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 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
 CHAPTER XI.
CAMPAIGN OF 1813: BATTLE OF VITTORIA.

At Guinaldo we soon saw it was requisite to prepare for another

campaign, and without any previous warning whatever, we received,
about twelve at night, an order to march, which we did at daylight
[21 May, 1813], and marched nineteen successive days without one
halt.
I commenced this campaign under very unfortunate circumstances
as far as my stud was concerned. I had five capital horses, and only
two fit for work. Tiny, my wife’s noble little horse, had received a
violent injury from the pulling down of the bullock-manger (an
immensely heavy timber, with mere holes in it for the ox’s muzzle),
when the extreme end and sharp point fell on his off fore-hoof, and
he was so lame he could hardly travel to Vittoria. This was an awful
loss to my wife. General Vandeleur now and then mounted me, or I
should have been badly off indeed. James Stewart gave me a
celebrated English hunter called “Old Chap.” He had picked up a nail
in his hind foot, and was not fit to ride for months, and an English
mare had thrown out a ring-bone. (I must observe that winter
quarters to my stud was no holiday.)
The march from Guinaldo to Palencia and thence to Vittoria was
exceedingly interesting; the weather delightful; supplies, the
mainspring of happiness in a soldier’s life, plentiful; and never was
any army (although the Duke had so censured us after the retreat
from Burgos) inspired with such confidence in their leader, and such
dependence on their own prowess. All was cheerfulness, joy, and
anticipation. On reaching Toro [2 June], we found the bridge over
the Douro destroyed. The river was full and barely fordable for
cavalry and baggage animals. The bridge was partially repaired,
some boats collected, and by boats our artillery, baggage, and
material crossed, some of the infantry in boats, some scrambling
over the bridge. The Douro, a magnificent and deep flowing river,
was much up for the time of year. The passage was a most
animating spectacle; it would have been a difficulty to an
inexperienced army. With us, we were ordered to cross, and it was a
matter of fun and excitement. No halt of Divisions, the river was
crossed, and the day’s march completed. My wife’s dear Spaniard
being lame, she rode a thoroughbred mare, which I gave £140 for,
an elegant animal, but it no more had the sagacity of Tiny than a cur
has that of a foxhound, and the day before we reached Palencia,
upon a greasy bank, the mare slipped up and fell upon my poor wife
and broke a small bone in her foot. This was to me an awful
accident; heretofore health and happiness facilitated all; now, but for
her natural vivacity and devotion, such was the pain, she must have
remained at Palencia, and we must have separated. The bare idea
aroused all her energy, and she said, “Get me a mule or an ass, and
put a Spanish saddle for a lady on it; my feet will rest upon the foot-
board, and go I will!” Dozens of officers were in immediate
requisition, some trying mules to find a very easy one, others
running from shop to shop to get a good easy and well-cushioned
saddle. There was no difficulty. The word “stay behind” was the
talisman to move pain, and the mule was put in progress next
morning with that success determination ever ensures, for “Where
there’s a will, there’s a way.”
The whole of the Duke’s army passed this day through the narrow
main street of rather a pretty city, Palencia [7 June]. From a little
after daylight, until past six in the evening, there was a continued
stream of men—cavalry, artillery, infantry, and baggage, without a
moment’s interruption the whole day. To view this torrent of life was
a sight which made an indelible impression upon a beholder.
But to my wounded wife. At the end of the march, the Brigade head-
quarters went, as usual, into the village near the bivouac. Oh, the
ceremony of her dismounting, the quantity of officers’ cloaks spread
for her reception; the “Take care! Now I’ll carry the leg,” of the kind-
hearted doctor! Talk of Indian attention! Here were a set of fellows
ready to lay down their lives even to alleviate momentary pain.
As we approached Burgos, the scene of previous failure, we Light,
3rd, and 4th Divisions expected the reluctant honour of besieging it,
and so flushed with hope were we to meet the enemy in an open
field and not behind bastions, curtains, embrasures, and defences,
we fairly wished Burgos at the devil.
The day we were moving upon it [13 June] (the Duke knew it would
not be defended), to our delight, one, two, three, four terrific
explosions took place, and well did we know the enemy had blown
Burgos to where we wished it. The universal joy was most manifest,
for, if we had besieged it, former failure would have excited these
crack Divisions to get into it with the determination they had ever
previously evinced, but the blowing it up happily got us out of the
difficulty to our hearts’ content.[31]
My wife’s foot gradually improved, and in a few days she was on her
horse again, and en route in the column; for the soldiers, although
generally averse to be interfered with by horses on the line of
march, were ever delighted to get her to ride with their Company.
Seeing her again on her horse was a great relief to my mind, for, in
her peculiar and isolated position, the bare surmise of our separation
was horrid, and, if I must have left her behind, the fact of a true
Catholic allying herself to a heretic would, among bigoted
inhabitants, have secured her anything but tender attention.
Our Division at San Millan, near Vittoria [18 June], intercepted the
route of one of the French Columns as it was retiring into their
position at Vittoria, and had as brilliant a fight entirely of our own as
any one throughout the campaign. Some of the 1st Hussars also had
a severe brush. Our Division halted the next day [20th], but the
army never did, from the day of breaking up its cantonments until
they fought the battle of Vittoria. It was a most wonderful march,
the army in great fighting order, and every man in better wind than
a trained pugilist.
At the Battle of Vittoria [21 June] my Brigade, in the middle of the
action, was sent to support the 7th Division, which was very hotly
engaged. I was sent forward to report myself to Lord Dalhousie, who
commanded. I found his lordship and his Q.M.G., Drake, an old Rifle
comrade, in deep conversation. I reported pretty quick, and asked
for orders (the head of my Brigade was just getting under fire). I
repeated the question, “What orders, my Lord?” Drake became
somewhat animated, and I heard His Lordship say, “Better to take
the village,” which the French held with twelve guns (I had counted
by their fire), and seemed to be inclined to keep it. I roared out,
“Certainly, my Lord,” and off I galloped, both calling to me to come
back, but, as none are so deaf as those who won’t hear, I told
General Vandeleur we were immediately to take the village. There
was no time to lose, and the 52nd Regiment deployed into line as if
at Shorncliffe, while our Riflemen were sent out in every direction,
five or six deep, keeping up a fire nothing could resist. I galloped to
the officer commanding a Battalion in the 7th Division (the 82nd, I
think). “Lord Dalhousie desires you closely to follow this Brigade of
the Light Division.” “Who are you, sir?” “Never mind that; disobey
my Lord’s order at your peril.” My Brigade, the 52nd in line and the
swarms of Riflemen, rushed at the village, and although the ground
was intersected in its front by gardens and ditches, nothing ever
checked us until we reached the rear of the village, where we halted
to reform—the twelve guns, tumbrils, horses, etc., standing in our
possession. There never was a more impetuous onset—nothing
could withstand such a burst of determination. Before we were
ready to pursue the enemy—for we Light Division ever reformed and
got into order before a second attack, thanks to poor General Bob
Craufurd’s most excellent tuition—up came Lord Dalhousie with his
Q.M.G., Drake, to old Vandeleur, exclaiming, “Most brilliantly
achieved indeed! Where is the officer you sent to me for orders?”
“Here I am, my lord.” Old Drake knew well enough. “Upon my word,
sir, you receive and carry orders quicker than any officer I ever saw.”
“You said, ‘Take the village.’ My lord, there it is,” I said, “guns and
all.” He smiled, and old Drake burst into one of his grins, “Well done,
Harry.”
We were hotly engaged all the afternoon pursuing the French over
very broad ditches. Until we neared Vittoria to our left, there was a
plain free from ditches. The confusion of baggage, etc., was
indescribable. Our Brigade was moving rapidly on, when such a
swarm of French Cavalry rushed out from among the baggage into
our skirmishers, opposite a company of the 2nd Battalion Rifle
Brigade, commanded by Lieutenant Tom Cochrane, we thought they
must have been swept off. Fortunately for Tom, a little rough ground
and a bank enabled him to command his Company to lie down, and
such a reception they gave the horsemen, while some of our
Company were flying to their support, that the French fled with a
severe loss. Our Riflemen were beautiful shots, and as undaunted as
bulldogs. We knew so well, too, how to support each other, that
scarcely had the French Dragoons shown themselves when
Cochrane’s rear was supported, and we had such mutual confidence
in this support that we never calculated on disaster, but assumed the
boldest front and bearing.
A rather curious circumstance occurred to me after the first heights
and the key of the enemy’s central position was carried. I was
standing with Ross’s Brigade of guns sharply engaged, when my
horse fell as if stone dead. I jumped off, and began to look for the
wound. I could see none, and gave the poor animal a kick on the
nose. He immediately shook his head, and as instantly jumped on
his legs, and I on his back. The artillerymen all said it was the
current of air, or, as they call it, the wind, of one of the enemy’s
cannon-shot. On the attack on the village previously described,
Lieutenant Northey (52nd Regiment) was not knocked off as I was,
but he was knocked down by the wind of a shot, and his face as
black as if he had been two hours in a pugilistic ring.
The fall of my horse had been observed by some of our soldiers as
they were skirmishing forward, and a report soon prevailed that I
was killed, which, in the course of the afternoon, was communicated
to my poor wife, who followed close to the rear on the very field of
battle, crossing the plain covered with treasure. Her old groom,
West, proposed to carry off some on a led horse. She said, “Oh,
West, never mind money. Let us look for your master.” She had
followed the 1st Brigade men, the 2nd having been detached,
unobserved by her, to aid the 7th Division. After the battle, at dusk,
my Brigade was ordered to join the 1st Brigade, with General Alten’s
head-quarters. I had lost my voice from the exertion of cheering
with our men (not cheering them on, for they required no such
example), and as I approached the 1st Brigade, to take up the
ground for mine, I heard my wife’s lamentations. I immediately
galloped up to her, and spoke to her as well as I could, considering
the loss of my voice. “Oh, then, thank God, you are not killed, only
badly wounded.” “Thank God,” I growled, “I am neither,” but, in her
ecstasy of joy, this was not believed for a long while.
After putting up my Brigade (we required no picquets, the Cavalry
were far in our front in pursuit of the flying enemy) we, that is, my
General and Staff, repaired to a barn, where we got in our horses
and some forage, and lay down among them. It was dark; we had
no lights, and sleep after such a day was as refreshing as eating,
even if we had any means. At daybreak our luggage had arrived,
and we were busy preparing some breakfast. Hardly did the kettle
boil when “Fall in!” was the word. Just as we were jumping on our
horses, my young wife, her ears being rather quick, said, “I am sure
I hear some one moaning, like a wounded man.” We looked round,
and I saw there was a loft for hay over our barn. I immediately
scrambled up with assistance, for the ladder, like Robinson Crusoe’s,
had been hauled up. When I reached the landing-place, such a
scene met my eye! Upwards of twenty French officers, all more or
less severely wounded, one poor fellow in the agony of death, and a
lady, whom I recognized as Spanish, grieving over him. At first the
poor fellows funked. I soon assured them of every safety and
protection, and put my wife and the poor Spanish lady, her
countrywoman, in communication. All we could spare, or, rather, all
our breakfast, was given to the wounded, for march we must. The
General sent his A.D.C. for a guard; we did all we could at the
moment, and the poor fellows were grateful indeed. The Spanish
lady had a most beautiful little pug dog, a thoroughbred one, with a
very extraordinary collar of bells about its neck. She insisted upon
my wife’s accepting the dog as a token of gratitude for our kindness.
The little animal was accepted immediately, and named “Vittoria”;
we jumped on our horses, and parted for ever, gratified, however, at
having had it in our power to render this slight assistance to the
poor fellows wounded and in distress. The dog became afterwards a
celebrated animal in the Division, universally known and caressed,
and the heroine of many a little anecdote, and hereafter at Waterloo
must claim half a page to itself. It was the most sensible little brute
Nature ever produced, and it and Tiny became most attached
friends.
On this day’s march our soldiers could scarcely move—men, in such
wind and health as they were—but the fact is they had got some
flocks of the enemy’s sheep, and fallen in with a lot of flour; they
had eaten till they were gorged like vultures, and every man’s
haversack was laden with flour and raw meat, all of which, except a
day or two’s supply, the Generals of Brigade were obliged to order to
be thrown away. We were soon, however, close on the heels of the
enemy, and the first shot revived the power to march. The retreat of
the enemy was marked by every excess and atrocity and villages
burning in every direction. Oh, my countrymen of England, if you
had seen the twentieth part of the horrors of war I have, readily
would you pay the war-taxes, and grumble less at the pinching
saddle of National Debt! The seat of war is hell upon earth, even
when stripped of the atrocities committed in Spain and Portugal, and
everywhere else, I believe, except dear old England, by the French
Army.
We Light Division had the pleasure, ere we reached Pamplona, to
take the enemy’s only remaining gun.[32]
 CHAPTER XII.
CAMPAIGN OF 1813: ADVANCE TO VERA.

The night before we reached Pamplona [24 June], the enemy, rather
unexpectedly to us, drove in the picquets of my Brigade in a very
sharp skirmish, although we were as ever prepared, and the Division
got under arms. This convinced us that the whole army, except the
garrison at Pamplona, was in full retreat into France. It is a peculiar
custom of the French unexpectedly to put back your picquets when
they are about to retire; that is, when the ground admits no obstacle
of bridge, river, or village, intervening. The object of such forward
moves I have never heard satisfactorily given.
On this evening a stout French gentleman came in to our advanced
post, saying he wanted to see the Duke. I took him to General
Vandeleur. He dined with us, and a most jawing, facetious fellow he
was. At first we regarded him as a spy, which he afterwards told
General Vandeleur he was, and in the employ of the Duke. He could
not proceed that night, for we did not know in the least where head-
quarters were, and the night was excessively dark; so the French
gentleman, whom I wished at the devil, was given in charge to me.
If he had had any inclination to escape I defied him, for I put some
of our old vigilant Riflemen around him, so that not a man could get
in or out of the room I had put him in. We afterwards heard my
friend was a man of great use to the Duke, and one of King Joseph’s
household.
The next day [25 June] we Light Division passed Pamplona, leaving
it by a very intricate road to our right, and were cantoned in the
village of Offala. It was necessary to keep a look-out towards
Pamplona, and my General, Vandeleur, and I, rode to look where to
post our picquets. I had a most athletic and active fellow with me as
a guide, very talkative, and full of the battle of Vittoria. He asked me
what was the name of the General before us. I said, “General
Vandeleur.” I heard him muttering it over to himself several times.
He then ran up to the General, and entered into conversation. The
General soon called me to him, for he could not speak a word [of
Spanish]. “What’s the fellow say?” “He is telling all he heard from
the Frenchmen who were billeted in his house in the retreat. He is
full of anecdote.” He then looked most expressively in Vandeleur’s
face, and says, “Yes, they say the English fought well, but had it not
been for one General Bandelo, the French would have gained the
day.” “How the devil did this fellow know?” says Vandeleur. I never
undeceived the General, and he fancies to this day his Brigade’s
being sent to assist the 7th Division was the cause of the
Frenchmen’s remark. My guide, just like a “cute” Irishman or
American, gave me a knowing wink.
This very fellow turned out to be owner of the house my wife and
baggage and I got into—the General’s Aide-de-camp, as was often
the case, having shown her into one near the General. After I had
dressed myself, he came to me and said, “When you dine, I have
some capital wine, as much as you and your servants like; but,” he
says, “come down and look at my cellar.” The fellow had been so
civil, I did not like to refuse him. We descended by a stone staircase,
he carrying a light. He had upon his countenance a most sinister
expression. I saw something exceedingly excited him: his look
became fiend-like. He and I were alone, but such confidence had we
Englishmen in a Spaniard, and with the best reason, that I
apprehended no personal evil. Still his appearance was very singular.
When we got to the cellar-door, he opened it, and held the light so
as to show the cellar; when, in a voice of thunder, and with an
expression of demoniacal hatred and antipathy, pointing to the floor,
he exclaimed, “There lie four of the devils who thought to subjugate
Spain! I am a Navarrese. I was born free from all foreign invasion,
and this right hand shall plunge this stiletto in my own heart as it did
into theirs, ere I and my countrymen are subjugated!” brandishing
his weapon like a demon. I see the excited patriot as I write. Horror-
struck as I was, the instinct of self-preservation induced me to
admire the deed exceedingly, while my very frame quivered and my
blood was frozen, to see the noble science of war and the honour
and chivalry of arms reduced to the practices of midnight assassins.
Upon the expression of my admiration, he cooled, and while he was
deliberately drawing wine for my dinner, which, however strange it
may be, I drank with the gusto its flavour merited, I examined the
four bodies. They were Dragoons—four athletic, healthy-looking
fellows. As we ascended, he had perfectly recovered the equilibrium
of his vivacity and naturally good humour. I asked him how he,
single-handed, had perpetrated this deed on four armed men (for
their swords were by their sides). “Oh, easily enough. I pretended to
love a Frenchman” (or, in his words, ‘I was an Afrancesado’), “and I
proposed, after giving them a good dinner, we should drink to the
extermination of the English.” He then looked at me and ground his
teeth. “The French rascals, they little guessed what I contemplated.
Well, we got into the cellar, and drank away until I made them so
drunk, they fell, and my purpose was easily, and as joyfully,
effected.” He again brandished his dagger, and said, “Thus die all
enemies to Spain.” Their horses were in his stable. When the French
Regiment marched off, he gave these to some guerrillas in the
neighbourhood. It is not difficult to reconcile with truth the assertion
of the historian who puts down the loss of the French army, during
the Spanish war, as 400,000 men, for more men fell in this midnight
manner than by the broad-day sword, or the pestilence of climate,
which in Spain, in the autumn, is excessive.
The next day we marched a short distance to a beautiful village, or
town, rather,—Villalba, where we halted a day, and expected to
remain three or four. It was on a Sunday afternoon, and some of the
recollection of the Sunday of our youth was passing across the mind
of the lover of his family and his country—the very pew at church,
the old peasants in the aisle; the friendly neighbours’ happy faces;
the father, mother, brothers, sisters; the joys, in short, of home, for,
amidst the eventful scenes of such a life, recollection will bring the
past in view, and compare the blessings of peace with the horror,
oh! the cruel horror, of war! In the midst of this mental soliloquy, my
dear wife exclaims, “Mi Enrique, how thoughtful you look!” I dare not
tell her that my thoughts reverted to my home. Hers being a
desolate waste, the subject was ever prohibited, for her vivacious
mind, and her years of juvenile excitement, could never control an
excess of grief if the words, “your home,” ever escaped my lips.
My reverie was soon aroused by the entrance of a soldier, without
ceremony—for every one was ever welcome. “Sir, is the order
come?” “For what?” I said. “An extra allowance of wine?” “No,” he
said, “for an extra allowance of marching. We are to be off directly
after these French chaps, as expects to get to France without a kick
from the Light Division.” I was aware he alluded to General Clausel’s
division that was retiring by the pass over the Pyrenees, called La
Haca. It is most singular, but equally true, that our soldiers knew
every move in contemplation long before any officer. While we were
in conversation, in came the order; away went all thoughts of home,
and a momentary regret on quitting so nice a quarter was banished
in the excitement of the march.
In twenty minutes our Division was in full march to try and intercept
Clausel’s Division. That night we marched most rapidly to Tafalla,
next day to Olite, thence brought up our right shoulder towards
Sanguessa. This was a night-march of no ordinary character to all,
particularly to me and my wife. Her Spanish horse, Tiny, was so far
recovered from his lameness that she insisted on riding him. On a
night-march we knew the road to be difficult. In crossing the
Arragon [30 June], although the bridge was excellent, on this march
by some singular accident (it was very dark and raining) an interval
occurred in our column—a thing unprecedented, so particular were
we, thanks to Craufurd’s instructions—and the majority of the
Division, in place of crossing the bridge, passed the turn and went
on a league out of the direction. My Brigade was leading. Two
Battalions came all right, and I stayed more at the head of the
column than was my wont, to watch the guides. So dark and
intricate was the road we were moving on, I proposed to the
General to form up, and see that our troops were all right. After the
two first Battalions formed, I waited a short time in expectation of
the next, the 2nd Battalion of the Rifle Brigade. I hallooed, seeing no
column, when a voice a long way off answered. It was that of the
most extraordinary character, the eccentric Colonel Wade. I galloped
up, and said, “Colonel, form up your Battalion, so soon as you reach
the Brigade.” “By Jesus,” he said, “we are soon formed; I and my
bugler are alone.” I, naturally somewhat excited, asked, “Where’s
the Regiment?” “Upon my soul, and that’s what I would like to ask
you.” I then saw some mistake must have happened. I galloped back
in the dark to the bridge, saw no column whatever, but heard voices
far beyond the bridge. The column, after passing it in the dark, had
discovered the error and were coming back. Meanwhile, my wife
heard me hallooing and came towards me. I had dismounted, and
was leading my horse a little way off the road up the left bank of the
Arragon; the rain was falling in torrents, the bank of the river gave
way under me, and a flash of lightning at the moment showed me I
was falling into the bed of the river about thirty feet below. I had
firmly hold of my bridle—the avalanche frightened my noble horse
(the celebrated “Old Chap,” the hunter that James Stewart gave
me); he flew round and dragged me from inevitable perdition. My
wife and old West were close behind at the moment, and she
witnessed the whole, equally to her horror and satisfaction. Then
such a tale of woe from herself. The uneven ground at night had so
lamed her dear little horse, Tiny, that he could not carry her. She got
off in the rain and dark, herself still excessively lame from the
broken bone in the foot, and literally crawled along, until the rocky
road improved, and West again put her upon her faithful Tiny. I
could devote neither time nor attention to her. Day was just
beginning to break. I directed her to the bivouac, and most
energetically sought to collect my Brigade, which, with the daylight,
I soon effected. When I got back, I found my wife sitting, holding
her umbrella over General Vandeleur (who was suffering dreadfully
from rheumatism in the shoulder in which he had been wounded at
the storm of Ciudad Rodrigo), recounting to him her night’s
adventures and laughing heartily. The weather totally precluded any
possibility of our molesting Clausel, and we were ordered to march
to Sanguessa, which we did the following day, and Charlie Gore,
General Kempt’s A.D.C., gave a ball [1 July], where there was as
much happiness as if we were at Almack’s, and some as handsome
women, the loves of girls of Sanguessa.
That night’s march was the most extraordinary thing which ever
occurred to our organized Light Division. We all blamed each other,
but the fact is, the turn of the road to the bridge was abrupt, the
night dark, the road so narrow that staff-officers could not ride up
and down the flank of the column; it may be regarded as “an
untoward event.” From Sanguessa we made rather long marches for
the Valle of San Estevan, through a most beautiful country covered
in a great measure with immense chestnut trees. After we had
halted a day or two [7-14 July] in this valley, of which the beauty is
not to be conceived, we marched on towards Vera by a road along
the banks of the river Bidassoa. At Vera, the enemy had fortified a
large house very strongly, and their picquets were upon its line. On
our advance, we put back the enemy’s picquets, but not without a
sharp skirmish, and we held the house that afternoon.
In front of the mountain of Santa Barbara was a very steep hill,
which the enemy held in force, but a dense fog of the mountains
prevented us seeing each other. Colonel Barnard, with the 1st
Battalion Rifle Brigade, was sent to dislodge them [15 July]. They
proved to be three or four times his numbers. His attack, however,
was supported, and as he himself describes it, “I hallooed the
fellows off in the fog.” We had a good many men and officers,
however, severely wounded. The next day, or in the night, the
enemy abandoned the fortified house of the large village of Vera in
their front, retired behind the village, and firmly established
themselves on the heights, while we occupied Vera with some sick
officers, our picquets being posted beyond. The enemy’s vedettes
and ours for many days were within talking distance, yet we never
had an alert by night or by day.
 CHAPTER XIII.
CAMPAIGN OF 1813: IN THE PYRENEES—
GENERAL SKERRETT—COMBAT OF VERA—
FIGHT AT THE BRIDGE, AND DEATH OF
CADOUX.
Just before we reached Vera, my dear friend and General, Vandeleur,
was moved to a Cavalry Brigade, and General Skerrett, a very
different man, was sent to us, with a capital fellow for an A.D.C.—
Captain Fane, or, as usually designated, “Ugly Tom.” I, who had been
accustomed to go in and out of my previous Generals’ tents and
quarters as my own, and either breakfast or dine as I liked, was
perfectly thunderstruck when it was intimated to me I was to go
only when asked; so Tom the A.D.C. and we lived together, to the
great amusement of my wife, who was always playing Tom some
trick or other.
During our halt in this position, the siege of San Sebastian was going
on. Soult, an able officer, who had been appointed to the command
of the beaten French force, soon reorganized it, and instilled its old
pride of victory, and inspired all again with the ardour and vivacity of
French soldiers. The siege of San Sebastian was vigorously
prosecuted. Pamplona was closely invested, and, from want of
provisions, must inevitably ere long surrender. Soult, therefore, had
a brilliant opportunity either to raise the siege of San Sebastian, or
to throw supplies in to Pamplona, or to do both, if great success
attended his operations. This opportunity he ably availed himself of,
by making a rapid movement to our right to the Pass of Roncesvalles
of knightly fame, and obliging the Duke of Wellington to concentrate
a great part of his army to protect Pamplona, or, rather, to ensure its
strict blockade, while the siege of San Sebastian was for the time
suspended, awaiting supplies which were on their passage from
England. My Division, the Light, was kept between the two, as were
Lord Dacre’s “horsemen light,” to “succour those that need it
most,”[33] and we had some very harassing marches, when it was
discovered Soult had penetrated the Pyrenees and was resolved on a
general action. This he fought on the 27th and 28th July, with the
Frenchman’s usual success, a good thrashing.[34]
The Light Division made a terrible night march on this occasion, one
of the most fatiguing to the soldiers that I ever witnessed. On the
Pyrenees, as on other mountains, the darkness is indescribable. We
were on a narrow mountain path, frequently with room only for one
or two men, when a soldier of the Rifle Brigade rolled down a hill as
nearly perpendicular as may be. We heard him bumping along, pack,
rifle, weight of ammunition, etc., when from the bottom he sang out,
“Halloa there! Tell the Captain there’s not a bit of me alive at all; but
the devil a bone have I broken; and faith I’m thinking no soldier ever
came to his ground at such a rate before. Have a care, boys, you
don’t follow. The breach at Badajos was nothing to the bottomless
pit I’m now in.”
After the battles of the Pyrenees, our Division was pushed forward
with great rapidity to intercept the retreat of one of the corps
d’armée, and General Kempt’s—the 1st—Brigade had some very
heavy fighting [at Jansi, 1 Aug.]; while at [Echallar], poor General
Barnes, now no more, in command of a Brigade of the 7th Division,
made one of the boldest and most successful attacks on five times
his number, but one in which bravery and success far exceeded
judgment or utility.
We moved on again, and on one of our marches came to some very
nice cottages, one of which fell to the lot of myself and Tom Fane,
the A.D.C. The poor peasant was a kind-hearted farmer of the
mountains, his fields highly cultivated, his farm-yard supplied with
poultry; every domestic comfort his situation in life demanded was
his—poor fellow, he merited all. He killed some ducks for our supper,
his garden supplied beautiful peas, and we had a supper royalty
would have envied with our appetites. My wife had spread her cloak
on the floor—she was perfectly exhausted—and was fast asleep. I
awoke her, she ate a capital supper, but the next morning upbraided
me and Tom Fane for not having given her anything to eat; and to
this day she is unconscious of sitting at our supper-table. Judge by
this anecdote what real fatigue is. The next morning we could hardly
induce our host to receive payment for his eggs, his poultry, his
bread, bacon, peas, milk, etc., and he would insist on giving my wife
a beautiful goat in full milk, which was added to the boy Antonio’s
herd.[35] We marched with mutual feelings of newly-acquired but
real friendship. Three days afterwards, we returned to the very same
ground, and we again occupied our previous dear little mountain
retreat, but the accursed hand of war had stamped devastation upon
it. The beautiful fields of Indian corn were all reaped as forage, the
poultry yard was void, the produce of our peasant’s garden
exhausted, his flour all consumed—in a word, he had nothing left of
all his previous plenty but a few milch goats, and that night he, poor
thing, supped with us from the resources of our rations and biscuit.
He said the French had swept off everything the English did not
require. The latter paid for everything, and gave him bons or
receipts for the Indian corn reaped as forage, which he knew some
day our commissary would take up and pay. I never pitied man
more, and in the midst of his affliction it was beautiful to observe a
pious resignation and a love for his country, when he exclaimed,
“Gracias a Dios, you have driven back the villainous French to their
own country.”
“O fortunatos nimium, sua si bona norint,
Agricolas ... procul discordibus armis.”
We returned to our line on this side of Vera, and the siege of San
Sebastian was again vigorously resumed. We Light Division, with the
3rd and 4th, were out of that glory, which we did not regret,
although the Duke never took the town until he sent to these three
Divisions for volunteers for the storming party [31 Aug.]. Then we
soon took it; but in candour I should state that the breaches were
rendered more practicable than when first stormed, the defences
destroyed, and the enemy’s means of defence diminished. It was,
however, still a tough piece of work, in which we lost some valuable
officers and soldiers. The enemy made a forward movement [the
same day, 31 Aug.] for the purpose of reinforcing the garrison, and
in the morning put back our picquets, and we anticipated a general
action. However, the whole of the enemy moved to the Lower
Bidassoa, and crossed in force. The day was very rainy, and the river
was so full the French were compelled to retreat rapidly; in fact, so
sudden was the rise of the river, many were obliged to retire by the
bridge in our possession, as described by Napier.
I have only, therefore, to relate an incident which occurred between
me and my new General—who, I soon discovered, was by nature a
gallant Grenadier, and no Light Troop officer, which requires the eye
of a hawk and the power of anticipating the enemy’s intention—who
was always to be found off his horse, standing in the most exposed
spot under the enemy’s fire while our Riflemen were well concealed,
as stupidly composed for himself as inactive for the welfare of his
command.[36] When the enemy put back our picquets in the
morning, it was evidently their intention to possess themselves of
the bridge, which was curiously placed as regarded our line of
picquets. Thus—
We did not occupy Vera, but withdrew on our own side of it, and I
saw the enemy preparing to carry the houses near the bridge in the
occupation of the 2nd Battalion Rifle Brigade. I said, “General
Skerrett, unless we send down the 52nd Regiment in support, the
enemy will drive back the Riflemen. They cannot hold those houses
against the numbers prepared to attack. Our men will fight like
devils expecting to be supported, and their loss, when driven out,
will be very severe.” He laughed (we were standing under a heavy
fire exposed) and said, “Oh, is that your opinion?” I said—most
impertinently, I admit,—“And it will be yours in five minutes,” for I
was by no means prepared to see the faith in support, which so
many fights had established, destroyed, and our gallant fellows
knocked over by a stupidity heretofore not exemplified. We had
scarcely time to discuss the matter when down came a thundering
French column with swarms of sharpshooters, and, as I predicted,
drove our people out of the houses with one fell swoop, while my
General would move nothing on their flank or rear to aid them. We
lost many men and some officers, and the enemy possessed the
houses, and consequently, for the moment, possessed the passage
of the bridge. From its situation, however, it was impossible they
could maintain it, unless they put us farther back by a renewed
attack on our elevated position. So I said, “You see now what you
have permitted, General, and we must retake these houses, which
we ought never to have lost.” He quietly said, “I believe you are
right.” I could stand this no longer, and I galloped up to Colonel
Colborne, in command of that beautiful 52nd Regiment, now Lord
Seaton, who was as angry as he soon saw I was. “Oh, sir, it is
melancholy to see this. General Skerrett will do nothing; we must
retake those houses. I told him what would happen.” “I am glad of
it, for I was angry with you.” In two seconds we retook the houses,
for the enemy, seeing our determination to hold them, was aware
the nature of the ground would not enable him to do so unless he
occupied the position we intended to defend, and his effort was as
much as not to see whether we were in earnest, or whether, when
attacked in force, we should retire. The houses were retaken, as I
said, and the firing ceased the whole afternoon.
The evening came on very wet. We knew that the enemy had
crossed the Bidassoa [31 Aug.], and that his retreat would be
impossible from the swollen state of the river. We knew pretty well
the Duke would shove him into the river if he could; this very bridge,
therefore, was of the utmost importance, and no exertion should
have been spared on our part so to occupy it after dark as to
prevent the passage being seized. The rain was falling in torrents. I
proposed that the whole of the 2nd Battalion Rifle Brigade should be
posted in the houses, the bridge should be barricaded, and the 52nd
Regiment should be close at hand in support. Skerrett positively
laughed outright, ordered the whole Battalion into our position, but
said, “You may leave a picquet of one officer and thirty men at the
bridge.” He was in the house on the heights he had previously
occupied. I had a little memorandum-book in my pocket; I took it
out for the first time in my life to note my General’s orders. I read
what he said, asking if that was his order. He said, “Yes, I have
already told you so.” I said most wickedly, “We shall repent this
before daylight.” He was callous to anything. I galloped down to the
houses, ordered the Battalion to retire, and told my brother Tom, the
Adjutant, to call to me a picquet of an officer and thirty men for the
bridge. Every officer and soldier thought I was mad. Tom said,
“Cadoux’s company is for picquet.” Up rode poor Cadoux, a noble
soldier, who could scarcely believe what I said, but began to abuse
me for not supporting them in the morning. I said, “Scold away, all
true; but no fault of mine. But come, no time for jaw, the picquet!”
Cadoux, noble fellow, says, “My company is so reduced this morning,
I will stay with it if I may. There are about fifty men.” I gladly
consented, for I had great faith in Cadoux’s ability and watchfulness,
and I told him he might rest assured he would be attacked an hour
or two before daylight. He said, “Most certainly I shall, and I will
now strengthen myself, and block up the bridge as well as I can, and
I will, if possible, hold the bridge until supported; so, when the
attack commences, instantly send the whole Battalion to me, and,
please God, I will keep the bridge.” It was then dark, and I rode as
fast as I could to tell Colborne, in whom we had all complete faith
and confidence. He was astonished, and read my memorandum. We
agreed that, so soon as the attack commenced, his Battalion should
move down the heights on the flank of the 2nd Battalion Rifle
Brigade, which would rush to support Cadoux, and thus we parted, I
as sulky as my hot nature would admit, knowing some disaster
would befall my dear old Brigade heretofore so judiciously handled.
In the course of the night, as we were lying before the fire, I far
from asleep, General Skerrett received a communication from
General Alten to the purport “that the enemy were retiring over the
swollen river; it was, therefore, to be apprehended he would before
daylight endeavour to possess himself of the bridge; that every
precaution must be taken to prevent him.” I, now being reinforced in
opinion, said, “Now, General, let me do so.” As he was still as
obstinate as ever, we were discussing the matter (I fear as far as I
am concerned, very hotly) when the “En avant, en avant!
L’Empereur récompensera le premier qu’avancera,” was screeched
into our very ears, and Cadoux’s fire was hot as ever fifty men’s was
on earth. “Now,” says I, “General, who is right?” I knew what the
troops would do. My only hope was that Cadoux could keep the
bridge as he anticipated. The fire of the enemy was very severe, and
the rushes of his columns most determined; still Cadoux’s fire was
from his post. Three successive times, with half his gallant band, did
he charge and drive back the enemy over the bridge, the other half
remaining in the houses as support. His hope and confidence in
support and the importance of his position sustained him until a
melancholy shot pierced his head, and he fell lifeless from his horse.
[37] A more gallant soul never left its mortal abode. His company at
this critical moment were driven back; the French column and rear-
guard crossed, and, by keeping near the bed of the river, succeeded
in escaping, although the Riflemen were in support of poor Cadoux
with as much rapidity as distance allowed, and daylight saw
Colborne where he said he would be.
I was soon at the bridge. Such a scene of mortal strife from the fire
of fifty men was never witnessed. The bridge was almost choked
with the dead; the enemy’s loss was enormous, and many of his
men were drowned, and all his guns were left in the river a mile or
two below the bridge. The number of dead was so great, the bodies
were thrown into the rapid stream in the hope that the current
would carry them, but many rocks impeded them, and when the
river subsided, we had great cause to lament our precipitancy in
hurling the bodies, for the stench soon after was awful. The Duke
was awfully annoyed, as well he might be, but, as was his rule,
never said anything when disaster could not be amended. I have
never told my tale till now. Skerrett was a bilious fellow (a gallant
Grenadier, I must readily avow), and I hope his annoyance so
affected his liver it precipitated a step he had desired—as his father
was just dead, and he was heir to an immense property—to retire
home on sick-leave. You may rely on it, I threw no impediment in his
way, for when he was gone, Colonel Colborne was my Brigadier,
whom we all regarded inferior to no one but the Duke. Many is the
conversation he and I have had over the lamentable affair which
killed poor Cadoux. I really believe, had he survived, he would have
held the bridge, although the enemy attacked it in desperation, and
although each time the column was driven back, a few men in the
dark succeeded in crossing, and these fellows, all practised soldiers,
posted themselves under cover on the banks of the river below the
bridge, and caused the loss our people sustained, that of noble
Cadoux among the rest, with impunity. Cadoux’s manner was
effeminate, and, as a boy, I used to quiz him.[38] He and I were,
therefore, although not enemies, not friends, until the battle of
Vittoria, when I saw him most conspicuous. He was ahead of me on
his gallant war horse, which he took at Barossa with the holsters full
of doubloons, as the story went. I was badly mounted that day, and
my horse would not cross a brook which his was scrambling over. I
leaped from my saddle over my horse’s head (I was very active in
those days), seized his horse by the tail, and I believe few, if any,
were as soon in the middle of the Frenchmen’s twelve guns as we
were in support of the 7th Division. From that day we were
comrades in every sense of the term, and I wept over his gallant
remains with a bursting heart, as, with his Company who adored
him, I consigned to the grave the last external appearance of Daniel
Cadoux. His fame can never die.
The enemy retired into their previous position, as did we, and San
Sebastian was ours. We were in this line for some time, daily
watching the enemy making works with extraordinary vigour and
diligence, which we knew ere long we should have the glory (the
pleasure, to most of us) to run our heads against, for such was the
ardour and confidence of our army at this moment, that, if Lord
Wellington had told us to attempt to carry the moon, we should have
done it.
During the occupation of our present position, I found the Basque
inhabitants on the Spanish side, and those on the French side of the
Pyrenees, carried on a sort of contraband trade, and that brandy and
claret were to be had. One day, therefore, upon General Skerrett’s
complaining to me he could get no wine or sheep, I told him I could
get him both. My smugglers were immediately in requisition. They
got me eight sheep and one dozen of claret. I was disappointed at
the small supply—accustomed to hospitable old Vandeleur’s
consumption—and I told my new General. He said he was
exceedingly obliged to me; he should be glad of one sheep and two
bottles of wine. It did not make a bad story through the Brigade. I
and the A.D.C., Tom Fane, however, managed to consume all.
One day (the man may now be conceived) Skerrett gave a great
dinner, and the liberal Barnard and Colborne, commanding
Regiments in the Division, were asked to dine. Tom Fane and I were
amused, for we knew he had but little to give them to eat and less
to drink, and where were the materials to come from? And Barnard
loved a good dinner, with at least two bottles of good wine. To my
astonishment, when I waited on him, as I usually did every morning,
for orders, he was dressed. I said, “Where are you going, General?”
(To me he was ever a most affable, and rather an amusing, fellow.)
He said, “To head-quarters at Lesaca.” So Tom and I supposed he
would come back laden with supplies. (At head-quarters there was
an excellent sutler, but the prices were, of course, beyond any
moderate means.) So Tom, A.D.C., was on the look-out for his
return. He soon arrived with a bottle of sherry in each pocket of his
military blue coat, viz. two, and says, “Fane, tell Smith, as my wine
stock is not large, to be cautious of it.” Tom did tell me, and, when
we met in the dining-room, the joke was too good not to tell such
noble and liberal fellows as Barnard and Colborne. Down we sat to,
oh! such a dinner; our soldiers in camp lived far better. So Barnard
says, “Being so near the French, we shall have plenty of cooks in
camp soon; come, Smith, a glass of wine,” and I think we drank the
pocket two bottles in about as many minutes; when Barnard, as
funny a fellow and as noble a soldier as ever lived, says, “Now,
General, some more of this wine. We camp fellows do not get such a
treat everyday.” Barnard had a French cook, taken at the battle of
Salamanca, and lived like a gentleman. “Barnard,” Skerrett says,
looking like a fiend at me, “that is the last, I very much regret to say,
of an old stock” (Barnard winked at me); “what I must now give
you, I fear, won’t be so good.” It was produced; it was trash of some
sort, but not wine. “No,” says Barnard, “that won’t do, but let us
have some brandy.” We got some execrable coffee, and here ended
the only feast he ever gave while in command of my Brigade. Poor
Skerrett, he soon inherited £7000 a year, not long to enjoy it. He
was killed in the most brilliant, and at the same time the most
unfortunate, affair that ever decorated and tarnished British laurels,
at Bergen Op Zoom.
 CHAPTER XIV.
CAMPAIGN OF 1813: COLONEL COLBORNE—
SECOND COMBAT OF VERA.

In our Division, generally speaking, the officers of each Company

had a little mess of their own, an arrangement indispensable, so
much detached were we on picquets, etc. Some of us lived most
comfortably, and great interchange of hospitality existed. We all had
goats, and every mess had a boy, who was in charge of them on the
march and in quarters, and milked them. On the march the flock of
each Regiment and Brigade assembled and moved with their goat-
herds, when each drove his master’s goats to his quarters. We
observed extraordinary regularity with these goats, and upon inquiry
we found out the little fellows organized themselves into regular
guards. They had a captain, quite a little fellow of dear old Billy
Mein’s (52nd Regiment); their time of duty was as regular as our
soldiers’; they had sentries with long white sticks in their hands, and
Mein’s little boy held a sort of court martial, and would lick a boy
awfully who neglected his charge. My little boy’s name was Antonio,
and when he was for guard, I have seen him turn out unusually
smart, with his face and hands washed. This little republic was very
extraordinary, and quite true to the letter as I have drawn it. Mein’s
little captain told it all to my wife, who took great interest in them
after she was acquainted with their organization, and the captain
often consulted her. When our army was broken up after Toulouse,
and all the Portuguese Corps of course marched back into Portugal,
and the followers with them, we all of us gave our goats to the poor
little boys to whom we had been so much indebted. My little fellow
had a flock of fifteen. Many are probably great goat-proprietors now
from this basis for future fortune.
Our Brigade was now commanded by Colonel Colborne, in whom we
all had the most implicit confidence. I looked up to him as a man
whose regard I hoped to deserve, and by whose knowledge and
experience I desired to profit. He had more knowledge of ground,
better understood the posting of picquets, consequently required
fewer men on duty (he always strengthened every post by throwing
obstacles—trees, stones, carts, etc.—on the road, to prevent a rush
at night), knew better what the enemy were going to do, and more
quickly anticipated his design than any officer; with that coolness
and animation, under fire, no matter how hot, which marks a good
huntsman when he finds his fox in his best country.
The French were now erecting works, upon a position by nature
strong as one could well devise, for the purpose of defending the
Pass of Vera, and every day Colonel Colborne and I took rides to
look at them, with a pleasant reflexion that the stronger the works
were, the greater the difficulty we should have in turning them out—
an achievement we well knew in store for us. On Oct. 7, the Duke
resolved to cross the Bidassoa, and push the enemy at once into his
own country, San Sebastian having been taken. Now had arrived the
time we long had anticipated of a regular tussle with our fortified
friends on the heights of Vera. The Duke’s dispatch, Oct. 9, 1813,
No. 837, tells the military glory of the exploit. My object is the record
of anecdotes of myself and my friends. On the afternoon of the 7th,
about two o’clock, we were formed for the attack, and so soon as
the head of the 4th Division under that noble fellow, Sir Lowry Cole,
appeared in sight, we received the command to move forward. We
attacked on three different points. Advancing to the attack,
Colborne, who had taken a liking to me as an active fellow, says,
“Now, Smith, you see the heights above us?” “Well,” I said, “I wish
we were there.” He laughed. “When we are,” he says, “and you are
not knocked over, you shall be a Brevet-Major, if my
recommendation has any weight at head-quarters.” Backed by the
performance of our Brigade, next day off he posted to Lord Fitzroy
Somerset, and came back as happy as a soldier ever is who serves
his comrade. “Well, Major Smith, give me your hand.” I did, and my
heart too (although not as a blushing bride). Kind-hearted Colonel
Barnard heard of this, went to Lord Fitzroy Somerset, asking for the
Brevet for one of his Captains, remarking that I should be made a
Major over the heads of twenty in my own Regiment. This startling
fact obliged Lord Fitzroy to lay the matter before the Duke, who, I
am told, said, “A pity, by G——! Colborne and the Brigade are so
anxious about it, and he deserves anything. If Smith will go and
serve as Brigade-Major to another Brigade, I will give him the rank
after the next battle.” Colborne’s mortification was so great that I
banished mine altogether by way of alleviating his disappointment.
There was such a demonstration of justice on the part of his Grace,
and so did I love the fellows whose heads I should have jumped
over, that, honestly and truly, I soon forgot the affair. Colborne said,
“Go and serve with another Brigade.” “No,” says I, “dear Colonel, not
to be made of your rank. Here I will fight on happily, daily acquiring
knowledge from your ability.”
The 1st Caçadores, under poor Colonel Algeo, moved so as to
threaten the enemy’s left, and intercept or harass the retreat of the
troops in the redoubt (which the noble 52nd were destined to carry
at the point of the bayonet without one check), and the 2nd
Battalion of the 95th and the 3rd Caçadores moved to the enemy’s
right of this redoubt for a similar purpose. This Battalion was fiercely
opposed, but so soon as it succeeded in putting back the enemy,
Colonel Colborne, at the head of the 52nd, with an eye like a hawk’s,
saw the moment had arrived, and he gave the word “Forward.” One
rush put us in possession of the redoubt, and the Caçadores and 2nd
Battalion 95th caused the enemy great loss in his retreat to the top
of the pass where his great defence was made. The redoubt just
carried was placed on the ridge of the ravine, and must be carried
ere any advance could be made on the actual [position].
In this attack poor Algeo was killed. He rode a chestnut horse
marked precisely as my celebrated hunter and war-horse, “Old
Chap,” which I rode on that day. My wife was looking on the fight
from the very cottage window we had occupied so long, barely
without the range of musketry, and saw this horse gallop to the rear,
dragging for some distance the body by the stirrup. The impulse of
the moment caused her with one shriek to rush towards it, and so
did anxiety and fright add to her speed that my servant for some
time could not overtake her. The horse came on, when she soon
recognized it was poor Algeo’s charger, not mine, and fell senseless
from emotion, but soon recovered, to express her gratitude to
Almighty God.
After this attack—and there never was a more brilliant one—the 4th
Division was well pushed up the hill, and, so soon as our Brigade
was reformed, we prepared for the great struggle on the top of the
Pass of Vera. Colborne sent me to Sir Lowry Cole, to tell him what he
was about to attempt, and to express his hope of a support to what
he had just so vigorously commenced. General Cole was all
animation, and said, “Rely on my support, and you will need it, for
you have a tough struggle before you.” On my return, we again
advanced with a swarm of Riflemen in skirmishing order keeping up
a murderous fire. Firing up a hill is far more destructive than firing
down, as the balls in the latter case fly over. The 52nd Regiment,
well in hand, with their bayonets sharp and glistening in the sun (for
the afternoon was beautiful), were advanced under a most heavy
fire, but, from the cause mentioned, it was not near so destructive
as we expected. Still more to our astonishment, the enemy did not
defend their well-constructed work as determinedly as we
anticipated. Although they stood behind their parapets until we were
in the act of leaping on them, they then gave way, and we were
almost mixed together, till they precipitated themselves into a ravine,
and fled down almost out of sight as if by magic.
On the opposite side of this ravine, a few of the Riflemen of General
Kempt’s Brigade were pushing forward with a noble fellow, Reid, of
the Engineers, at their head. At the moment he did not know how
full of the enemy the ravine was. Colonel Colborne and I were on
horseback. We pushed on, a little madly, I admit, followed by those
who could run fastest, until the ravine expanded and a whole
column of French were visible, but we and Reid on the opposite side
were rather ahead, while the enemy could not see from out the
ravine. The few men who were there could not have resisted them,
and certainly could not have cut them off, had they been aware.
Colonel Colborne, however, galloped up to the officer at the head of
the column with the bearing of a man supported by 10,000, and said
to the officer in French, “You are cut off. Lay down your arms.” The
officer, a fine soldier-like looking fellow, as cool as possible, says,
presenting his sword to Colonel Colborne, “There, Monsieur, is a
sword which has ever done its duty,” and then ordered his men to
lay down their arms. Colborne, with the presence of mind which
stamps the character of a soldier, said, “Face your men to the left,
and move out of the ravine.” By this means the French soldiers were
separated from their arms. At this moment there were up with
Colborne myself, Winterbottom, Adjutant of the 52nd Regiment, my
brother Tom, Adjutant of the 95th, and probably ten soldiers, and
about as many with Reid on the opposite ridge. Reid wisely did not
halt, but pushed forward, which added to the Frenchman’s
impression of our numbers, and Colborne turns to me, “Quick,
Smith; what do you here? Get a few men together, or we are yet in
a scrape.” The French having moved from their arms, Colborne
desired the officer commanding to order them to sit down. Our men
were rapidly coming up and forming, and, when our strength
permitted, we ordered the enemy to march out of the ravine, and
there were 22 officers and 400 men. Three pieces of cannon we had
previously carried (vide the Duke’s dispatch, Oct. 9, 1813, No. 837).
Colonel Colborne, myself, and others were called madmen for our
audacity. I never witnessed such presence of mind as Colborne
evinced on this occasion, and when, like a man as he is, he returned
the poor Frenchman’s sword, “There,” he says, “wear the sword,
your pride; it is not yet disgraced.” The fortune of war gave us the
advantage over equal bravery.[39]
By this time our men had got well out of the Pyrenees into the plain
of France below, and as night was rapidly approaching, I was sent
on to halt them, ready for Colonel Colborne to take up his position.
The prisoners were sent to the rear (what became of their arms I
never knew) under charge of a Lieutenant Cargill, of the 52nd
Regiment, a manly, rough young subaltern, who on his march, just
at dusk, met the Duke, who says, “Halloa, sir, where did you get
those fellows?” “In France. Colonel Colborne’s Brigade took them.”
“How the devil do you know it was France?” “Because I saw a lot of
our fellows coming into the column just before I left with pigs and
poultry, which we had not on the Spanish side.” The Duke turned
hastily away without saying a word. The next morning Mr. Cargill
reported this to Colonel Colborne, whom I hardly ever saw so angry.
“Why, Mr. Cargill, you were not such a blockhead as to tell the Duke
that, were you?” In very broad Scotch, “What for no? It was fact as
death.” It did not escape the Duke, who spoke to Colborne, saying,
“Though your Brigade have even more than usually distinguished
themselves, we must respect the property of the country.” “I am fully
aware of it, my lord, and can rely upon the discipline of my soldiers,
but your lordship well knows in the very heat of action a little
irregularity will occur.” “Ah, ah!” says my lord, “stop it in future,
Colborne.” Nor had his Grace cause to complain of us.
This night we slept on our arms, and cold and miserable we were,
for no baggage had been permitted to come to us. The next day we
occupied the heights of Vera, our outposts remaining pushed
forward, and head-quarters and our general hospital were
established at Vera. My wife joined me very early, and I never before
had seen her under such excitement, the effect of the previous day,
when, as she conceived at the moment, she had seen me killed. She
did not recover her usual vivacity for several days, and the report of
a musket acted on her like an electric shock. We remained in this
position several days.
One day I dressed myself in all my best to do a little dandy at head-
quarters, to see some of my wounded comrades and officers, and to
look into our hospitals. In galloping through the country, I heard a
very melancholy and faint call, repeated once or twice without
attracting my attention. When I turned towards it, it was repeated. I
rode up and among several dead bodies of the enemy, I found the
poor fellow who had called to me greatly exhausted. Four days had
elapsed since the action, and he had both legs shot off high up. I
dismounted and felt his pulse, which was still far from faint. Of
course he prayed me to send succour. I promised to do so, and I
proceeded to tie some of the bushes of the underwood to mark the
spot, and continued to do so until I reached a mountain track
leading to Vera. I now even hear the hideous moans he uttered
when I turned from him, although I earnestly assured him of help.
Away I galloped to the hospital, not to visit my own poor fellows, but
to get a fatigue party and a stretcher, and off I set for my poor
wounded enemy, whom, from the precautions taken, I easily found.
Poor thing, from the belief that I had abandoned him, he was nearly
exhausted. We got him on the stretcher, the party set off to the
hospital, and I to my bivouac, for it was late and I was well aware
the poor thing would be treated just as one of our own soldiers. I
had literally forgotten the circumstance, when one day after we had
advanced considerably into France, a month or five weeks after the
man was picked up, a large convoy of disabled men, as an act of
humanity, were sent to their own country from the rear. My Brigade
was of course on the outpost, and it became my duty to go to the
enemy’s advanced post close to, with a letter and flag of truce. I was
received as usual with great civility, and the convoy passed on. While
I was talking to the French officers, a poor fellow on one of the
stretchers called to me and the officer, and began a volley of thanks,
which, if it had been of musquetry, would have been difficult to
resist. I said, “I know nothing about you, poor fellow; that will do.”
“I know you; I owe my life to you; you fetched the party who carried
me to hospital. Both stumps were amputated; I am now doing
perfectly well, and I was treated like one of your own soldiers.” I
never saw gratitude so forcibly expressed in my life.
 CHAPTER XV.
CAMPAIGN OF 1813: BATTLE OF THE NIVELLE.

Our Division was soon after pushed forward to our right on a ridge
somewhat in advance, and fully looking upon the enemy’s position.
His right extended from St. Jean de Luz, his left was on the Nivelle,
his centre on La Petite Rhune[40] and the heights beyond that
village. Our Division was in the very centre opposite La Petite Rhune.
One morning Colonel Colborne and I were at the advance vedette at
daylight, and saw a French picquet of an officer and fifty men come
down to occupy a piece of rising ground between our respective
advanced posts, as to which the night before I and a French staff-
officer had agreed that neither should put a picquet on it. (Such
arrangements were very commonly made.) Colonel Colborne said,
“Gallop up to the officer, wave him back, or tell him he shall not put
a picquet there.” Having waved to no purpose, I then rode towards
him and called to him. He still moved on, so I galloped back.
Colborne fell in our picquet, ordered up a reserve, and fired five or
six shots over the heads of the Frenchmen. They then went back
immediately, and the hill became, as previously agreed, neutral
ground. I give this anecdote to show how gentlemanlike enemies of
disciplined armies can be; there was no such courtesy between
French and Spaniards.
A few days previously to Nov. 10, the Battle of the Nivelle, the
Division took ground on the ridge of hills in our occupation, and the
extreme right of the Division became the left. Gilmour, commanding
the 1st Battalion of the Rifles, then in the 1st Brigade, had built a
very nice little mud hut about ten feet square with a chimney,
fireplace, and a door made of wattle and a bullock’s hide. When my
wife rode up, Gilmour had just turned out. The night was bitterly
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