Country between Lisbon, Villa Franca, and the Tagus
April 1809.—None of the roads leading into the town of Lisbon announce one’s approach to a great capital. They are universally paved, the sides of the road overhung with vines and trees, with awkward country houses, and now and then a tasteless palace.
The road from Cintra to Lisbon by Ociras is the best furnished, and more diversified by the contrivances of wealth than any by which I have approached that metropolis.
By the right bank of the Tagus to Santarem nothing is at all interesting until Sacavem. The banks of the Tagus are very tame here as to scenery, and at Sacavem, or a little above it, fenny islands of considerable breadth divide the river into two main streams, which begin about thirteen leagues from the mouth of the Tagus, and end about seven leagues.
I have never had any opportunity of examining the localities of this part of the river, but its banks are not formidable.
But to return to my ride on the road to Villa Franca, at which place I arrived in the afternoon.
The Juez de Fuéro happened to be reviewing his lands bordering the Tagus, and was up to his ears in vegetation. I sent to him, but in vain. He walked from one field to another very composedly, discussing the produce with some other land-learned man, and as my patience began to exhaust, Colonel Perponcher arrived on a very fine black horse.
The Colonel is a Dutchman who had long served the British, and when I first knew him commanded in the island of Gozo, in which were no other troops than a battalion of Dillon’s, which (when we met at Villa Franca) was still in the Mediterranean, whither he intended to proceed to resume the command.
“Well,” said I, “how do you get on, Colonel, with your brigade?”
“Wat brigaade? Wo tol you I av a brigaade?”
“I was told that you were appointed to the command of two battalions of Portuguese.”
“Well, if I was? You call two battalions brigaade? Pretty brigaade! Ha! ha! ha!”
“Why, some of our Brigadiers have no more than two regiments under them. What do you call a brigade?”
“Ah, that is de very thing, by——, with you. A General is nothing, because you av General for all the two regiments. Why, in the Austrian service! Ha! ha! Brigaade! You call that a brigaade?”
It was only now and then that the Colonel committed a little agreeable foreignness in speaking English; and as I knew him to be a gentlemanlike, well-informed man, and believed him to be an officer of great merit, I was not discouraged by his crustiness, the cause of which I determined to find out; and therefore letting the matter drop, I told him that if, as I supposed, he wanted the Juez de Fuéro, he must go to the river for him, as I had endeavoured to fish him out in vain.
“What,” said I, turning to his servant, “why don’t Sr. Juez come? Is he a Frenchman?”
Here Colonel Perponcher interrupted me with some warmth, and advised me to be more prudent. “These sort of things,” said he wisely, “won’t do with them, for —— sake take care; you don’t know what you may do.”
I could no longer forbear laughing at the subtlety of his ill-humour, which vented itself in this manner under the appearance of sagesse, for he had too much discrimination not to perceive that my question was calculated to spur the judge to show by his alacrity in assisting Englishmen that he was not a Frenchman, the very name of which was plague, pestilence, and famine to a Portuguese. The Colonel, seeing that I really could not help laughing, began to smile himself, and proposed that we should lodge together, to which I readily assented. The Juez, having returned up to the breech in wholesome soil, gave us the billet we desired. On leaving him I observed that my charger was dead lame.
The death of a first cousin would in numerous instances be less distressing than the lameness of one’s best horse at the moment that his services are indispensable. We were conducted to a large house with fine stables, the groom of which knew perfectly well what ailed my horse, recommended fomentation of hot wine mixed with hog’s lard, honey, and cow dung, and assured me it would be of no consequence.
I eagerly believed what he said, because if I had not I should have been unhappy all the evening, and if the fellow lied, to-morrow morning would be time enough to grieve. “Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.” Our host was a wealthy Portuguese, and had some guests of his own nation already in his house, an elderly man with his son, a youth of sixteen, very tall, good-looking, and intelligent, also, what is extremely rare for a Portuguese, speaking French very well.
The master of the house offered us some biscuit and wine, which we declined. He then asked what we would take. “Some dinner,” we replied. “Aye,” said he, “but that can’t be ready till night. Won’t you take something first—a bit of water melon or some oranges?”
The idea of fooling away a lusty appetite upon marshmallows was equally repugnant to the habits of us both, and so we determined to wait, although I was perfectly up to the management of our host, which was by pulling his own ten o’clock supper a little way back towards nine, and giving our five o’clock dinner a most unfeeling stretch towards the same point to make both ends meet and unite in one meal. As I had been in this predicament some fifty or sixty times before, I summoned my patience and a natural capability I have for fasting, while the Colonel saw it grow dark with a mixture of surprise, hunger, and impatience. Poor Louis, who really believed that it was impossible for him to walk six tedious leagues, or twenty-four miles, arrived completely done, for he had not only surpassed his imagined powers, but had been obliged to bear his part in dragging and heaving that wretched animal that was to have carried him. I found I had been taken in, and determined to make the best of it, and with actual labour the beast was pushed into the stable, where it fell to at the manger with a beastly voracity.
One cause I found of Colonel Perponcher’s chagrin was the absence of snuff, and this I was fortunately able to supply, having a large box of Prince’s Mixture in my pocket.
We sat together some time talking of the Mediterranean, and of his brother, whom I had met at Gothenburg, and at last he discovered the main cause of his vexation and return to Lisbon nearly as follows:—“You must understand that in volunteering my services with the Portuguese army, and in determining to meet the very numerous and noisome vexations to which the situation exposed me (implicating my character with the conduct of raw recruits of strange nations and striving to reclaim and organise a mutinous rabble), it is natural to suppose that however well I might wish the righteous cause in which we are assisting these swarths, yet that I should look also for some personal advantage as the attendant of success.” And it was, I suppose, “just this personal advantage” which now seemed more than ever doubtful as time went on.
May 14, 1809.—I heard this morning that Sir Arthur Wellesley has had an action with the enemy.
I was differently and very disagreeably employed, as I went up to Lamego with a British brigade, which was to countenance Beresford and his myrmidons. The enemy came before Lamego, intending, I suppose, to sack and destroy, but finding troops there, they retired. The country is exceedingly strong, and I hoped they would not defend it. It was not my wish to see the Portuguese in action. Let who will take the credit of serving with them, I will not. Accordingly I was very glad to find that the enemy had no intention to dispute the country, either having heard that Soult had been beat, or intending to reinforce him.
Having passed the Douro without halting at Lamego, we stopped at Peizo, and marched the next morning to Amarante.
When about two leagues from our destination it began to rain heavily as if to prepare us for the gloomy, wretched scene that awaited us.
We were thoroughly wet through (I having no baggage) when the beauteous Amarante burst upon our view, the fine-looking houses promising a comfortable rest. What was our aggravated disgust at finding that everything was sacked, burnt, and murdered, not a single house but was completely reduced to its shell wall. Here the venerable master of a mansion lay stretched on his back amid the black ruins of his peaceful habitation, and a ghastly wound disfigured his neck.... It was a horrid spectacle!! But I will not go on with the picture, it exceeds description, and swells one’s hatred to these ruthless and wanton destroyers.
This place, garrisoned by Portuguese troops under Sylvesan, resisted for two days the French under Loison, (the plague of Portugal), and so this inhuman monster thus revenged himself.
Abrantes, June 18, 1809.
My Louisa—I heard that there had been blows, and wrote to tell you I was out of harm’s way.
Nothing can be finer than the passage of the Douro, which in his despatches Sir A. Wellesley makes too little of; in short, it is plain he cannot write, for he did the same at Vimiera. However, he is dashing and able, and if a fair game lies before him, he will not, I hope, be able to cover the fame of his victories by clumsy relations....
Captain Goldfinch of the Engineers, with a fine little Scotch boy (a lieutenant), fell with Oporto into the hands of the French, and made their escape in the late bustle. The respect (they say) which all French who were at Corunna bear to the memory of Moore, and to the English in general, is quite gratifying.
They recite a dispute between a French officer and several others, the former maintaining that the English were victorious, the others, not.
Our advocate read General Hope’s letter,[28] asking at every sentence, “N’est-il pas vrai? N’est-il pas bien dit?” etc., etc., and when he came to the simile of General Wolfe’s death he made a very elegant admiration of it.
I was attached to the brigade of General Tilson, who is my friend, and it was with the Portuguese army. We went to Chaves, and penetrated into Galicia. I took the place of an officer who fell ill, otherwise I belong to the brigade of Guards under Harry Campbell, whom I like greatly.
In addition to my mortification at being out of the way, the first notification I had of General Paget’s arrival was accompanied by the news of his having lost a limb, my sorrow for which wholly defeated any attempt to rejoice at our successes. People who did not know him talked a vast deal about the manner in which he bore his sufferings. I say nothing of it, because I know him to be perfect, and know upon what he leans.... It is a comfort to learn that the loss is not likely to affect his constitution, as he is said to recover wonderfully fast.
Devil a bit of nobleness have I about me, my dear Lou. I cannot bear this infernal war, that has killed Moore and maimed Paget, disputing about a country that—— But I won’t talk politics. If Austria, though beaten and overrun, can entertain Buonaparte for a season, perhaps Wellesley may do something for the Spaniards.
The French fight us very ill, whether from a want of hatred or courage. If what had happened to Soult had happened to an English general, he would have been disgraced for ever, for he was shamefully surprised.
But England, although she has every right to expect worse generals than France, is much more rigid with them in articles of skill and judgment; for if she can by any means attribute a disaster to the error of a general, she is not only savage but sanguinary. And this makes very good generals and very brave men so vastly afraid of responsibility, that when they assume command they appear cowardly and indecisive....
Don’t let there be a shade of melancholy in your letters; it disquiets me vastly. Why should you be melancholy? God is very good to us, and we must not pine if we are not always all together as if in heaven. Therefore write very comically about friends and home....
Eternal blessings crown my darling Lou, and guardian angels hover over her.
Charles.
* * * * *
Coria, July 8, 1809.
It is quite a relief, dearest Lou, to be transferred from the filthy styes of the Portuguese to the clean houses of the Spaniards. And as I am shaking off the dust contracted in Portugal, so I am scraping my tongue of those odious inarticulate sounds which compose their language, and gargling vinegar that my throat may be capable of touching with the true Castilian burr the energetic language of Spain.
Alas! I have lost one of my first comforts, a new blue, patent, silver-mounted, morocco writing-case; all my letter-paper, pens, ink, letters, secrets, verses, etc., etc.; also dear Lady N——’s series of useless boxes—all lost by the rascal Pedro, Bernardo’s opposite in everything. The devil take it, though I have lost it a week ago, I cannot recover my temper.
Hitherto I pass my time very pleasantly. I have got a fine young engineer to take care of, whom I row, all the time that he does not sleep, about his vanity; not but that I acknowledge myself to be as vain as he, but that I defy him to have found it out, unless I had told him of it. He is coming into very fine order.
Poor Harry Campbell has been some time unwell, but I hope he is now throwing it off.
General Sherbrooke, to whose division I belong, makes it very pleasant to me. I dine with him mostly, and like him vastly. I think of him very highly as a general. He thinks of Sir John Moore just as I do.
To-morrow we go to Plaçentia, which is much larger than this very pretty town.
Here there is an old castle and walls inhabited by cranes, which interest me very much, perching on the house-tops and church steeples, and cowering over the town.
That fellow there, I at first thought was standing upon the stalk of a weather-cock, but I found by a spy-glass that they were his own long legs, with his great feet happy upon the stone ball.
The air seems fresher here than in Portugal. Sweet F. E. wrote me such a dear note in Mamsey’s letter. I wonder how she could contrive to make it so pleasant and yet so proper. For me, I could do no such thing. Were I to write to her warm, kind, affectionate words, my heart would dictate fluently enough, but I am sure they would not pass the school of decorum.
The mistress would say, “You must scratch out there ‘dearest F.’ Lop away this ‘love’ and that ‘love’”; and so word by word I should see my poor letter robbed of all its graces, looking like a tobacconist’s with “Humble servant to command” at the bottom.
What if I should not fill this sheet! It is very big, and I have to give my letter to General Sherbrooke in a quarter of an hour, and you see I write very close.
My poor chum has just lost a horse, which, though I put on outward signs of condolence, I am not sorry for. As to being bridled, he never could think of such a thing. He would always go when he liked it, and where also. He would look very stupid, to entice the unwary behind him; and then, with both feet and all his might, lunge out, as much as to say, “D—— thee, I have thee now.” In the same manner he would most innocently pretend to come and rub his head upon you in a dawdling, sleepy sort of way, and then get your leg or arm in his jaws and try as hard as he could to crack it. For these and many other pretty accomplishments
His master loved him dearly,
And mourns him now sincerely,
While I say, “Poor thing” merely,
But feel at heart quite cheerly.
We’ll go as fast, or nearly,
Without, as with him, clearly.
Now to take my leave, and remain, as ever, your
Charles.
* * * * *
Castel Branco, July 1809.
I received dear Mamsey’s letter, by which my mind was relieved respecting her anxiety.
The moment I heard there was fighting I wrote, but feared you would not get my letter in time enough to be spared that cruel suspense.
It will at least be some time before you need begin to think of being anxious again.
The French, it is understood, are retiring very fast, and will probably not dispute anything south of the Ebro. A long march is before us ... we only know as far as Placentia. I miss my poor Bernardo very much, and would give anything to meet with him again, which I think I may do, if we go towards Madrid.
This fine battle of the Danube has cheered us again, perhaps ere you receive this you will know how fallaciously; but I will hope that you are in possession of recent victories for which we are yet to Huzza![29]