Napoleon—His wife, &c.—His bâton—A prise—Attempt to rob me—Sergeant Lee—Night scenes after the battle—The sale of the spoils—I distribute my money for safety—We march on Salvatierra—Halt at Pampeluna—Another brush wanted—Lesaca—The enemy on the heights of Santa Barbara dislodged—The French attempt to relieve Pampeluna—The Bidassoa—The French too late for the “fare”—We also—A race back by way of “hurry”—The Regiment’s birth-day—Sergeant Fawfoot’s loss and re-instalment—My treasure—My comrade—His good faith—Siege and storm of San Sebastian—The four hundred gallant Frenchmen—Their charge and escape—The 52nd and their badges—Remarks, &c. 153

Chapter XX.

We encamp on the banks of the Bidassoa—Scenes on the water-edge—A narrow escape with a lady in question,“Ah, there’s the rub”—Tom Crawley and the biscuits—Our third battalion carry the heights of Vera—The French camp, “the last of the French”—The Pyrenees—The mountain father—Up hill and down dale—The battle of the Nivelle—Manly and Spanish affection—Blanco again—His gallantry—Tom Crawley—A hug from a granny dear—The last struggle—Crawley’s departure—A tear for Tom—A reel—St. Jean de Lus—The French endeavour to make a stand—Colonel Sir Andrew Barnard wounded—Death messengers fly fast 168

Chapter XXI.

9th December—Our picquets driven in—We are nearly outflanked—We retire—A rally under the eye of Wellington—Lieutenant Hopwood and Sergeant Brotherwood killed—Excellent feeling between the French and English soldiers—Consequent General Order—Johnny Castles in the advance—Picquet-house—Murder at Tarbes—Blanco again—Collection made for the widow—Battle of Toulouse—“Amende Honorable”—We encamp on the banks of the Garonne—“Fall in”—The Spaniards make a mistake—General Picton rectifies it—The enemy retreat into Toulouse—They evacuate the town—French leave—Theatre of Toulouse—“A Rifleman on the look out.” 176

Chapter XXII.

We continue to pursue the enemy on their retreat—Halted on the second day—A carriage brings Soult and peace—French troops disbanded—Friendly intercourse with our men—Castle Sarazin—Our men prefer the ground for a bed, in preference to a feather one—The French sergeant—The invitation—Parade—The dinner—Farewell to the Spaniards and Portuguese—Cupid enlisting deserters—Poor Blanco—Embarkation for England—The ‘Ville de Paris’—The sergeant in hope of a wife—Arrival at Portsmouth—The sergeant in search of a wife—Their meeting and parting 182

Chapter XXIII.

Quartered in Dover—Receive our new clothing, &c.—May, 1815—Receive orders to embark for Ostend—We arrive safe—Bruges—Ghent—Brussels—15th of June—Belong to the fifth division under General Picton—Descend the wood of Soignies to Waterloo—Duke of Wellington arrives from Brussels—Battle of Waterloo—I receive a wound in my right hand, shatters one of my fingers—Return to Brussels—The pretty house-keeper—The child—Its dead mother—Genappe—Scenes on the road to Brussels—Arrival at Brussels—Numbers of wounded in the streets—Kindness and attention of the Brussels’ ladies—The fair surgeon 189

Chapter XXIV.

Brussels’ hospitals—The British and French soldiers under amputation—I lose my finger—Another loss also—I leave the hospital and am removed to the Provost Guard—The Belgian marauders bared to the skin—The point of honour—Sensation produced on their comrades—The Belgian regiment under arms—Guard-house surrounded—Narrow escape—Removal of the Belgians—Assassination of a French Count by a Cossack officer—Medals sent from England—Consequent dissensions—Poor Wheatley—Quarters at Mouvres—Augustine—An old acquaintance—A rival—Augustine leaves her father’s house—Pursued—Her father’s despair—Removal to Cambray—The regiment receives orders to embark for England—We part 197

Chapter XXV.

Disembark at Dover—Shorn Cliff Barracks—I am Invalided, and pass the Board at Chelsea—Augustine’s arrival—Sixpence a day—Sir Andrew Barnard—Sir David Dundas—My hopeless condition—Blood money—The Honourable Doctor Wellesley—Mr. Walsford—Augustine returns with me to France—I retrace my steps alone to Calais—To Dover—Dreadful extremes—A new field for practice—A friend in need—Another “Forlorn-Hope”—Colonel Ford—A Rifleman without an appetite—Death of Augustine 207

Chapter XXVI.

I enter the British Legion as Lieutenant—I raise a regiment of Riflemen—Appoint the non-commissioned officers—Recruiting districts—The peer and the dustmen—General Evans thanks—Embark at Gravesend—Voyage across the Bay of Biscay—Arrival in Spain—We land at Portugaletta—Pat’s logic—Spanish sentries shoot a man by mistake—A bad omen—Men confined for not wearing that which they never had—Modern rifle officers—Colonel de Rottenburgh—Legion officers classified—Fine appearance of the men—Rifles march to Zorossa—Head quarters at Bilboa—Bad quarters of the men—Severe drills—Bad beginning—The men begin to droop through ill-treatment—“Cats” indiscriminately used—Lieutenant Robinson drowned 213

Chapter XXVII.

Intention of the Spanish Government respecting our winter quarters—March to Vittoria—Enemy oblige us to go round—The rear of the Legion engaged—Baggage divided from it—Commencement of the plunder at Bilboa—Arrival at Castro—Enemy supposed to be in the vicinity—We remain at Castro—March the next day—Mountainous route—An accident—The pass of Las Goras—March to Bonia—My company placed in the advance—Orders to prepare for cavalry—Doubts and fears—A narrow escape—Arrival at Breviesca—Breviesca—Head Quarters—My old Patrone—Hints to revolutionists—System of regular drill begun—Riflemen drilled collectively—I practice my company in sham fighting—Provosts and hardship—Lay in a winter stock of sickness—Legion paid up to November, 1835—Last payment—March of death—We march for Vittoria—Pass of Pancorbo—The dead Patrone—Approach to Vittoria—My old recollections—The 45th—Halt about three miles from the city—Spanish troops come out to meet us—Triumphant entry into Vittoria—The veteran Colonel 222

Chapter XXVIII.

Vittoria as it then was—A bad wind that blows nobody any good—Rifles rather comfortable at first—Severe weather—Morning scenes and cries in Vittoria—The flogging system—Men not starved—A comparison of facts—Hospitals get crammed with sick—Singular economy—The old Colonel’s two sons—The Chapelgorris decimated by order of Espartero—The Rifles march to Matuca—The whole Legion assemble at Matuca—Cordova engaged—A Carlist village—A confession—A night retreat—Colonel’s anxiety—Arlaban—Change of looks both in the men and the inhabitants—March to Trevina—Sharp winter of 1835 232

Chapter XXIX.

Return to Vittoria—The mortality and state of the hospitals—Deaths among the medical officers—Scenes in the wards—Legion supposed to be poisoned—Don José Elgoez—His first ordeal—A discovery—Execution of the two bakers—Description of the “Garotta”—Legion march and counter-marches—Mode of warfare adopted by General Evans—Frequent desertion 238

Chapter XXX.

Sudden and unjust dismissal of the officers—Copies from General Orders—Spanish compliments to the French and British Legions—Cordova between two fires—Some French officers resign—Difference betwixt the British and French Legion—Parting moments between a French Colonel and his men—Legion receive orders to proceed to San Sebastian—The sick left behind to guard the sick—March through the country to Santander—Arrival at the Convent of Carbon—New clothing—Recruits, &c.—My opinion of the Legion 244

Chapter XXXI.

Embark for San Sebastian—A thirty-two-pounder, and no mistake—A bloody force—Brains where they were wanted, unfortunately—A prize—Arrival at San Sebastian—Anticipated attack—Colonel de Rottenberg taken ill—Major Fortescue—Opinions—His maiden speech—Two companies broke up the others of the regiment—5th of May—Attack on the lines of San Sebastian—A hullabaloo—6th Scotch taken for enemies—Helter-skelter—I receive a severe wound—Am carried into San Sebastian—My letter to my wife 250

Chapter XXXII.

The loss of my company in the late action—Apprehensions about my leg—Medal and pewter—A candidate for Knighthood—Captain Plunkett—His death, &c.—A Rifleman assassinated—Fire-eaters—Sketch of San Sebastian—Lord John Hay’s battery—Ramble towards Passages—Something serious—Awkward squads—Singular decline of Spanish Bigotry—A Sectarian alarmed 256

Chapter XXXIII.

Disorganised state of the Legion—Three months’ pay—A holiday—The 6th and 8th Scotch lay down their arms—Reasons—My wishes to retire from the Legion—I give up the command of the company—A reflection—I embark for Santander—Report myself to Colonel Arbuthnot—My new command—The convent of Carbon—Short description—Inhabitants of—First sample—A speculation—A Quarter-master’s conscience—I place him under arrest—A horse! A horse! 263

Chapter XXXIV.

An orderly dragoon puts us all in confusion—A stir—Retreat upon Santander—The dangers of forgetfulness—Cure for a fever—We return to our old quarters—Captain Shields and Major Clark’s visit—An appeal—A new mode of raising “Volunteers”—Glory or death by famine—One hundred and twenty men are starved into the service again—Scene in Santander—British soldiers and subjects—More assassinations—A cold-blooded Spaniard—A peace-loving Commandant—Captain Oakley and his “cats”—Continued horrors of the convent—Assassination—A relief from purgatory—A conclusion 268

Adventures

Of

A Soldier.

Chapter I.

To give a young gentleman right education, The army’s the only good school in the nation.

Swift.

Introduction of myself to the reader—To the service—Who would not be a Soldier?—A recruit—Wilkie—Cupid’s Row-dow—The service endangered by another—Arrival at Liverpool—I am made prisoner, but not by the French—Recaptured by our sergeant—Lichfield round-house—St. Paul’s—I join my regiment, and the regiment joins us—Great numbers of rank and file burnt alive.

IT has ever been the fashion in story telling to begin, I believe, with the birth of the hero, and as I do not forget, for a moment, that I am my own, I can only modestly say with young Norval I am,

... ... ... of parentage obscure Who nought can boast, but my desire to be A soldier.

I was born at the town of Mount Mellick, Queen’s County, Ireland, on the 26th October, 1788. When I was seven years old my father removed to Dublin, where he had been appointed to the situation of tide waiter. As soon as I became a good sized youth, my father bound me apprentice to a cabinet-maker, in King William Street, in the aforesaid city; but urged by a roving and restless spirit, I soon grew tired of my occupation, which I left on morning early “without beat of drum.”

I next went to live with an uncle, a shoemaker, who employed several men to work in his business. Among these was an old soldier, who had lost a leg, fighting under Sir Ralph Abercrombie, in Egypt. From this old blade, I think it was, I first acquired that martial ardour that so frequently infects young men in time of war. There was, indeed, no resisting the old pensioner’s description of glory. I became red hot for a soldier’s life, and although rejected as too young for the regulars, I “listed,” as it is technically called, in the Dublin Militia on the 17th of June, 1806.

At the latter end of the following year, our regiment was stationed at Londonderry, in the north of Ireland, where I volunteered into the 95th, since made the “Rifle Brigade.” It was rather singular, but I remember I was the only volunteer from the regiment who joined the rifles.

After receiving my bounty of the eighteen guineas (£4 of which were deducted for my kit, which I was to have on joining), the sum allowed at that time to those who volunteered from the militia, I took the mail coach for Dublin, where I found a recruiting party of my new regiment, consisting of one sergeant, a corporal and six privates. I must say I felt highly delighted with the smart appearance of the men, as well as with their green uniform. The sergeant proposed that I should remain in Dublin, being as it were, almost a native of that city, from which circumstance he thought I might materially assist in raising recruits.

Recruiting, on the pay of a private soldier, is anything but pleasant, and particularly if he be confined to the mere shilling a-day, doled out to him once a-week, for he not unfrequently spends it all the first night he receives it. I myself had woefully experienced this, having been frequently for days without food, through my irregularities and my unwillingness to acquaint my friends that I was so near them.

I was crawling about one day in this manner, heartily tired of my first sample of military life, garbed in an old green jacket of the sergeant’s, when I was accosted by a smart young fellow. After eyeing me rather shrewdly from head to foot for several seconds, “I say, green boy,” said he, “do you belong to the Croppies? D—— me, but I like your dress. What bounty do you give?”

“Eighteen guineas,” replied I.

“Come then,” said he, “tip us a shilling. I’m your man.” Unfortunately for me, I had not a farthing, for I had eaten nothing for that and the whole of the previous day. However, knowing that we received two pounds for every recruit, I hurried into a public-house near at hand, and requested of the landlord to lend me a shilling, telling him the use for which I wanted it. This he very kindly did, and I handed it over to the recruit, who, chucking it instantly on the counter, called for the worth of it in whiskey. While we remained drinking, the sergeant, whom I had sent for, arrived, and supplying us with money, the recruit passed the doctor and was sworn in for our corps.

His name was Wilkie, he was an Englishman; his father having been sent for from Manchester to superintend a glass manufactory in Dublin, accounted for his being here. He was a fine young fellow of about five feet eight inches in height, and possessed all the genuine elements of a soldier, that is, was quarrelsome, generous and brave, of which qualities he gave us a specimen the evening he enlisted, by quilting a pair of coal-heavers. After a few days, he introduced me to his family, consisting of his parents and a sister, a remarkably pretty girl of about seventeen. Had war not claimed me with her iron grasp as her proselyte, I, no doubt, should have interwoven my destinies with the silken web of Cupid, who, very naturally, when my youth and early passions are considered, for I was but nineteen, tapped me very seriously on the shoulder.

I, however, went on recruiting, and the two pounds I received for enlisting Wilkie, I handed over to my landlady in advance for future food, which my last misfortune had taught me to value. This precaution, as is generally the case, was now no longer necessary, for in a short time after, we enlisted so many recruits, that money became very plentiful, and I was enabled to get coloured clothes. While we remained in Dublin, I became a constant visitor at the house of Wilkie’s father, and the young lady I have alluded to, not disapproving of my advances, a serious attachment followed. But my stay threatened to be speedily terminated, as the sergeant and his party received orders to join his regiment immediately, then at Colchester,

Mars and Cupid _beat to arms_,

and placed me in the predicament of the donkey betwixt the hay stacks. I became bewildered as to which to take, both being, as it were, necessary to the calls of my nature.

At last, the time for parting arrived, which took place after a little private snivelling and simpering, and the usual vows of eternal fidelity, passion and remembrance—which last I have kept to this day. She and her mother accompanied Wilkie and myself towards the Pigeon House, Ringsend, and in something more than twenty-four hours, we found ourselves cheek by jowl with the quays of Liverpool. It was past midnight when _we_ cast anchor. We were ordered to remain on board; but Wilkie’s and my own anxiety to see the place took advantage of a loop hole in the waterman’s pocket, and we got ashore in our coloured clothes; from the lateness of the hour, however, we were obliged to take lodgings in a cellar. We had not been long settled and asleep below stairs, before I was awoke by the bright glare of a bull’s eye lanthorn staring me full in the face, and some five or six rough sailors all armed to the teeth, standing before us.

The first thing they did was to feel our hands, which, finding to be rather soft, one remarked to the other, that we had never been sailors, though nevertheless they took us as lawful prey. Wilkie, at first, wanted to fight with them, but was persuaded by half a dozen _bull dogs_, and some cutlasses to walk quietly to the tender, in which we most probably should have taken a voyage, but, for one thing, we had been _sea-sick_ and were _sick of the sea_, and on being examined by the officer on board the next morning, we gladly sent for our sergeant, who, claiming us, accordingly, we were liberated.

Our party continued their march, and Wilkie, whom for more reasons than one I was growing exceedingly attached to, was always my companion and many a scrape he got me into. He was continually in hot water; on several occasions and particularly at Lichfield where we were caged, for kicking up disturbances amongst some Irish recruits in which, however, I supported my friend, we were detained for want of means to pay for the damage done to a public-house, the scene of riot. Sergeant Crooks (for that was our sergeant’s name) had not unfortunately the means to satisfy this demand, having nothing but the men’s bare allowance to carry us to London. Meanwhile, we remained in the cage, which was in a very conspicuous part of the market-place.

The fact of an Irishman being there, seemed to have aroused all the little brats and blackguards of the neighbourhood, (my countrymen were not so plentifully scattered then as they are now), and every minute of the day we were annoyed by, “I say Paddy, Hilloa Paddy, which way does the bull run?” Taking both of us for Irish, the young devils kept twirling their fingers on their noses, even through the bars of the cage. The poor sergeant, who was a mild good fellow, arranged matters, after all, with the magistrates; the money was to be sent to the injured parties as soon as we joined the regiment, and deducted from our pay—which was done accordingly.

Wilkie, however, continued his pranks, and once while in London when on a visit to St. Paul’s Cathedral, stopped the pendulum of the clock, and set the bells ringing; for this we were again imprisoned, but escaped this time, by paying a fine of five shillings for being drunk, after which nothing occurred till we arrived at Colchester. Here I joined the 1st battalion, then under the command of Colonel Beckwith, afterwards known as General Sir Sidney Beckwith, and was attached to Captain Glass’s company.

Shortly after my arrival, the regiment was ordered to Spain, the campaign having then commenced. But not being perfect in my exercises, I was left behind as depôt, until time and practice had made me a greater proficient in Light Infantry duty. Although this was a necessary consequence to a mere recruit, at that time, I felt not a little mortification at being prevented sharing in the glory, which I believed the regiment about to reap.

As it was, however, I had no great reason to complain. I became an adept in my drill, and a tolerable shot along with some other recruits, before the regiment returned. This took place in the month of January, 1809, at Hythe, where we were at that time stationed, the depôt having moved from Colchester.

The Rifle regiment, it is well known, had distinguished itself, and had suffered severely, especially in the retreat to Corunna under the gallant Moore. From thence, they had embarked for England, where, on their landing, they presented a most deplorable sight. The appearance of the men was squalid and miserable in the extreme. There was scarcely a man amongst them, who had not lost some of his appointments, and many, owing to the horrors of that celebrated retreat, were even without rifles. Their clothing, too, was in tatters, and in such an absolute state of filth as to swarm with vermin. New clothing was immediately served out and the old ordered to be burnt, which order was put into execution at the back of our barracks amid the jests of the men, who congratulated each other on thus getting effectually rid of those myriads of enemies, that had proved such a source of personal discomfort to them abroad.

Chapter II.

I join Captain O’Hare’s company—He falls in a passion—The “fair” and “unfair” appointment—Disappointment—Things of a private nature—Tom Crawley—An example—The Hero—How to catch “flats” in “squads”—New way to tap a barrel—A Rifleman’s plan for sweeping chimneys and tap-rooms—Pipe-clay and parade—The regiment embark for Portugal.

SHORTLY after the return of the regiment, I was drafted into the company commanded by Captain Peter O’Hare; a man whose eccentric habits were equalled only by his extremely ugly countenance. Peter, for that was the cognomen by which he was generally known to the men, was as brave as a lion; and had risen, it was said, to his present commission from the ranks.

While here, he got in tow with a young lady of Hythe, whom he was in the habit frequently of escorting about the barracks and the neighbouring heights. This the men as often took advantage of, and throwing themselves in his way, when arm-in-arm with the lady, would ask any favour they might have required of him. This Peter, who we presumed had an eye to the opinion and future requital of, perhaps, his own wishes upon the fair one herself, would always readily grant; until, at last, through their importunities he became awake to the scheme, and swore he would flog the first man who made another attempt of the kind, when the lady was present.

A rather humorous adventure, which came to my knowledge through his servant, occurred while here. One day at Hythe with a dinner party, at which the young lady was present, he chanced, unintentionally, to give offence to some Militia officer, one of the party; the consequence was, that the next morning he received, what he perhaps supposed a _billet-doux_, but which, to his surprise, turned out to be a challenge. He was sitting shaving himself when the note was delivered to him by his servant, and of course dropped the razor to peruse it.

“John,” said he, calling his man back; “who brought this? Faith, it’s a challenge.”

“A gentleman!” replied John, “now waiting at the door.”

“Oh, then,” says Peter, “tell the gentleman that I am going to Spain, and that if he follows me, he’ll not find me behind a hedge; and with my compliments, tell him also to take back this bit of paper to the humbug who sent it; for by Jove!” he continued, closing the door, “captain’s commissions are not to be got every day!”

Our commanding officer, who was considered as one of the most humane of the whole army, was an excellent man, and well deserving of his fame; he seldom had recourse to the “cats,” thinking, perhaps, with a great deal of truth, that it was necessary only in extreme cases. The plan of punishment, generally adopted by him, was to put the offender on extra drill with all his accoutrements on. When, however, the men became incorrigible, he would order a six pound shot to be affixed to the leg, with a long chain attached to it, and so oblige them to trail it about with them.

We had in our regiment, at this time, a man of the name of Tom Crawley, who was always getting into scrapes, and who was one of those singular characters with which every regiment abounds. To enormous strength, and great meekness of temper, he added an infinity of dry humour, which I shall better illustrate by introducing him to the reader at once, as bearing no little part in my career—in which he first became known to me as one of the “incorrigibles.” Tom, however, made light of every punishment, even of the “six-pounder,” which he would generally chuck under his arm as if it were a mere toy. To obviate this, another move was made by our Colonel, which was the obliging him to wear a kind of long smock-frock, with a green cross painted on the back and front of it. The barrack in which we were, being only temporary, presented no outward wall to prevent our free intercourse with the town where Tom was a general favourite. Tom used, therefore, at night, while under disgrace, to take advantage of the dusk, and steal by the sentries into the town. Here, of course, his strange dress elicited innumerable queries.

“Arrah and sure!” Tom would reply with a knowing side leer of the eye, “sure and is it not the new regulation of the Duke of York, and musn’t all the likes of me, that are Catholics in our regiment, wear the cross on their dress!”

The first parade we had after our men had received their new equipments, was imprinted upon my memory from a circumstance attending it, that was well calculated to make an impression upon the mind of a youthful soldier, such as I then was; and to inspire that _esprit de corps_ in a regiment, which is absolutely essential to even disciplined valour. I had previously, more than once, heard a man of the name of Tom Plunket eulogised by the men for his courage. He was a smart, well-made fellow, about the middle height, in the prime of manhood; with a clear grey eye, and handsome countenance; and was a general favourite with both officers and men, besides being the best shot in the regiment.

On the occasion I have above alluded to, we were formed into hollow square, and ordered to face inwards; as we knew it was not a punishment parade, we naturally expected some address from the commanding officer, and wondering in our own minds what was coming, when Colonel Beckwith broke the silence by calling out:

“Private Thomas Plunket, step into the square.” All eyes, it is needless to say, were fixed upon Plunket, as he halted with his rifle shouldered, in the finest position of military attention, within a few paces of his officer.

“Here, men,” exclaimed the commanding officer, pointing to Plunket, “here stands a pattern for the battalion!” Then addressing Tom, he added, “I have ordered a medal for you, in approval of your late gallant conduct at Corunna. Present yourself, Sir, to the master tailor and get on a corporal’s stripes, and I will see you do not want higher promotion, as you continue to deserve it. I love to reward conduct such as yours has hitherto been!”

Making his salute, Tom retired, when we formed into column and marched back to our barracks, duly fired with a love of emulation to deserve the praise that had been bestowed on the fortunate Plunket. I have since often thought of the judicious conduct pursued by our Colonel in the foregoing instance, as I am convinced that it was attended with the happiest effects among many of the men, and, perhaps, indeed, induced much of that spirit of personal gallantry and daring for which our corps afterwards became celebrated.

Our regiment was shortly afterwards raised to one thousand strong, chiefly through volunteering from the Militia, our common medium of supply at the time at which I write, and it is justly due to the Militia regiments, to say, that in the knowledge and exercise of their military duties, during the war, they were very little inferior to the troops of the line. The men who joined our battalion, were in general a fine set of young fellows, and chiefly the _élite_ of the light companies of the different provincial corps.

For his qualifications, as before stated, Tom Plunket, with a few others, was selected to recruit from the Lincoln Militia, which lay at Hythe, while we remained in temporary barracks on the heights.

While the volunteering went on, the Militia colonels were ordered to give their men full liberty to do as they liked, and the better to obtain the object in view, barrels of beer with the heads knocked in, were, by order of government, placed in the different streets of the town, for those to partake of who chose. The butts, consequently, were dipped into by every kind of person with utensils of every description. This we must not wonder at, when we consider the double thirst those times gave rise to, “Barclay” as well as “Glory.”

Tom’s manner of attack was rather singular, but joined to the profusion of government, very efficacious. The Rifles, from the dark colour of their uniforms, and the total absence of all ornament, had gained the nick-name of “Sweeps,” an appellation, which, nevertheless, held out a kind of temptation to the “wide awake” of the squads. The pipe clay and button stick were always hateful to the eyes of all soldiers; but to none so much as to the Riflemen, who looked upon them as fitted only for men less useful than themselves. This, Tom took advantage of on all occasions. He was the soul of every company he mixed in, and amongst his other accomplishments, numbered that of dancing excellently.

One day, the better to attract the “awkwards,” he commenced a shuffle on the head of one of the aforesaid barrels of beer, to the infinite amusement of a very large crowd; in the course of a few steps, however, the head suddenly gave way, and soused Tom up to his neck in the liquid. The whole crowd laughed uproariously. But Tom, whose head only was to be seen, stared very gravely round the edge of the cask, then suddenly recovering himself, and bolting out of the butt, he made his way instantly to the public-house chimney, which, having ascended some distance and descended, he as quickly re-appeared amongst the crowd.

“There now,” said he, giving himself a Newfoundland shake, that opened a wide and instantaneous circle of militia men, “there now,” he exclaimed, “d—n your pipe clay, now I’m ready for the grand parade!”

I must now notice an order that arrived for our immediate embarkation for Portugal, to join the army under Sir Arthur Wellesley. We went on board the transports lying for us at Dover in March, 1809, in the best of spirits; such, in fact, as sportsmen feel in anticipation of the pleasures of the chase.

Shipboard, though perhaps not quite so forlorn as Doctor Johnson has portrayed it, soon becomes sufficiently irksome and unpleasant to those not accustomed to it, especially when three or four hundred men are crowded into a small vessel. Our officers, who were mostly a jolly set of fellows, had recourse to various expedients to while away the time on our voyage. Among these was one extremely popular, and that was getting Plunket to dance a hornpipe to the music of our band upon the quarter-deck. Tom danced it famously; and the beating of his feet, in the “double shuffle” used to draw the loudest plaudits from our men and the crew of the vessel.

As I have already been induced to mention Plunket, while we are now on our voyage to Portugal, I will introduce a sketch of his life, which well known as it is to many individuals formerly in the regiment, possibly may not form an unamusing episode in my own.

Chapter III.

When I’m in want I’ll thankfully receive Because I’m poor; but not because I’m brave.

Tom Plunket To The Life.

Tom Plunket’s Military Career.

PLUNKET’S first career in arms was in South America with General Whitelocke, where he acquired the reputation, in his company, of a good soldier. It was at the retreat of Corunna, some years afterwards, that an opportunity particularly presented itself of getting distinguished, and which Tom took in the nick of time. The rear-guard of the British, partly composed of the Light Brigade, notwithstanding the gallantry of some of our cavalry, were exceedingly pressed by the French horse, who were vastly superior to us in that arm. In the neighbourhood of Astorga, in particular, they made several determined charges. In these onsets, a French general, named Colbert, was remarkably active, as well as conspicuous, from riding a grey horse, and, though frequently aimed at by our men, seemed to bear a charmed life, as he invariably escaped. In one of the French charges, headed by this officer, our General, Sir Edward Paget, rode up to the rifles, and offered any man his purse who would shoot this daring Frenchman, whom he pointed out. Plunket immediately started from his company, and running about a hundred yards nearer to the enemy, he threw himself on his back on the road, which was covered with snow, placing his foot in the sling of his rifle, and taking a deliberate aim, shot General Colbert. His Trumpet-Major riding up to him, shared the same fate, from Tom’s unerring rifle. Our men, who had been anxiously watching Tom, immediately cheered him; and he had just time, by running in upon the rear-most sections, to escape some dozen troopers who made chase after him. Our General immediately gave Tom the purse he had promised, with encomiums upon his gallantry, and promised to recommend him to his Colonel, which he did in high terms to Colonel Beckwith. A few days afterwards, when the French attacked Sir John Moore’s position at Corunna, Plunket again became noted for his cool bravery and daring, especially in making some admirable shots, by which they lost many officers.

But the truth must be told. Like all heroes, Tom had his faults. Among these, in particular, was one which, in its destructive consequences, was calculated to counterbalance in a soldier a thousand virtues. In other words, Tom was a thirsty soul, and exceedingly fond of a “drop.” This was his unfortunate failing through life, and but for which he must have got on in the service.

One deplorable instance of insubordination, arising from this vice, I well remember, which took place at Campo Mayor, after the battle of Talavera. Tom had been promoted to the rank of sergeant, and was in the Hon. Captain Stewart’s company. One morning, when the company was on private parade, Tom appeared quite tipsy, and, in giving the words of command for inspection, previous to the arrival of the officers, he set the men laughing. The pay-sergeant, his superior in rank, immediately ordered him to desist. Tom refused, and, while an altercation was going on, Captain Stewart came up, who, perceiving the state he was in, put him under arrest, and ordered him to be confined to his quarters.

Here he was no sooner left alone than, conceiving that a great indignity had been placed upon him, thoughts of vengeance immediately suggested themselves to his mind. Under the influence of intoxication that man, who, when sober, was noted for his good humour and humanity, now conceived the diabolical intention of shooting his Captain. He immediately barricaded the door of the room, and then set about loading some ten or twelve rifles, belonging to men, then on fatigue duty. Taking up one of these, and cocking it, he placed himself at an open window for the avowed purpose, as he stated to several of the men, of shooting Captain Stewart as he passed.

Fortunately the Captain got notice of the danger of going near the house, while several of the men, by coaxing and force, alternately, endeavoured without effect to get into the room Tom had barred. At length the unfortunate Plunket was induced to relent on the appearance of a Lieutenant of the company named Johnson, who was a great favourite with the men, among whom he was known by a very familiar nick-name. The door was opened and Tom made prisoner.

Although Tom was a general favourite, and his conduct had resulted from the madness of intoxication, his insubordination was too glaring to stand a chance of being passed over. He was brought to a regimental court-martial, found guilty, and sentenced to be reduced to the ranks, and to receive three hundred lashes. Poor Plunket, when he had recovered his reason, after the commission of his crime, had experienced and expressed the most unfeigned contrition, so that when his sentence became known, there was a general sorrow felt for him throughout the regiment, particularly on account of the corporal punishment. In this feeling, I believe, the officers participated almost as much as the men.

At length the time arrived when the bravest soldier of our battalion was to suffer the penalty of his crime in the presence of those very men before whom he had been held up as a pattern but some few short months before. The square was formed for punishment: there was a tree in the centre to which the culprit was to be tied, and close to which he stood with folded arms and downcast eyes, in front of his guard. The surgeon stood by, while the buglers were busily engaged untangling the strings of the cats.

There was a solemn stillness on that parade that was remarkable; a pensiveness on the features of both officers and men, deeper than usual, as though the honour of the profession was to suffer in the person of the prisoner. Flogging is at all times a disgusting subject of contemplation: in the present instance, it seemed doubly so, now that a gallant, and until within a few days, an honoured and respected man was to suffer.

The sentence of the court-martial was read by the adjutant in a loud voice. Poor Tom, who had the commiseration of the whole regiment, looked deadly pale. That countenance which the brunt of the fiercest battle had been unable to turn from its ruddy hue—that countenance which the fear of death could not change—was now blanched in dread of a worse fate.

“Buglers, do your duty,” exclaimed Colonel Beckwith, in a voice husky with emotion, I thought, as the men seemed to hesitate in their business of stripping and binding the prisoner to the tree. This, however, was soon accomplished, Tom only once attempting to catch the eye of his colonel with an imploring glance, while he exclaimed in broken accents—

“Colonel, you won’t, will you? You won’t—you cannot mean to flog _me_!”

The appeal, although it went to the heart of every one present, was vain. Colonel Beckwith betrayed much uneasiness; I beheld him give a slight start at the commencement of the punishment; but his sense of duty became paramount the moment he beheld the punishing bugler laying on rather lighter than was common.

“Do your duty, Sir, fairly!” he uttered in a loud voice.

The first man had bestowed his quantum of punishment, twenty-five lashes, when he was succeeded by another. This man, as if determined that his reputation as a flogger should not suffer, however his victim might, laid on like a hardened hand. Plunket’s sufferings were becoming intense: he bit his lip to stifle the utterance of his pangs; but nature, too strong for suppression, gave place more than once to a half agonized cry, that seemed to thrill through the very blood in my veins. Happily this wretched scene was destined to a brief termination: at the thirty-fifth lash, the Colonel ordered the punishment to cease, and the prisoner to be taken down. When this was done, he addressed Plunket: “You see, Sir, now, how very easy it is to commit a blackguard’s crime, but how difficult it is to take his punishment.”

So ended the most memorable punishment-scene I have ever witnessed. It has usually been contended, by those averse to the system of flogging, common in our army, that it destroys the pride and spirit of the man. That it has had that effect, in many instances, I have myself witnessed, where the character of the soldier was not previously depraved. But with reference to Plunket, he appeared soon to get over the recollection of his former disgrace. He got into favour with his officers again, and, notwithstanding little fits of inebriety, was made corporal, and went through the sanguinary scenes of the Peninsula, unscathed from shot or steel. His usual luck, however, forsook him at Waterloo, where a ball struck the peak of his cap and tore his forehead across, leaving a very ugly scar. I recollect having gone wounded at the time to the rear, where I saw him under the hands of the surgeon.

After Waterloo, he was invalided to England, where he passed the board at Chelsea; but only being awarded the pittance of sixpence a-day for his wound and long services, he felt disgusted, and expressed himself to the Lords Commissioners in a way that induced them to strike him off the list altogether. The following day he started off for Ireland, where he duly arrived in rags and wretchedness. To relieve himself, he again enlisted in either the thirty-first or thirty-second regiment of the line, then quartered somewhere in the north.

While wearing a red coat, he had a singular meeting with his former Colonel, then General Sir Sydney Beckwith, which I have often heard him relate. It is customary, as the reader may probably be aware, to have half-yearly inspections of our regiments at home. Shortly after Tom’s having enlisted, it so happened, on one of the above occasions, when his regiment was formed for inspection, that the duty devolved upon his old commander, Sir Sydney, who was in command of the district.

In walking down the front rank, scrutinising the appearance of the men, the General suddenly came to Tom, distinguished as he was by two medals on his breast.

“Do my eyes deceive me?” said Sir Sydney. “Surely you are Tom Plunket, formerly of my own regiment.”

“What’s left of me, Sir,” replied Tom, who was seldom deficient in a prompt reply.

“And what has again brought you into the service?” inquired Sir Sydney. “I thought you had passed the board at Chelsea?”

“So I did,” said Tom; “but they only allowed me sixpence a-day, Sir; so I told them to keep it for the young soldiers, as it wasn’t enough for the old, who had seen all the tough work out.”

“Ha! the old thing, Tom, I perceive,” observed Sir Sydney, shaking his head; then immediately remarked to the Colonel of the regiment, as he proceeded down the ranks—“One of my bravest soldiers.”

The same day the General dined at the officers’ mess, when Tom was sent for after dinner.

“Here, Plunket, I have sent for you to give us a toast,” observed Sir Sydney, as he handed him a glass of wine.

“Then, Sir, here’s to the immortal memory of the poor fellows who fell in the Peninsula, Sir,” said Tom.

The toast was drunk by all with much solemnity, when Tom was dismissed with a present from Sir Sydney. The following day Tom was made a corporal, and shortly afterwards, through the medium, I believe, of Sir Sydney, went up and passed the pension board at Kilmainham, which granted him a shilling a-day.

But I had forgotten to mention, in its place, an event common in man’s life—I mean his marriage. Shortly after the battle of Waterloo, Tom had wedded a lady remarkable for being deficient in one essential to beauty—she actually had no _face_, or, at all events, was so _defaced_, it amounted to the same thing. This slight flaw in the beauty of Tom’s wife, who

Had gallantly follow’d the camp through the war,

arose from the bursting of an ammunition-waggon at Quatre Bras, near to which the lady stood, and by which her countenance was rendered a blue, shapeless, noseless mass. This event was duly commemorated by the government, who allowed the heroine a shilling a-day pension, in allusion to which Tom used facetiously to say—“It was an ill blowing up of powder that blew nobody good.”

The story of Tom Plunket, already narrated at greater length than I had intended, draws fast to a close. Imbued with roving inclinations, partly owing to his nature, and more perhaps to his profession, for nothing more unsettles a man than the ever-changing chequered course of a soldier’s life, he at one time determined to become a settler in Canada, and, accordingly, accepted the offer held out by government to all pensioners, of allowing them so much land, and giving them four years’ pay for their pensions. Plunket, ever eager for the handling of cash, got two years’ pay down here, and started off with some two or three hundred others to try their fortune. This proved to be a very miserable one: Tom was not a man to rusticate on the other side of the Atlantic amid privations, and with the recollection of old England fresh in his mind.

Before a year had elapsed, he returned to England with his wife, and, by way of apology to his friends, stated his grant of land was so wild and swampy that it made him quite melancholy, looking at it in a morning out of the chinks of a wretched log hut he had managed to erect upon his estate. He returned home swearing loudly against forest-land, a swampy soil, and a bad climate, having, of course, duly forfeited his own pension for ever.

The last time I saw Tom Plunket was in Burton Crescent, most picturesquely habited, and selling matches. I did not disdain to speak to an old comrade who had been less fortunate in “life’s march” than myself. I asked him how he got on, when with one of his usual cheerful smiles he informed me, that the match-selling business kept him on his legs.

“I should have thought, Tom, you had seen enough of _firing_,” I remarked, “without endeavouring to live by it now.”

“A man must do something these hard times for bread,” replied Tom, as he passed his hand thoughtfully across the furrow made by the bullet at Waterloo.

Poor Tom! I felt for him. I was sorry to see him neglected; others, whose service were many days march behind his, were taken better care of. But Tom’s incorrigible failing was his own stumbling-block.

I did not, however, leave him my mere reflection, but giving him a portion of that coin, he so well knew how to get rid of, I wished him success in his new business, and went my way, musing on the strange vicissitudes of a soldier’s life.[1]

Alas! the brave too oft are doom’d to bear, The gripes of poverty, the stings of care.

But after this digressive sketch, it is high time to return to my own career in the field that was just now commencing. Returning to ship-board, from whence I conducted the peruser of this veritable narrative, allow me to say, that after a tolerably pleasant voyage we anchored off Lisbon. From thence, in a few days, we proceeded in open boats up the river Tagus, and landed about four miles from Santarem, where we encamped for the night.

On the following morning, we marched into the city of Santarem amid the cheers of its inhabitants, who welcomed us with loud cries of “_Viva os Ingleses valerosos!_” Long live the brave English!

Here we immediately became brigaded with the 43rd and 52nd regiments of Light Infantry, under the command of Major-General Crauford.

Chapter IV.

Arrival in Portugal—Crauford’s forced marches—Teetotalism with a vengeance—The effect of the opposite extreme—Spanish mode of keeping a man from stealing wine—False reports—Talavera—We arrive the day after the fight—A battle scene—Sir Arthur Wellesley—General Cuesta—Dough Boy Hill—The fever—I am taken ill—Elvas hospital—How to cure a fever—Convalescence—Burial scenes—Our Sextons—March to my regiment—The Germans—Pig-skins in danger, our own also—Captain Pakenham—Hanging matters—Two dozen of each—Not sham pain—German discipline.

ON the third day after our arrival at Santarem, we commenced a series of forced marches to join the main army under Sir Arthur Wellesley, at Talavera, then almost hourly expecting an engagement with the French corps commanded by Marshal Victor. Our men suffered dreadfully on the route, chiefly from excessive fatigue and the heat of the weather, it being the melting month of July. The brain fever soon commenced, making fearful ravages in our ranks, and many men dropped by the road-side and died. One day I saw two men of the 52nd, unable to bear their sufferings, actually put a period to their existence by shooting themselves.[2]

The greatest efforts possible were made by Major-General Crauford to arrive in time to join the Commander-in-chief, previously to a battle being fought. The excellent orders our brigadier issued for maintaining order and discipline on the line of march on this occasion, though exceedingly unpopular at first, have since become justly celebrated in the service. No man, on any pretext whatever, was allowed to fall out of the ranks without a pass from the officer of his company, and then only on indispensable occasions.

This pass, however, was not a complete security, for on the return of the stragglers to camp, the orderly sergeants were compelled to parade them before their regimental-surgeons, when, if pronounced as skulkers, they were instantly tried by a drum-head court martial, and punished accordingly; thus, frequently, when almost dying with thirst, we were obliged to pass springs of the finest water by the road-side untasted. But all this apparent severity, as we afterwards learnt, was considered as absolutely essential to the great purpose General Crauford had in view—dispatch. If the General found a man fall out without a pass, his plan was to take his ramrod and ride off. It was not unfrequently you might see him ride into camp with a dozen ramrods, when the adjutant of each regiment was ordered to find those that had no ramrods, each of which received two dozen lashes.

Fortunately for us, our longest halt took place during the heat of the day, and our longest marches were made at night, at this time, therefore, it was a usual scene to see a number of men who had been flogged, with their knapsacks on their heads, and their bodies enveloped in the loose great coats—to ease the wounds inflicted by the lash. But yet with all this, strange as it may appear, Crauford maintained a popularity among the men, who, on every other occasion, always found him to be their best friend.

A few days before we came to Malpartida de Placentia, we were going through a small town, the name of which I forget, when in passing the gaol, a man looking through one of the high barred windows of the building, vociferated, in accents not to be mistaken—

“Od’s blood and ’ounds, boys, are you English?”

On several of our men answering in the affirmative, the prisoner exclaimed, in a tone that set our men in a roar of laughter—

“Oh! by Jasus, the Spaniards have poked me into this hole for getting a drop of wine, boys;—get me out, pray.”

When we halted about half a mile on the other side, Colonel Beckwith sent, and obtained the man’s release. He proved to be one of the 23rd Light Dragoons, who had been taken prisoner by the French, but had made his escape in the dress of a peasant; when, in passing through this place, he had been incarcerated on a charge of taking some wine from a man without paying for it. Much merriment was excited by his appearance, and the droll and earnest manner in which he narrated his adventures.

On the following day, we bivouacked near Malpartida de Placentia, when a report reached our corps that a battle had been fought at Talavera, and that the English had been beaten and dispersed. Although I believe few of us gave credit to the story, still it created some uneasiness amongst men and officers. Its effect, however, upon our brigadier, was to make him hurry forward with, if possible, increased speed. Our bivouac was immediately broken up. We got under arms, and leaving the sick of the brigade behind us in the town under charge of a subaltern from each regiment, we commenced one of the longest marches, with scarcely a halt or pause, on the military records of any country. To use the words of our admirable historian of the Peninsular War, we “passed over sixty-two miles, and in the hottest season of the year in twenty-six hours.” As Colonel Napier justly observes, “Had the historian Gibbon known of such a march, he would have spared his sneer about ‘the delicacy of modern soldiers.’”

As we approached Talavera, we learned for a fact, that a battle had been fought from the crowds of disorderly Spanish soldiery we continued to meet upon the road; some few of them were wounded. These men were part of General Cuesta’s army that had been beaten by the French on the 27th, and who chose to give the most disastrous account of the English army, which they stated was completely destroyed. We could not but remark, that these Spaniards, whom we knew to be a disorganised crew, had not forgotten to help themselves to plunder in their flight, as most of them carried some article or other to which they could have little claim, such as hams, cheese and fowls. Some, although infantry-men, rode on excellent horses, while others drove mules, carrying sacks of flour, &c. Never was seen such a thoroughly demoralized wreck of an army.

As we advanced nearer to the scene of action the reports became less formidable, until the heights of Talavera burst upon our sight, and we hailed, with three loud huzzas, the news that the British, in the action of the preceding day with the French, had been victorious.

Our bugles struck up merrily as we crossed the field of battle early in the morning, on the 29th of July. The scene, however, was most appalling, especially to the young soldiers; we had partaken in no encounter as yet, and here had missed the interest which blunted the feelings of the men engaged. We “raw ones,” indeed, had as yet scarcely seen the enemy, and recognised no comrades among the fallen. The ice still remained to be broken which the experience of one engagement would have done effectually. The field of action had occupied an extensive valley, situated between two ranges of hills, on which the British and French armies were posted. It was now strewn with all the wreck of the recent battle. The dead and dying, to the amount of some thousands, conquerors and conquered, lay diversely in little heaps, interspersed with dismounted guns, and shattered ammunition-waggons, while broken horse-trappings, and blood-stained chacots, and other torn paraphernalia of military pomp and distinction, completed the reality of the battle scene.

The long grass which had taken fire during the action was still burning, and added dreadfully to the sufferings of the wounded and dying of both armies; their cries for assistance were horrifying, and hundreds might have been seen exerting the last remnant of their strength, crawling to places of safety.

In the midst of this, it was that I saw, for the first time, our immortal chief Sir Arthur Wellesley. I also then beheld that deformed-looking lump of pride, ignorance and treachery, General Cuesta. He was the most murderous-looking old man I ever saw.

On our arrival we were immediately ordered upon outpost duty: in executing which we had to throw out a line of sentinels facing the French position. Another and a more painful duty that devolved upon us, was to carry the wounded men into the town of Talavera. Many of these poor fellows, I remarked, were dreadfully burnt.

In consequence of the increasing weakness of the British army at this period, the ranks of which were daily thinned through the scantiness and wretched quality of the food with which they were, of necessity, supplied, as well perhaps as by the accession of strength which the French had received, Lord Wellington was induced to retire. After retracing, for a few days, the route by which we had arrived, our brigade was left by the main army encamped upon a rocky eminence partly surrounded by wood, and overlooking the river Tagus. It was a wild and beautiful scene, with several corn-fields in our immediate neighbourhood.

Our living here became truly savage. Although we remained at this place for two or three weeks, I think we scarcely received half a dozen rations during that period, but existed, as we could, by our own ingenuity. Fortunately for us, as regards meat, there were some droves of pigs that were taken into the woods to feed, and which fattened upon the acorns. To these animals, that were generally under the charge of some Spaniards, we were obliged to have recourse for food. For bread we took the corn from the fields, and, having no proper means of winnowing and grinding it, were obliged as a substitute to rub out the ears between our hands, and then pound them between stones to make into dough, such as it was. From this latter wretched practice, we christened the place “Dough Boy Hill,” a name by which it is well remembered by the men of our division.

From the preceding place we marched to Campo Mayor; we remained here three months, during which time a dreadful mortality took place. In our regiment, alone, the flux and brain fever reigned to so frightful an extent, that three hundred men died in hospital. I myself was seized with the prevailing fever shortly after our arrival, and was sent to the Convent of St. Paul, the general hospital at Elvas.

I could not help remarking the manner of cure adopted by our doctors; it principally consisted in throwing cold water from canteens or mess kettles as often as possible over the bodies of the patients; this in many cases was effectual, and I think cured me.

I, however, had a narrow squeak for my life, though I fortunately recovered after an illness of nearly six weeks, thanks to my good constitution, but none to the brute of an orderly, who, during the delirium of the fever, beat me once most furiously with a broom stick. On leaving the hospital with other convalescents, I was sent to the Bomb Proof Barracks, where it frequently became our duty to see the dead interred. This was a most horrible office, and obliged us to attend at the hospital to receive the bodies, which were conveyed away in cart-loads at a time to the ground appropriated for their burial. This lay outside the town beneath the ramparts, and was so very small for the purpose required, that we were obliged to get large oblong and deep holes excavated, in which two stout Portuguese were employed to pack the bodies, heads and heels together, to save room. For this duty these two brutes seemed duly born—for never before did I see two such ruffianly looking fellows.

It was singularly revolting to witness how the pair went to work when handing the bodies from the hospital to the cart; each carried a skin of vinegar, with which they first soused themselves over the neck and face; this done, with one jerk they jilted a single corpse at a time across their shoulders, naked as it was born, and bolted off to the cart, into which it was pitched as if it had been a log of wood. The women, however, who fell victims to the epidemic were generally sewed in a wrapper of calico or some such thing, but they partook of the same hole as the opposite sex, and otherwise were as little privileged. Many were the scores of my poor comrades I thus saw committed to their first parent, and many were the coarse jests the grave-diggers made over their obsequies.

While I was confined in hospital, the brigade marched and took up their cantonments between Ciudad Rodrigo and Almeida. In the beginning of February about three hundred convalescents, among whom I was one, were marched, under charge of an officer of the German Legion, to join their respective regiments. Nothing of any consequence, in the march of our party, occurred, with the exception of a very narrow escape I had of being provosted, or in other words flogged. As the anecdote serves to show the light in which the Germans regarded this description of punishment during the war, I will detail it.

The men being from different regiments, and under the command of a foreigner, some availed themselves of what they considered a fair opportunity of pilfering from the country people as we pursued our march, and I am sorry to say that drunkenness and robbery were not unfrequent. The German officer, as is usual under such circumstances, experienced great difficulty in keeping the skulkers and disorderly from lingering in the rear. In compliment to my steadiness, he had made me an acting corporal, with strict orders to make the rear men of our detachment keep up. Just before we arrived at the town of Viseu, then occupied by the Foot Guards, and the head-quarters of the Commander-in-chief, I came up to some of our party who were doing their best to empty a pig-skin of wine they had stolen. Being dreadfully fatigued and thirsty, I had not sufficient restraint upon myself to refuse the invitation held out to me to drink, which I did, and so became a partner in the crime. I was in the act of taking the jug of wine from my lips, when a party of the 16th Light Dragoons rode up and made us prisoners; the peasant, from whom the wine had been taken, having made his complaint at head-quarters. We were imprisoned, nine of us in number, in Viseu. The second day, the Hon. Captain Pakenham,[3] of the Adjutant-General’s department, paid us a visit, and told us he had had great difficulty in saving us from being hanged. Although this was probably said to frighten, still it was not altogether a joke, as a man of the name of Maguire of the 27th regiment, who had been with me in hospital, was hung for stopping and robbing a Portuguese of a few _vintems_.

As it was, the German officer in charge of the detachment received orders, on leaving Viseu, to see that we received two dozen each from the Provost-Marshal every morning, until we rejoined our regiments. This comfortable kind of a breakfast I was not much inclined to relish, particularly as we had seven days’ march to get through before we reached our battalion. The following day, the eight culprits and myself were summoned during a halt, to appear before the German, expecting to be punished. We were, however, agreeably deceived by the officer addressing us as follows, to the best of my recollection, in broken English:

“I have been told to have you mens flogged, for a crime dat is very bad and disgraceful to de soldier—robbing de people you come paid to fight for. But we do not flog in my country, so I shall not flog you, it not being de manner of my people; I shall give you all to your Colonels, if they like to flog you, they may.”

Being thus relieved, each of us saluted the kind German and retired. From that moment, I have always entertained a high respect for our Germans, which indeed they ever showed themselves deserving of, from the British, not only on account of their humanity and general good feeling to us, but from their determined bravery and discipline in the field. As cavalry, they were the finest and most efficient I ever saw in action; and I had many opportunities of judging, as some troops of them generally did duty with us during the war. Indeed, while alluding to the cavalry of the German Legion, I cannot help remarking on the care and fondness with which they regarded their horses. A German soldier seldom thought of food or rest for the night until his horse had been provided for. The noble animals, themselves, seemed perfectly aware of this attention on the part of their riders, and I have often been amused by seeing some of the horses of the Germans run after their masters with all the playfulness of a dog. The consequence of this attention to their horses was, they were in condition when those of our own cavalry were dying, or otherwise in very deplorable state; this, without wishing to throw a disparagement upon our own countrymen, I attributed to the difference of custom between the two countries. We never saw a German vidette or express galloping furiously, that we did not immediately know there was work for some one to do. While on outpost duty their vigilance was most admirable.

Chapter V.

Old Trowsers—Sleeping and waking—O’Hare again—Colonel Beckwith—Two upon one—Meagher—Barba del Puerco—General Crauford taken by surprise—The Portuguese incorporation with the light division—Rodrigo—Gallegos—The Beacon night scenes on picquet—Lord Wellington—Napoleon’s Marriage—Crauford’s stratagem—The French spy—We retreat to Fort Conception.

I REJOINED my regiment at Barba del Puerco, a small village near the banks of the river Coa, on the other side of which the enemy had taken up their position. Our regiment was cantoned in the surrounding villages, while nightly we mounted a captain’s picquet on a height facing a bridge, on the other side of which the French had thrown out their advanced sentry. Two of our sentries were posted on the bridge, while a third was stationed half-way down the steep, to keep up the communication with our picquet above.

On the 19th of May, the company to which I belonged was on picquet. It was a fine, though windy night, a fleecy scud occasionally obscuring the light of the moon. About twelve o’clock, while our men were mostly asleep, we were suddenly woke by the rifle reports of our sentries, and the French drums playing their advance “rub-a-dub-dub,” which our men designated with the name of “old trowsers.” I was now, as it were, but a young sleepy-headed boy, and as yet had been scarcely aroused to a true sense of the profession I had embraced. I had never been under the fire of a French musket, and I felt an indescribable thrill on this occasion. The chilly hour of the night and peculiar inclination to sleep, at the time, had sunk my senses below zero. But I was speedily startled out of my lethargy by the whizzing of the enemies’ bullets, as they greeted my astonished hearing. My surprise soon, however, gave place to perfect recollection, and in less than a minute we were all under arms, the balls of the French whistling about us as a column came rushing over the bridge to force our position. Captain O’Hare, with his characteristic coolness, immediately gave us the word to “seek cover,” and we threw ourselves forward among the rocky and broken ground, from whence we kept up a galling fire upon those who had commenced storming our heights.

We were exceedingly hard pressed when three companies of our regiment, under Colonel Beckwith, came up to our relief, and the contest for a while was both doubtful and bloody. But, after about half an hour’s hard fighting, the enemy were obliged to retreat with much precipitation, and under a close and murderous fire from us. During this brief conflict some incidents occurred that, perhaps, are worth mentioning. Colonel Beckwith actually employed himself, at one time, in heaving large fragments of stone upon the French as they attempted to ascend the acclivity on which we were placed, and, while so engaged, got a musket-shot through his cap.

Another officer of ours, the Adjutant Lieutenant Stewart, a fine tall fellow, was engaged in a personal contest with two or three grenadiers, a number of whom had managed to ascend the hill on our right; at this critical moment one of our men, named Ballard, fortunately came to his aid, and shot one of his assailants, at which the other instantly surrendered. The above gallant officer, however, afterwards fell on our advance from Santarem the following year.

This was, I believe, the first and last time the French ever attempted surprising a rifle picquet.

Both our sentries at the bridge were taken prisoners, one of them badly wounded. A rather interesting recollection is attached to one of them, named Meagher, who, when the exchange of prisoners took place in 1814, returned to England and rejoined us at Dover. He was with us in France at the time of Waterloo, which, however, he was not present at on account of the following circumstance.

A quarrel had originated a few nights before the battle of Waterloo in a wine-house at Brussels, between some of our men, and the Belgian gens-d’armes, the consequence was, that the inhabitants were forced to send for the guards. These, of course, were soon on the spot, but were as soon attacked and beaten back by the Belgians, who would have driven them into the guard-house but for Meagher, who, suddenly turning to the assailants, levelled his rifle and shot the foremost through the body; on this, the whole of the gens-d’armes retreated, not, however, till after Meagher had received a cut on the side of the neck. For this affair he was put into prison, and a general court-martial honourably acquitted him, not until that battle had been fought which for ever destroyed Napoleon’s hopes. Our company, to which Meagher belonged, soon after presented a requisition to Captain Leach, who then commanded us, and through his intercession, Meagher obtained a Waterloo medal.

Shortly after this attempted surprise, we quitted Barba del Puerco for the town of Gallegos, situated some five or six miles from Ciudad Rodrigo.

The following laughable incident occurred to me while we lay at Gallegos:—I happened to be acquainted with General Crauford’s private servant, a German, chiefly through my being employed as orderly to the brigadier. At times when an opportunity offered, we used to take a glass of wine together upon the most convivial terms. One morning, however, when I thought the brigadier had gone out, as was his usual custom, I went to his room to ask the valet to partake of some wine which I had received from the patron of the house. On opening the door, I unhesitatingly went in, and beheld, as I imagined, the individual I wanted in a morning-gown looking out of the window. It entered into my head to surprise my servant friend, so, as he had not been disturbed by my approach, I stepped softly up to his rear, and with a sudden laugh, gave him a smart slap on the back. But my consternation and surprise may be better imagined than described, when the gentleman in the dressing-gown, starting round with a “Who the devil is that?” disclosed—not the merry phiz of the valet, but the stern features of General Crauford himself.

I thought I should have sunk through the ground at the moment, had it have opened to swallow me. I could only attempt to explain the mistake I had made, in a very humble way, as I gradually retreated to the door.

“And where did you get the wine from, Sir?” inquired the General, with a good-humoured smile; for he observed the fright I was in.

I informed him.

“Well, well, you may go,” said the General; “but, pray, Sir, never again do me the honour to take me for my servant.”

I needed not the permission to vanish in a moment. And many a laugh and jest were created at my expense afterwards among the men, as the circumstance got circulated by the valet.

We were here joined by the 1st and 3rd regiment of the Portuguese Caçadores. These fellows I never had any opinion of from the very first moment I saw them. They were the dirtiest and noisiest brutes I ever came across. Historians of the day have given them great credit; but during the whole of the Peninsular War, or, at least, the time they were with us, I never knew them to perform one gallant act. On the line of march they often reminded me of a band of strollers. They were very fond of gambling, and every halt we made was sure to find them squatted, and with cards in their hands.

One of these regiments was placed under the command of a captain of ours, named Elder, a brave officer, who was made Colonel of the 3rd; and being afterwards severely wounded at Badajos, returned to England; at the same period, also, we were incorporated with the 14th and 16th Light Dragoons, together with the 3rd regiment of German Hussars, and Captain Bull’s troop of horse artillery.

The French had now commenced laying siege to Rodrigo, and we were terribly harassed by the severity of our duty, being both day and night accoutred and under arms; indeed, we were daily expecting an attack.

A section of our rifles usually mounted picquet with a troop of dragoons, and occupied, accordingly, three different points—Carpio, Molina dos Flores and Marialva; all about two miles nearer to Rodrigo. Bull’s troop of artillery remained always near a church, in the centre of the village of Gallegos, and at all times kept a gun ready loaded with blank carriage, and a sentry near it, watching a beacon erected on a hill, about a mile from the village. A vidette and one of our riflemen were placed near the beacon in case of the picquets being attacked, to give alarm by discharging his piece into the combustibles, and so setting it on fire; or, in case of its not igniting, to ride round it three times, with his cap mounted on his sword, at which signal the gun was instantly fired, and the whole division were immediately under arms.

As I have remarked, we were greatly harassed; our picquets and the French were constantly in the habit of firing at each other, and scarce a day passed without some of the men being brought in, either killed or wounded. We had not yet established that understanding with the enemy, which avoided unnecessary bloodshed at the outposts which afterwards tended much to humanize the war.

Meanwhile the siege of Rodrigo was vigorously carried on by the French. The weather was intensely hot, and we delighted in bathing in a small river that flowed between the beacon-hill and the village. Many of us, while so amusing ourselves, would take these opportunities to wash our shirts in the running stream, laying them out to dry on the sand. Frequently, however, when thus employed, the alarm gun would be fired, and in a moment we might be observed, like so many water sprites, jumping out of the stream and hurrying on the wet shirts, actually wringing, and throwing them over our shoulders, while we fell in with our comrades. It was rather surprising, that I never felt any ill effects from these wet habiliments; but the men, from constant exposure, had become as hardy as the soil itself.

From the novelty, however, of the picquet duty, the men preferred it always to any other: as we amused ourselves generally at night watching the shells exchanged between the besieged and the assailants, the sight was very beautiful, sometimes as many as seven or eight-and-twenty crossing each other, like so many comets.

Once we were visited by the Duke himself, who, although his head-quarters were at the time, I believe, at Viseu, distant somewhat about twenty leagues, had come on a reconnoitring excursion to our outline picquets. While on sentry one day I recollect his Grace placing his telescope on my shoulders to take a view of the enemy’s position. Our intelligence was chiefly derived from deserters, a number of whom daily came over to us, and gave information that Ciudad could not hold out much longer.

One day we were unusually alarmed by an extraordinary bustle in the French camp; being on the advanced picquet, I could distinctly hear the cheering of men and firing of cannon: the whole of our division was ordered to fall in, and it was not until the morning following, that we learned that it originated in the news from Paris, of the Emperor’s marriage with the Archduchess Marie Louise of Austria.

We now daily held ourselves in expectation of an attack, and were under arms every morning at one o’clock, five minutes only being allowed for the whole division to fall in. But we seldom took our accoutrements off, and used both to sleep and to cook with them on. The baggage was paraded every morning half a mile to the rear, and every other precaution taken by the Brigadier for an orderly retreat, as the French were in our front and in overwhelming force, while our division was scarcely more than four thousand strong. One of the General’s stratagems to make our small force appear more numerous in the eyes of the French, was to draw the regiments up in rank entire. After, however, several months of severe hardship at Gallegos, General Crauford was at last obliged to change his ground, and we retreated to Allameda, a little town about two miles in our rear, and on the main road leading to the fortified town of Almeida: we remained here a few days, and took a French spy, who had passed among us as a lemonade-merchant. His indifference and carelessness in accepting remuneration for his beverage, which was in constant request, together with his laughing one day very significantly when one of our men was swearing at the French for the trouble they caused, induced a sergeant to apprehend him. He was brought before General Crauford, and on his being searched, letters were found upon him that proved him to be a French Colonel. He was sent to the rear: how, indeed, he managed to escape the doom he had rendered himself liable to, I know not.

A few mornings after this, the French came down in great force, and we were obliged to retire. This we did slowly, covered by Captain Ross’s guns and our rifles, assisted also by a few troops of the 14th and 16th Dragoons and 3rd German Hussars. We retired with very little loss, for a distance of four or five miles, to Fort Conception in front of the little town of Villa de Mula. Here we went into cantonments. We were now close on the borders of Portugal, which is here divided from Spain only by a small stream—at this spot, so narrow, that in some places it may be jumped over. We daily mounted a picquet of two companies at the fort, which was a beautiful work, in the shape of a star.

Chapter VI.

Villa de Mula—Night expedition to Villa de Puerco—Both parties retire—Death of Colonel Talbot—A soldier’s grave—The effects of a miscarriage—Fort Conception blown up—A mistake and no mistake—Another mistake, a ball in the right knee—The bridge over the Coa—A friend in need, a friend indeed—Charity abroad and at home—A surgeon’s advice—A blessing—A cough, an uncomfortable companion—Spanish apathy—We arrive at Fraxedas.

A FEW days after our arrival at Villa de Mula, a part of the division formed a night expedition to surprise and cut off one or two French regiments that nightly occupied an advanced position on our right, retiring every morning about daylight. The rifles got under arms at ten o’clock at night, and were soon afterwards joined by several companies of the 43rd and 52nd regiments, together with one or two troops of the 14th Light Dragoons, and some of our favourite Germans. We soon guessed that some secret enterprise was about to be undertaken, as strict orders were issued to keep the men from talking, and to make them refrain from lighting their pipes, lest our approach should be noticed by the enemy. Even the wheels of two of Captain Ross’s guns that accompanied us, were muffled round with haybands to prevent their creaking.

In this disposition we proceeded in the direction of the left of the enemy’s position which rested on Villa de Puerco. We had all loaded before marching, and were anxiously looking forward to the result, when a whispering order was given to enter a large field of standing corn and to throw ourselves on the ground. There we anxiously waited the first dawn of day for the expected engagement. At length the cold gray of the morning appeared faintly in the east, when the commands were given with scarce a pause between to “fall in,” “double,” and “extend.” This was accomplished in a moment, and forward we ran through the corn field up to an eminence, looking down from which we beheld a gallant skirmish on the plain beneath. The 14th Dragoons were in the act of charging a body of French infantry, who had, however, thrown themselves into square. The cavalry cheered forward in gallant style, but the French, veteran like, stood firm to meet the onset, pouring in, at the same time, a close running fire that emptied many saddles. Lieutenant-Colonel Talbot, who headed the charge, fell almost immediately, together with the quarter-master and from sixteen to eighteen privates. After an unavailing attempt to shake the square, the cavalry was obliged to retire—a movement which the enemy on their part immediately imitated. An attempt was made to annoy them with our guns, but in consequence of their smallness, being but light field-pieces, our shots were attended with very little effect.

The following day, we buried Colonel Talbot and the quarter-master close to the porch of the little chapel in the village we occupied—a somewhat romantic-looking spot for a soldier’s grave. The miscarriage of our enterprise, it was generally rumoured, had brought our general into bad odour at head-quarters; indeed, for some days after, I thought he wore a troubled look, as though he took our failure to heart.

As I have already remarked, two of our companies alternately did duty in front of our position, at Fort Conception. The orders issued to the officer commanding the picquet were to blow up the fort immediately on the approach of the enemy, for which purpose it was undermined in several places by the artillerymen, who were left to fire the mines when the order should be given.

On the morning of the 19th of July, our company and another were on duty at this point, and it was generally expected we should be attacked on the morrow. I think the intelligence was brought by a deserter. The fort contained a great quantity of good English rum and biscuit, which Captain O’Hare allowed the men of both companies to help themselves to and fill their canteens, upon their promise, which they kept, not to get drunk. The following morning, before it was scarcely light, the enemy proved the correctness of our anticipations by advancing upon us in heavy columns, preceded by their light troops. The command was instantly given to fire the mines, and we retired upon our division. A few minutes after our quitting the fort, its beautiful proportions, which had excited the admiration of so many beholders, was broken, as by the shock of an earthquake, into a blackened heap of ruin.

We retreated under the walls of Almeida, where we halted until the 23rd, when at night we experienced a storm that for violence, while it lasted, exceeded anything I had ever before beheld. The lightning, thunder, wind, and rain were absolutely awful. With a few other men, I had sought shelter in the hollow of a rock, where we were not a little amazed at the numbers of snakes and lizards which the occasional gleams of lightning exhibited to us running about in all directions, as though the tempest had the effect of bringing them all from their holes.

At break of day, the music that we were now getting quite accustomed to—_i. e._ the cracking of the rifles of our outline picquet, gave intelligence of the enemy’s advance. Our company was immediately ordered to support them. Captain O’Hare accordingly placed us behind some dilapidated walls, we awaited the approach of the picquet then under the Hon. Captain Steward engaged about half a mile in our front, and slowly retreating upon us. They had already, as it afterwards appeared, several men killed, while Lieutenant M’Culloch had been wounded and taken prisoner with a number of others. We could distinctly see the enemy’s columns in great force, but had little time for observation, as our advance ran in upon us followed by the French tirailleurs, with whom we were speedily and hotly engaged. The right wing of the 52nd regiment, at this period, was drawn up about one hundred yards in our rear behind a low wall, when a shell, which with several others was thrown amongst us from the town, burst so near, that it killed several of our men, and buried a sergeant so completely in mud, but without hurting him, that we were obliged to drag him out of the heap, to prevent his being taken by the enemy[4]—at this moment also Lieutenant Cohen who stood close to me received a shot through the body. My old Captain, O’Hare, perceiving him roll his eyes and stagger, caught him by the arm, saying in a rather soft tone to the men about him:

“Take that poor boy to the rear, he does not know what is the matter with him,” and with the same characteristic coolness, he continued his duties. While hotly engaged, however, with the French infantry in our front, one or two troops of their hussars which, from the similarity of uniform, we had taken for our German hussars, whipped on our left flank between our company and the wing of the 52nd, when a cry of “the French cavalry are upon us,” came too late as they charged in amongst us. Taken thus unprepared, we could oppose but little or no resistance, and our men were trampled down and sabred, on every side. A French dragoon had seized me by the collar, while several others, as they passed, cut at me with their swords. The man who had collared me had his sabre’s point at my breast, when a volley was fired from our rear by the 52nd, who, by this time had discovered their mistake, which tumbled the horse of my captor. He fell heavily with the animal on his leg, dragging me down with him.

It was but for a moment nevertheless: determined to have one brief struggle for liberty, I freed myself from the dragoon’s grasp, and dealing him a severe blow on the head with the butt of my rifle, I rushed up to the wall of our 52nd, which I was in the act of clearing at a jump, when I received a shot under the cap of my right knee and instantly fell. In this emergency, there seemed a speedy prospect of my again falling into the hands of the French, as the division was in rapid retreat, but a comrade of the name of Little instantly dragged me over the wall, and was proceeding as quick as possible with me, on his back, towards the bridge of the Coa, over which our men were fast pouring, when he, poor fellow! also received a shot, which passing through his arm smashed the bone, and finally lodged itself in my thigh, where it has ever since remained.[5] In this extremity, Little was obliged to abandon me, but urged by a strong desire to escape imprisonment, I made another desperate effort, and managed to get over the bridge, from the other side of which Captain Ross’s guns were in full roar, covering our retreat; in this crippled state and faint through loss of blood, I made a second appeal to a comrade, who assisted me to ascend a hill on the other side of the river.

On the summit, we found a chapel which had been converted into a temporary hospital, where a number of wounded men were being taken to have their wounds dressed by the surgeons. Fortunately, I had not long to wait for my turn, for as we momentarily expected the coming of the French, everything was done with the greatest dispatch.

In this affair our company sustained a very severe loss; our return was, “one officer, Lieutenant Cohen, quite a youth, dangerously wounded, eleven file killed and wounded, and forty-five taken prisoners.”

My old Captain O’Hare had only eleven men on parade next day. The preceding facts will serve to show the unmilitary reader, that skirmishes are frequently more partially destructive to riflemen than general actions, although attended with but little of their celebrity. For my own part, I was never nearer death, excepting on the night we took Badajoz.

I must not forget a singular escape that occurred: a man of the name of Charity, of my own company, when the cavalry first rushed upon us, had fallen, wounded in the head by a sabre, while on the ground, he received another severe sword slash on the seat of honour, and a shot through the arm, the latter, no doubt, from the 52nd. Yet after all this, he managed to escape, and

Clothed in scarlet lived to tell the tale,

as a pensioner in Chelsea Hospital.

Having no mules nor waggons to accommodate us, the surgeons advised all who were by any means capable of moving, to get on as quick as they could to Pinhel.

There were of our regiment about seventy or eighty disabled, a number of those hobbled onwards assisting each other by turns.

We commenced our slow and painful march, and by the help of a couple of rifles that served as crutches, I managed to reach the first village where the Juiz or chief magistrate selected, and put the worst of our wounded into bullock-carts. Amongst those I fortunately was one; and although crammed with six others into a wretched little vehicle, scarcely capable of accommodating more than two, I thought it a blessing for which I could not feel sufficiently thankful.

In this manner, we were dragged along all night, and by the following daylight we halted at another village, where I felt so dreadfully faint from loss of blood and my confined position, that I could not move at all. While refreshing our parched lips with some water that had been eagerly demanded, Lord Wellington and some of his staff galloped up. Glancing his eye at us for a moment, and seeing our crowded condition in the carts, he instantly gave an order to one of his aides-de-camp to obtain additional conveyance from the Juiz de Fora, and also bread and wine. His Lordship then rode off towards Almeida.

Although neither bread nor wine made their appearance, a few additional carts were procured, into one of which I was transferred with four other men.

We again continued our march, until we came into a stream of water where we halted; here we lost a most excellent officer, a Lieutenant Pratt,[6] who was wounded through the neck, and at first appeared to be doing very well. He was seated on one of the men’s knapsacks conversing with some of his wounded brother officers, when he was suddenly seized with a violent fit of coughing, and almost instantly began pumping a quantity of blood from the wound. I never before saw so much come from any man.

It appeared that the ball, which went through his neck, had passed so close to the carotid artery, that the exertion of coughing had burst it, and it became impossible to stop the hæmorrhage. He bled to death, and warm as he was, they covered him in the sand and proceeded. After we had been driven some few miles further, one of my wounded comrades, who was shot through the body, and whose end seemed momentarily approaching, at length, in a dying state relaxed his hold from the cart sides and fell across me as I lay at the bottom, whilst foam mixed with blood kept running from his mouth. This with his glass eyes fixed on mine made me feel very uncomfortable. Being weak and wounded myself, I had not power to move him, and in this situation, the horrors of which survived for some time in my mind, death put an end to his sufferings, but without granting me any respite for some hours. His struggles having ceased, however, I was enabled to recover myself a little, and called to the driver to remove the body. But the scoundrel of a Portuguese, who kept as much ahead of the bullocks as possible, was so afraid of the French, that I could get no other answer from him than “non quireo,” “don’t bother me,” and a significant shrug of the shoulder, which bespoke even more than his words.

At length we arrived at Fraxedas on the road to Coimbra, where we found the 1st division encamped outside the town. Here I got rid of my dead comrade, and we had our wounds dressed. The guards, who belonged to the 1st division, behaved to us with a kindness which I never can forget; as we had no men of our own to attend to us, forty of their number, under an officer, were ordered to supply our wants until we arrived at Lisbon.

Chapter VII.

Mondego—The Coimbra—Figueras—The maggots—Lisbon—Battle of Busaco—Retreat to Torres Vedras—Lord Wellington’s generalship—Belem—Jack ashore and Jonathan also—Yankey and Lankey—Billy M’Nabb—The Highland kite and Lowland tail—Josh. Hetherington—Sperum Poco—Portuguese piety—Aruda—Doing what the enemy left undone—Tom Crawley again—In state—A hot berth—Our enemies laugh at Tom in his glory.

FROM Fraxedas we pursued our way to Mondego, and from thence we passed in boats down the river through Coimbra, to the sea-port of Figueras. Sick and ill as I was, I well recollect the exquisite scenery that met our gaze on the banks of that beautiful river, as we floated over its surface to our destination.

The heat of the weather was intense and dreadfully affected our wounds. The scarcity of doctors too, and the fear of falling into the hands of the enemy, spurred every one forward, and so took up the moments that the surgeons had not time sufficient nor opportunity to look after us. The consequence was, that this neglect caused maggots to be engendered in the sores, and the bandages, when withdrawn, brought away on them lumps of putrid flesh and maggots. Many died on board, and numbers were reduced in consequence to the necessity of amputation. By care and syringing sweet oil into my wounds, I however had managed to get rid of them.

At Figueras we embarked on board some transports that there waited our arrival, and we sailed for Lisbon, where, in a short time, we landed, and borne on stretchers by some men of the Ordinanza or Portuguese Militia, were conveyed to the hospital.

From regular and kind treatment there, I soon recovered; and the British army retired towards Lisbon.

It may perhaps be necessary, before I continue my personal narrative, to observe, that Lord Wellington, finding his numbers greatly unequal to the enemy was obliged to retreat. This, it is well known, he directed in a very skilful manner, having long before anticipated the probability of such an event by the erection of the lines of Torres Vedras. During the retreat, his Lordship ordered the people of the country to accompany the troops, and to destroy all those things which they could not carry with them. By this precaution, Massena’s army, on the track of the British and Portuguese, through want of food and necessaries, were reduced to the greatest privations, of which the Marshal bitterly complained in his despatches of that period.

Perhaps few events in the Peninsular war reflect more credit upon Lord Wellington, as a commander, than the admirable manner in which he had thus drawn an overwhelming force of the French into actual famine, in front of works that afforded security and plenty to his own comparatively small force.

In a few weeks after our arrival at Lisbon, I became sufficiently recovered to leave the hospital and was accordingly transferred to Belem, a place much noted amongst us for every species of skulk, but better known to my fellow soldiers as the “Belem rangers.” The chief part of the 58th and 87th regiments, the latter I believe from the severe loss they had sustained at Talavera, were doing duty there.

Belem itself is about two miles from Lisbon, but contiguous to it, or, as the suburbs of London are to the city. I was here, as it were, quite at my ease; and usually spent my time rambling about the quays. The port was thronged with shipping, bringing troops and stores from England, and if I recollect rightly, the ‘Hibernia,’ the ‘Caledonia,’ and the ‘Britannia,’ and other ships of war lay in the bay; at all events, we constantly intermixed with the sailors, and were mostly coupled with them; some recognising old friends—town-mates; and others, nearer and dearer ties, and forming new links and acquaintances; this the peculiarity of our situations naturally tended to strengthen, fighting as we were in the same cause, though on different elements. One day, however, I remember being present at a regular row in a wine-house, between an American and a Lancashire man. They both belonged to the same ship, and from what I could understand, were very quarrelsome fellows, and the most unfair fighters on board.

The Yankee was from Kentucky, and had a precious knack of “gouging” as they termed it, or, screwing his finger into the side locks of his opponent, and so with his thumb poking his eyes out. One or two on board had been “jockied” in this way. The Lancashire man, alias “Tummas,” alias “Lankey,” who had nearly lost one eye by a splinter at Trafalgar, seemed unwilling to risk the loss of the other in any encounter with him.

“But,” said he, “I tell you what, you bl—d cowardly sea sarpent, if it warnt that I fear’d your fingering this ’ere solitary blinker o’ mine, I’d dust your Yankee jacket for you.”

The “gouger,” however, despite the confession, though ready for a scrimmage, had some inward dread also, and seemed to dislike altogether the hazard of being bit, slobbered, and perhaps kicked to a jelly. The Englishman’s friends, nevertheless, came to a council of war; and it was agreed at last, that though ashore, they should thump it out “ship fashion.”

“For you know,” said a short, fat, big-whiskered, little sailor, who, I believe, was the boatswain, “I’m d—d if they can kick, scratch, gouge or bite, when they hangs by their starn sheets.”

It was settled, therefore, that they should have it out on a barrel.

A butt big enough to hold the rations of a whole division, was soon procured of the Patrone, and the little man bolted to the boats for some large nails and a hammer.

The barrel meantime, was rolled out to the centre of the quay, and to keep it steady, settled longways between two heaps of stones. Meanwhile the two combatants could scarcely be kept from each other, till the “little-whiskers” returned.

“Clear the gangways!” at last roared a voice from the crowd, and the boatswain bounced, almost breathless, to the barrel. In a few minutes, Yankee and Lankey were seated, and the little man first nailing one by a small bit of the bottom of his canvas trowsers to the barrel edge, and the other by the same contingency to the other, brought them fronting and about two feet apart. The two then proceeded to balance their fists, like rope-dancers’ poles, and fixing their eyes on each other, awaited the signal to begin.

“Now, gemmen,” bellowed the boatswain, “clear the decks; and you, Tummas, for the honour of your messmates let’s have no shamming afore these ere Portugals and biled lobsters. Now, softly, my lads: when you sees me put my quid into my jaws—” the two men looked at each other; “heave in your broadsides.”

The words were scarcely out, when in flopped the quid, and the combatants commenced hammering away at each other at what both, perhaps, thought hurricane rate.

In the course of a few rounds Tummas fell, but caught by his breech, remaining hanging over the barrel edge; up however, he was re-seated, and at it they went again until Yankee fell also, and hung in the same manner.

“Excellent!” roared the boatswain, “excellent prewentative, or my old aunt warnt a wirgin!”

Yankee was soon himself, and they closed again, round after round, until the two champions hung powerless at the same moment.

“Drawn fight!” bellowed the little man again; “both tough ones;” and he proceeded to separate with an enormous clasp knife the fixtures at their trowsers: all this while the crowd about them were convulsed with laughter, which was further increased by a hole in each of the combatant’s trowsers, which the boatswain had carefully cut large enough almost to admit the barrel. The two sailors, however, having recovered themselves, and with a growl tucked back the blue check, steered away to the wine-house.

Among the officers of our battalion that had been wounded at Almeida, was one Captain Mitchell, who having received a ball through the arm, was transferred with us to Lisbon: when sufficiently recovered, he one morning came to the convalescent barrack to muster those who were willing and able to rejoin their regiments. Amongst others selected, was a man named Billy M’Nabb, of our corps, a most notorious skulker and a methodist. He had scarcely ever done duty with his company, but had remained sneaking about the hospital as an orderly; and occasionally preaching and praying to the drunken soldiers in the streets of Lisbon. Captain Mitchell, however, had made up his mind that M’Nabb should see the enemy before he returned to England, and as a “persuasive,” when Billy most violently resisted the summons, ordered him to be tied to the bullock-cart, amid the jeers of the soldiers, and conveyed back to his regiment. But it was only for a short period, as Billy got tired of the “sight,” and took the earliest opportunity to decamp, for he suddenly disappeared from among us, and but for my having seen him since preaching in the streets of London, should have been inclined to think he never returned home at all.

The morning that the convalescents fell in to start for the main-army, we were joined by a batch of recruits, chiefly intended for the 68th and 85th regiments. They were a squad of plump, rosy-cheeked, smart-looking fellows, and like ourselves, each of them had been provided with five days’ rations in advance; consisting of salt pork, biscuits, and rum, the first of which they cooked ready for the march.

Their officer in command was an astonishing man, nearly seven feet high. I shall never forget him: by his high-cheeked bones and dark complexion, I took him at first to be a foreigner; but as soon as he spoke, his broad accent declared him to be a North Briton, as far north as could be. He seemed well acquainted with every theory, or that part of a campaign which is generally digested at home; and as a sample of this, he ordered his men, in accordance with the regulations of Dundas, the then Commander-in-chief, to halt and rest ten minutes or a quarter of an hour at the end of every three miles.

“Coom, men,” he would say, pulling out his gold watch, “ye ken, I suppose, yer three miles is up, set ye down and eat a pound, the mair ye tak into yer stomachs the less ye’ll carry on yer backs.” This over, the watch would be again in requisition, and it would be, “Coom men, yer quarter of an hour is nearly up, ye maun aye be ganging again;” and the men, of course, would fall in. By thus halting every three miles, and eating a pound each time, before we reached Mafra, at the end of the second day’s march, the men had “pounded” the whole of their five days’ rations, and some of them began to growl most confoundedly from the want of provisions. Wishing to know the cause, he sent for the sergeant, and desired him to inquire, when the latter informed him.

“Hoot mon, ye dinna say that, do ye? Tell them all to fall in. I fear I maun chop a wee logic with them.”

“Oh ye hungry hounds,” he exclaimed, when the men appeared before him. “Ye dinna ken the grand army yet; not content now, ye maun aye whistle then, for ye waunna get in ten days then what your hungry maws have now devoor’d in twa!” saying which, he placed himself at their head, to direct their movements when on the march. I used to liken him to a kite, while the files, of short men after him, reminded me of the tail. His shoulders were so broad and yet so skinny and square, and his height so convenient, that without stirring a peg from the front section, he would wave his sword and look over their heads down the ranks and see every manœuvre.

Amongst the convalescents, but very recently from Cockneyshire, was a man named Josias Hetherington. This fellow was one of the queerest I ever met with, and I verily believe had seen _service_ before, but amongst gipsies, prigs, gaol-birds, and travelling showmen. There was not a move but what he was up to, and in addition to these, he was an excellent ventriloquist, and terrified the inhabitants as we went along, whenever an occasion offered.

I think it was on the third day’s march, we had stopped for the night in a small village, and as it happened, Josh. and I got billeted in the same house together. Outside our quarters in front of the house, was a small square (every town, village and pig-stye in Portugal has one,) in the middle of which and while we were cooking our rations the inhabitants had commenced a fandango. This also is usual on Sundays in Portugal. Attracted by the whistle and a small drum beaten by a short, dumpy, ugly looking lump of a Portuguese, Josh. and I would occasionally run down to join, and leave our pots beside the Patrone’s wood fire as close as we could to the red embers. But invariably, when we came in to take a peep at the boiling progress, we found our utensils moved aside and the contents as cold as charity. Josh. looked at me, and I at Josh., the same as to say, “Who the blazes moves our meat about so?” Josh. however hearing footsteps on the stairs, popped me and himself after into a kind of pantry. I partially closed the door, and there we stood watching.

In a few minutes in came the Patrone or lady of the house, and looking about her a little, bounced to our little utensils, and was proceeding to purloin the meat, muttering something to herself at the same moment. But she had scarcely put a hand to it, when a voice as if from the pot plainly told her to “Sperum poco,” (wait a little.) The old woman frisked up, looked doubtful, _crossed herself_, and with the courage _this_ afforded, again attacked the pot. But the same words only quick and smart as a rifle shot, sent her reeling and screeching to the corner of the kitchen. “Oh Santa Maria! oh Jesu, oh la deos! Pedro aye el demonio ei in panello, (the devil’s in the pot,) Santa Maria ora—ora—ora—ora pro nobis!” and the good soul went off in a Portuguese fit.

Josh. and I, scarcely able to contain our mirth, rushed out of the house instantly and joined in the crowd, which her screams were collecting about the door-way. The old Patrone, when she recovered, was off in a twinkling to the Priest and the Alcalde, but it was all in vain, the billet could not be changed, for the whole village equally feared the devil, and we held quiet possession till the next morning, and might have carried away the house for what the old Patrone cared, for she left her domicile and never returned till we had marched out of the place.

The following day, 12th of October, 1810, I rejoined my regiment encamped near a small village on the lines of Torres Vedras, called Aruda, where I found my old Captain, who despite his severe loss, had scraped together a snug company, partly from men who had made their escape from the French after the affair at Almeida, but chiefly from a batch of recruits that joined our first battalion with the third of our regiment that came from England while I was in hospital. Aruda was a pretty little place enough until we mounted our picquets, when the men dreadfully defaced it, perhaps from a belief that the French might enter—a pleasure they never had.

The inhabitants whose fears had been enhanced by its exposed situation had nearly all evacuated the place, taking with them only the most portable and valuable of their effects, and leaving the houses, as it were, furnished and tenantless. The change was the more extraordinary from the circumstance of its pleasant site having for many years made it a country resort for the rich citizens of Lisbon.

For a few days after our arrival, it presented a picture of most wanton desolation. Furniture of a most splendid description in many instances was laid open to the spoliation of the soldiery. Elegant looking-glasses wrenched from the mantle-pieces were wantonly broken to obtain bits to shave by, and their encasures, with chairs, tables, &c., &c., used as common fire-wood for the picquets; an Israelite would have gloated over the gilded embers, and have deemed perhaps one of them as under the value of what our united fire-places might have been reduced to. These proceedings, however, unravel the secret of spending “half-a-crown out of sixpence a day,” and the philosophical reader will perhaps admit of the plea, that if we had not, the French would have done it for us, an event which we expected, though it fortunately never was realized.

Tom Crawley was particularly pre-eminent in this havoc; his enormous strength and length fitting him especially for the pulling down and “breaking up” department.

Our company was one night on picquet at Aruda; we had, as usual, made a blazing fire close to the stable of a large house, which in the morning we had noticed, contained a very handsome carriage (the only one by-the-bye that I had ever seen in Portugal). Rather late in the evening we missed Tom—who, by the way, had a great love of exploring the houses of the village, and whom we imagined to be employed in his favourite amusement, “looking for wine.” After having consumed sundry chairs to keep alive our fire, we found it necessary to obtain fresh fuel, and while consulting where it was to come from, one man, with an oath, proposed to burn the Portuguese coach. The novelty of the thing among our thoughtless fellows was received with acclamations, and as our officers were absent in a house close by, several started up on their legs for the purpose. The stable-doors were immediately opened, and the coach wheeled backwards into the large blazing fire. “This will make a jolly roast!” exclaimed several of the men, as the paint and paneling began to crack under the influence of the heat. Our scamps were laughing and enjoying what they called a capital joke, but just as the flames were beginning to curl up around the devoted vehicle, a roar like that of a bull came from its interior, and threw us for a moment into consternation: immediately afterwards one of the glasses was dashed out, and Tom Crawley’s big head was thrust through the window, amid shouts of laughter from the men, as he cried out—“Oh bad luck to your sowls! are you going to burn me alive?” At the same moment, urged powerfully by the heat of his berth, he made the most violent efforts to open the door, which from the handle being heated, was a difficult and painful operation. We had some trouble ere we could extricate the poor fellow, and then not before he was severely scorched. It afterwards appeared he had gone half tipsy into the carriage, and was taking a snooze, when he was so warmly awoke. After this occurrence, Crawley used to boast of going to sleep with one eye open.

At this period the French soldiers and ourselves began to establish a very amicable feeling, apart from duty in the field. It was a common thing for us to meet each other daily at the houses between our lines, when perhaps both parties would be in search of wine and food. In one of the houses so situated, I remember once finding Crawley in a drunken state in company with a couple of French soldiers. I was mortified by the merriment his appearance had excited, and could with difficulty get him away, as he stripped, and offered to fight the whole three of us for laughing at him.

Chapter VIII.

The enemy retire upon Santarem—We retire upon Vallée—The bridge over the Rio Mayor—The French out-lying sentries—Their camp ground—Comparative quietude—The still—Escape from assassination—Tom Crawley’s ghost story—The “Death and Glory men”—The charms of a Brunswickian appetite—Their desertions—Sergeant Fleming—His court-martial—We meet our enemies on the water and contend—A comment on both sides.

ABOUT the middle of November the enemy retired, and we made a movement to follow them towards Santarem, which they immediately occupied and strongly fortified. As soon as we came in sight of their works, our battalion received orders to cross a river (the Rio Mayor), which discharged itself into the Tagus, about half a mile lower down on our right. While executing this movement, we met with rather a warm reception, which became more intense as we attempted to get a peep into their position; we however were obliged in turn to retreat, and finally took up our cantonments at a place called Vallée. The regiment was distributed in companies on the houses on both sides of the main road, that to which I was attached being in an old wine-store near the bridge crossing the Mayor.

On this bridge we had double sentries, and abbatis of fallen trees. But the better to foil the incursions of the enemy, the arches had been undermined, and the powder secured from the wet by bullocks’ hides, trained ready for explosion.

About two hundred yards in front of this were the French outlying sentries, and a little in their rear, on a slight eminence, their camp ground, which they had very beautifully built over with ranges of huts.

About three or four miles to our left, and divided from us by the Rio Mayor, rose the pretty town of Santarem; its towers and steeples peering up from the summit of a hill, studded on all sides with groves of olive-trees. The prospect from it must have been very “soul-stirring,” as the two armies lay within shell range, although they never interfered with each other for the whole of the four or five months that we were there; during this time we were flanked on the left and right by the 43rd and 52nd regiments, and enjoyed the most uninterrupted repose, almost our sole employment being to watch the French movements.

Some of the men, for want of better pastime, succeeded in constructing a still, with which they managed to make spirits from a quantity of dried grapes, found in the old wine-house; a discovery, however, soon took place, much to our chagrin, and the still was destroyed by our old Captain, Peter O’Hare.

The sanguinary nature of the Portuguese during the whole period of the war was notorious. When crossed or excited, nothing but the shedding of blood could allay their passion. It was always with the greatest difficulty that we could preserve our French prisoners from being butchered by them even in cold blood. They would hang upon the rear of a detachment with prisoners like so many carrion birds, waiting every opportunity to satiate their love of vengeance; and it required all the firmness and vigilance of our troops to keep them in check. It was well known that even our men fell in stepping between them and the French, whom they had marked out as victims. Indeed it was not unfrequent for our own men to suffer from the consequences of their ferocity, and I myself, while at Vallée, had a narrow escape. I had crossed the hills to purchase some necessaries at the quarters of the 52nd regiment, and on my return fell in with several of the soldiers of the 3rd Caçadores; one of them, a fierce-looking scoundrel, evinced a great inclination to quarrel, the more particularly as he perceived that I was unarmed and alone. Having replied rather sharply to some abuse they had cast upon the English, by reflecting on their countrymen in return, he flew into a rage, drew his bayonet, and made a rush at me, which I avoided by stepping aside, and tripping him head foremost on the ground; I was in the act of seizing his bayonet, when a number of his comrades came up, to whom he related, in exaggerated terms, the cause of our disagreement. Before he had half concluded, a general cry arose of “kill the English dog,” and the whole drawing their bayonets, were advancing upon me when a party of the 52nd came up, the tables were turned, and the Caçadores fled in all directions.

Among other laughable circumstances that made the time pass gaily while we remained here, was a ghost story, in which Tom Crawley cut rather a conspicuous figure. We had accoutred ourselves, as was our custom before laying down for the night’s repose, when in rushed Tom Crawley like a distracted man.

“Bring me some salt and water for the love of God, boys!” he immediately demanded; “I have seen a ghost.”

“What sort of ghost, Crawley?” sung out a dozen voices from the men, who immediately became alive to the fun.

“Oh, a Portuguese ghost, as sure as the Lord,” replied Crawley. “Give me a little water with some salt in it.”

This salt, I must explain to the uninitiated, according to a vulgar superstition in Ireland, is absolutely necessary to be drunk by those who have seen a phantom before seeing a light, as a neglect of the precaution was sure to be followed by an evil influence. As soon, therefore, as a tin measure was brought to the agitated Tom, (not filled, indeed, with salt and water, but, I am sorry to say, a much more objectionable liquid) Crawley drank it off with as much avidity as if his future salvation depended on it: the men, meanwhile, nearly convulsed with laughter at Tom’s credulity.

At length, something like silence being restored, Crawley took a seat, at the same time making many wry faces (that were sufficiently accounted for by the potion he had swallowed.) He then told us, in a very solemn manner, that he had distinctly seen the semblance of a Caçadore in Colonel Eldar’s regiment, the 3rd Caçadores, who used to sell our men rum on the retreat from Almeida, and who was afterwards killed at the battle of Busaco.

“But did you not speak to it?” inquired Jack Murphy.

“You know I can’t talk Portuguese,” replied Crawley.

“A ghost can talk any language; he would have spoken English to you if you had talked to him,” observed another.

“But I was in too great a fright to talk at all to him till he vanished away among the trees.”

Poor Tom Crawley! His ghost story afforded us ample amusement for many weeks afterwards, although I remember it caused his grog to be stopped, for having woke the Captain of our company in an adjoining room by the noise he had occasioned by his spiritual narration.

There is nothing, not even flogging, damps the spirit of a service-soldier more than stopping his grog, particularly a man of Crawley’s temperament, for like his renowned prototype (Nautical Jack), if he were allowed three wishes, the first would be all the rum in the world, the second all the tobacco, and the third would be for more rum. During our stay here, the commissary had ovens made, and a number of our men employed baking bread, something after the fashion of our quartern loaf, one of which was allowed each man every four days. One day while the company was being served out with rations of salt beef and a hot four-pound loaf, and the commissary was busy in serving out rum from a barrel turned on the end, with the head knocked in, while the quarter-master was calling over the name of each man, when Crawley’s name was called—stopped by order of Captain O’Hare, was the answer. Had sentence of death been pronounced, it could not have sounded more harsh; but Tom had a little philosophy. This trial put it to the test, for while he kept peeping over the men’s shoulders, anxiously watching each man receive his portion of rum, I also observed him poking his thumb into different parts of the hot loaf, while he gradually kept edging himself through the men, until he got close to the rum barrel, and quietly putting his loaf under his arm, remained stationary, until the commissary turned round to speak to one of the men, when raising his arm in flopped the loaf into the rum-barrel, while he lustily began damning the awkward fellows who pushed, and caused the accident, no doubt wishing the loaf to remain soaking in the barrel as long as possible; but seeing the commissary about taking the bread out, he instantly dived his arm into the barrel, shoving the loaf to the bottom, then drawing it out dripping, as well as his coat-sleeve, and looking the commissary seriously in the face, begun cursing his misfortune, saying: “Faith, Sir, I’ll have a hot meal for the next four days, anyhow; if salt junk and hot rum don’t blister a poor devil’s guts, I don’t know what will.” The good-natured commissary, who looked on the whole as a pure accident, handed Tom an extra half loaf, which he instantly squeezed against the wet one, lest a drop of the precious liquor should fall to the ground, and walked away, humming as he went:

“Oh, love is the soul of a neat Irishman,” &c.

About this period we had a regiment of Brunswickers sent to join our division, and one of our least amusing duties soon consisted in watching them, to prevent their deserting to the enemy. It was the prevalence of this honourable propensity among them, I believe, that induced Lord Wellington to distribute their force among the different divisions of the army. These “death and glory men,” as we used to term them, from their badge of the skull and cross-bones which was worn on their shakos and accoutrements, were dressed in dark green, which but too frequently enabled them to steal past our guards and join the French, with whom many of their connexions were. Among other attributes with which these allies were gifted, was a _canine_ appetite, that induced them to kill and eat all the dogs they could privately lay hold of. By this means the different dogs of the division disappeared before the Germans with a celerity truly astonishing, and we were in ignorance of their fate until the fact became openly proclaimed and acknowledged. Among other animals thus “potted for consumption” was a dog which, from its having attached itself to our regiment, we had christened “Rifle.” Rifle could never be induced to leave us, and upon one or two occasions when we had lost it, had always managed to rejoin us again. We used often to joke among ourselves at Rifle’s antipathy to a red coat, and his decided preference to green; but although, poor fellow! he had survived many of our skirmishes, in which he used to run about barking and expressing his delight as much as a dog could, it was only, after all, to be devoured by the insatiable jaws of the Brunswickers.

We had in the company a sergeant of the name of Fleming, a tall athletic brave fellow, from the Lake of Killarney. One night being posted in picquet, he unluckily came in collision with one of the Brunswick officers, and suspecting his intentions to bolt to the enemy, knocked him down with his rifle and otherwise maltreated him. The result was, that Fleming was tried by a brigade court-martial, convicted for the assault, and sentenced to be reduced to the ranks, and to receive a corporal punishment of five hundred lashes. This put us all on the alert, and the officers also, by whom he was very much liked. The division being formed, by order of General Crauford, the prisoner was brought to the centre of the square, and the minutes of the court-martial read aloud, Fleming proceeded to strip, while the men stood attentively yet sullenly awaiting the result. The General now addressed him, saying:

“Prisoner Fleming, the offence which you have been guilty of, is of so heinous a nature, that could it be proved to be wilfully committed, it would be most unpardonable; but the excellent character for gallantry and honourable conduct, given of you by your officers, is such that I take the responsibility on myself, relying on the plea made by you. I shall not flog you, therefore, but your stripes will be cut off, and I trust your future conduct will testify that the discretion I now use, is not misplaced; and I here,” proceeded the General, turning round to the division, “take the opportunity of declaring, that if any of those gentlemen (meaning the Brunswickers,) have a wish to go over to the enemy, let them express it, and I give my word of honour I will grant them a pass to that effect instantly, for we are better without such.”

Fleming was shortly afterwards reinstated, but, poor fellow! he was destined to an early though a more honourable fate, and fell leading on the ladder party, in the forlorn hope at Badajoz.

All this time, and for a great part of that in which we were quartered here, a very friendly intercourse was carried on between the French and ourselves. We frequently met them bathing in the Rio Mayor, and would as often have swimming and even jumping matches. In these games, however, we mostly beat them, but that was attributed, perhaps, to their half-starved, distressed condition. This our stolen intercourses soon made us more awake to, until at length, touched with pity, our men went so far as to share with them the ration biscuits, which we were occasionally supplied with from England, by our shipping; indeed we buried all national hostility in our anxiety to assist and relieve them. Tobacco was in great request; we used to carry some of ours to them, while they in return would bring us a little brandy. Their “réveille” was our summons as well as theirs, and although our old captain seldom troubled us to fall in at the “réveille,” it was not unusual to find the rear of our army under arms, and, perhaps, expecting an attack. But the captain knew his customers, for though playful as lambs, we were watchful as leopards.

It will not be amiss, perhaps, if I give the reader an idea of the resources and intrinsic position of the two armies, thus contending on a soil to which both were aliens. It will be necessary to enter a little into the holds either party had on the opinions of the inhabitants.

The French, it must be recollected, were fighting for the usurpation—if it may be so termed—of the Spanish throne by Joseph Bonaparte, and had to contend with all the elements that composed and monopolized the prejudices of the Spanish and Portuguese people. The whole war was one between innovation, and long and deeply rooted prejudice; and the French troops, consequently, were on all occasions, nightly and daily, not only open to attacks from the British, but in constant alarm from the natives, whose animosity made them alive to the slightest opportunity that presented itself for doing them mischief.

No Frenchman, however fatigued, dared to straggle or fall back: it was instant death to him. The guerillas and peasantry watched with the thirst of wolves, and slaughtered all who fell into their hands. These dangers were, also, doubly increased by the absence of uniforms amongst the Spaniards, who, up to this time, wore their own peasant dresses. This disabled the French from recognizing either friends or foes. In addition to these, they had another of greater magnitude than any, their provision and ammunition resources depended entirely on their communication with France—separated from them by the Pyrenees, and long distances from the scene of contention itself; this made their supplies exceedingly precarious, and but for the contributions levied by the French generals on the inhabitants, would have kept them oft-times pendant ’twixt hunger and the bayonets of their enemies.

The priesthood, also, numbers of whom were of the French church, had to return many obligations to their revolutionary opponents, such as their banishment, wholesale, from their “snuggeries” during the year of terror; these, therefore, sided always with the Spaniards, and by their influence, combined with the Spanish inquisitorial clergy, gave a colour and energy to the cause we had engaged in.

Our case was, consequently, widely different as the quiet imprisonment of our disorderly comrade before-mentioned fully proved; we were received, also, everywhere with open arms, and were well backed, if not by the courage, by their best provision resources. We could, with safety, leave whole hospitals behind us, whilst the sick and wounded of our opponents, the French, were, in many instances, slaughtered wholesale by the citizens.

But with all these advantages in our favour, we yet, as it were, lay between two stools. The natives were not to be relied on, and though drawn up with us on most occasions, generally left the British to bear the brunt of action. Thus often and too truly showing that a weak friend is frequently more dangerous than a determined enemy.

Chapter IX.

General Crauford leaves for England—Sir William Erskine takes the command—Mounseer Strauss—We enter Santarem—Scenes of horror—Mile posts of the “grande armée”—Retaliations of the Portuguese—Two upon one—Pombal—Smart work—German gallantry—Auction—A new division—Redinha—An accident—Long Tom of Lincoln—The deserter—A return of favours.

IN the month of February, General Crauford went to England on leave, and the command of the light division, during his absence, devolved upon Major-General Sir William Erskine.

On the night of the 5th of March we were suddenly ordered to fall in, as intelligence had reached us that the French were evacuating Santarem. This was soon ascertained to be the fact, and we immediately commenced an advance, crossing the bridge in our front at three o’clock on the morning of the 6th.

Ours being the senior captain of the regiment, the company, as was usual, were in the advance, when some of the front files suddenly came within a few yards of what appeared to be a French sentinel, leaning against a wall that ran along from the bridge. One of our fellows fired, but perceiving no movement made, we all rushed up, and discovered him to be, what our money-changers at home have so great a horror of, “a man of straw,” or a piece of sacking stuffed and accoutred. This afforded a fit theme for joking, as we carried our “prisoner” with us until we came to Santarem.

Our march was uninterrupted, and over a bold thickly wooded country, much cut up, however, by the retreating enemy; about mid-day we entered Santarem, where a sight of a most horrifying description offered itself. The streets and houses presented a mass of desolation and filth, which, in some degree, contaminated the air around, while to add to the picture, numbers of half-starved looking Frenchmen were grouped about in knots, and exhibiting the loathsome appearance of disease. The faces of many of these poor fellows were dreadfully swollen and white. Our men were moved to pity at the scene, and threw them biscuits as we passed through the town.

Massena had not the means of conveyance for the whole of his sick, and had been obliged to leave these to their fate. This, indeed, would have been soon decided had the Portuguese first come up with them.

At every mile the enemy, on their retreat, had fixed finger posts with directions to the road the “grande armée” had taken, they sufficiently directed us also. But after all, these were of little service, for straggling groups of the unfortunate enemy strewed the road as we advanced over it. The poor fellows, at first, would greet the English with a faint hope of protection, and turned up their swollen and pallid countenances to us with expressions that needed not words to explain them. But we were obliged to pass on and leave them, for aught I know, to be butchered by the inhabitants, who fearfully retaliated for all the scenes we had witnessed. At night we encamped on the outskirts of a small village, the name I do not recollect, but the sights within it I never can forget.

In searching for a stream from which I might procure water, I fell upon a small fountain, close to which lay two or three murdered Portuguese; their brains and blood, which seemed freshly to have oozed from their mangled remains, had even streamed into the spring, and turned me away with disgust from the water. Proceeding onward, I observed a gaunt ghastly figure in a cloak stealing towards a group of cadaverous looking Frenchmen—on his getting a little nearer to them, he suddenly spat in his hands and throwing his cloak aside, produced a heavy club, with which, I suppose, he was going to beat their brains out. Struck with horror, I instantly seized the stick from his half-famished grasp, drove him away, and assisted by one or two comrades got the poor men into a house, and pursued my search.

As I, however, approached into the Plaza, the desolation thickened; all the havoc that can possibly be imagined in so small a compass lay before me—murdered and violated women—shrieking and dying children—and, indeed, all that had possessed life in the village, lay quivering in the last agony of slaughter and awful vengeance.

These became every-day scenes until we overtook the French rear-guard at Pombal, which we did on the 11th, my company had been hurried forward by the cavalry, each dragoon mounting a rifleman behind him on his horse—a method of riding peculiarly galling to the infantry, but which we frequently had to experience during the war. From the friction alone produced on the legs and seat by the dragoon’s saddle-bags, it was some time before the foot-soldier, when placed upon his legs, could move with anything like dispatch. Besides, this method of riding was generally attended by the loss of the men’s mess-tins, which became shaken off by the jolting. There were, indeed, few of our men who would not have preferred marching twice the distance on foot to being thus carried.[7]

We first got sight of the enemy about two miles from the town of Pombal. They had possession of a wood, from which, however, we soon managed to drive them. They retired in great disorder in the direction of the town. The long straight road that led to Pombal became filled for some hundred yards, with the confused masses of the French; but their distress was still further increased by the arrival of Brigade-Major Mellish, who came up, at the time, with a couple of Ross’s guns, and commenced playing upon them. It soon became a complete rout with the enemy, and they pressed pell-mell over the bridge of the river between us and the town. They suffered considerably in this business—the ground was strewed with their dead, and as we followed we found several poor fellows at the bridge badly wounded by the rifles, and many dissevered legs and arms, the latter, no doubt, caused by Ross’s two pieces.

It was during the preceding skirmish that, for the first time, I heard the words that afterwards became so common in our regiment, “kill a Frenchman for yourself.” Its origin was as follows: Two men of known daring, named Palmer and Tracey, during our approach to the bridge, seeing a French sergeant fall, ran up to claim the meed of conquest, by relieving him of any valuables he might be possessed of. They were quarrelling as to the appropriation of the spoil, when Palmer, who was a known excellent shot, told Tracey to go “and kill a Frenchman for himself,” as he had shot this man.

This circumstance afterwards gave birth to a little gasconade in the regiment, that every rifleman could and ought to kill a Frenchman in action. From the period of the above occurrence, Palmer received the nick-name of the “man-killer,” until a singular circumstance, that occurred at the siege of Badajoz, gave him a new title. In relieving picquet in the trenches, many of our men, instead of going quietly through the trenches or parallels in front of the walls of the town, used to show their contempt of danger by jumping out of them and running across in the face of the enemy’s fire. In executing this feat one day with some others, a cannon-shot fired by the French, struck the ground first, and then hit Palmer on the back, and he fell, as we thought, killed upon the spot. To our surprise, however, in a moment he jumped up unhurt, the ball having glanced off his knapsack. In commemoration of this event, he was afterwards known by the appellation of “the bomb proof man.”

It must be borne in mind, that my own company only were present here, and we had to sustain, at a great disadvantage, a smart fire from the different houses,