Chapter Seventeen.
Fighting their battles o’er again.
The sun had set and “retreat” long since been sounded when the escort reached Burns Hill, so that by the time Tom Flinders had reported himself to Captain Jamieson, had seen his horse fed, watered, and “fettled up” for the night, and had got rid of the traces of his arduous day’s work, the officers of the various detachments in camp were already gathered round the big watch-fire, and were eating their frugal supper, talking over the stirring events of the day, or paying a soldier’s tribute to the memory of their brave comrades who only the evening before formed part of their circle, but who now lay stiff and stark in the distant bush. Of those who had ridden in from Chumie Hoek the first to join the group round the fire was Lieutenant S—, and he at once proceeded to relate the gallant manner in which Tom had rescued Frank Jamieson from the Caffres. Said he warmly: “It was one of the pluckiest things I have seen for a long time. Young Flinders is a fine lad, and will make a capital officer.”
“He is a ‘chip of the old block,’ as those of you who know Matthew Flinders will agree,” put in Captain Jamieson, who had heard full particulars from his son. “I’m proud of him, I can assure you.”
“And here comes the young hero!” exclaimed Mr S— as Tom walked up to the fire. “We were just talking of you, Flinders,” he added, slapping the lad’s shoulder. “By Saint George, sir, that cut you delivered was worthy of Shaw the life-guardsman!”
“Sit beside me, Tom,” said Captain Jamieson, making room for him. “We’ll find a bone for you to pick somewhere. I can’t say all I wish to say now,” he went on in a low tone. “But you know how deeply I—eh, my dear boy!” And the old officer pressed his young friend’s hand.
“Allow me to congratulate you on your débût in the battle-field, Mr Flinders,” called out Major G—, the camp commandant.
“My friend here has informed me of your gallant behaviour, and you may be sure I shall report most favourably of you to the brigadier.”
Our hero was quite taken aback at thus publicly receiving so much “kudos,” and he felt not a little relieved when the conversation turned from his personal exploits to matters of more general interest.
“The campaign has opened with some hard fighting,” observed Major G—; “and I fully expect that Sandilli and his warriors will give us considerable trouble before we subdue them.”
“If they attack us to-morrow on the line of march we shall have our work cut out for us,” said another dragoon officer. “It will be no easy job to guard the waggons with the force we have.”
“No, indeed,” responded an artillery captain, who had some experience of South African warfare. “Thompson tells me that we have over a hundred bullock-waggons to escort, to say nothing of our guns and ammunition train. We shall have to fight tooth and nail to take them through. What route do you propose to take, major?”
“Well,” replied the major, “Jamieson, who knows the country thoroughly, advises me to follow the regular waggon-track—”
“Ir-regular waggon-track, major,” laughed Mr S—. “The roads about here are not macadamised, though there’s plenty of metal on the surface.”
“Well, then, the ir-regular waggon-track that runs along the banks of Keiskamma and skirts the high ground upon which the ruins of Fort Cox stand,” continued Major G— good-humouredly. “It is a somewhat circuitous route, but in this case the ‘longest way round is the shortest way there.’ No doubt we shall have to fight over every yard of the ground when once we are across the river.”
“’Pon my honour, Jamieson,” struck in an old captain of the Mounted Rifles, “Sandilli promises to give Somerset as much trouble as your old friend Marshal Soult gave the Duke!”
“As the Duke gave Soult, you mean?” was the retort.
“By the way, Jamieson,” said Major G—, “talking of Soult reminds me of your promise to give us an account of the part your old regiment played at Albuera. Suppose we have it now? It is just the time and place for an old campaigner to ‘fight his battles o’er again.’”
A murmur of approval greeted the major’s suggestion; and so Captain Jamieson, willing to accede to what was evidently the wish of his companions-in-arms, thus commenced his “oft-told tale.”
“The early spring of 1811 found me an ‘impatient patient’ in the General Hospital at Belem, suffering from the effects of a dangerous gunshot wound received at Busaco during our retreat down the valley of the Mondego. You must know that I was then colour-sergeant of the Light Company of the —th Foot; and my regiment—which was attached to Colborne’s Brigade, 2nd Division—had marched in pursuit of Massena, who, having broken up his camp before Torres Vedras on the 2nd March, was retiring into Spain, laying waste the country as he went.
“Great was my disappointment at not being allowed to march with the regiment; for I began to fear lest my continued absence from the colours might lead my comrades to suppose that I had become a ‘Belem Ranger,’ and did not intend to soldier any more. However, I was not detained in hospital very much longer, for at the end of April the doctors pronounced me fit for duty; and I was forthwith sent, with a large draft of men belonging to various corps, to rejoin the —th.
“After a fatiguing march the draft joined the 2nd Division at Albuera on the 13th May, and to my great pleasure I found myself reposted to the ‘Light Bobs.’
“Marshal Beresford was then in command of the 2nd Division, General Rowland Hill, its proper leader, being away on leave. Colborne was our brigadier.
“Beresford had taken up a position on the heights of Albuera to cover the siege of Badajos, information having been received that Soult (with 19,000 veteran infantry, 4000 cavalry, and 40 guns) was advancing from Seville to the relief of the beleaguered fortress.
“To oppose the French marshal, Beresford had 32,000 men of all arms; but of this number only 7000 were British troops, the remainder being Spaniards and Portuguese under Blake and Castanos.
“On the 15th May Beresford took post on the Albuera range, about seven miles from the town and fortress of Badajos. This range extends for four miles, and, being easy of ascent, is practicable for both cavalry and artillery. Along the eastern base of the hills flow the Albuera and its tributary the Feria, and between these two rivers is a wooded range of hills. This range Beresford most unfortunately neglected to occupy.
“The village of Albuera is situated above the river just at the junction of the main roads to Badajos and Seville, and Talavera and Valverde.
“Beresford placed Blake’s Spaniards on the right of the position; the British held the centre; Colborne’s brigade (consisting of the 3rd, 31st, 48th, and ‘ours’) being posted near the village, which was occupied by Alten’s Hanoverians; the Portuguese were on the left.
“On the evening of the 15th the light company of the —th was ordered to parade for piquet, and Captain Clarke marched us down to a narrow stone bridge spanning the Albuera in front of the village. Towards eight o’clock on the morning of the 16th Soult sent a battery of light guns, and some squadrons of light cavalry under Godinot, towards the bridge; and as soon as they had unlimbered, the French artillerists opened a smart cannonade upon our position, under cover of which Godinot’s light horsemen advanced as though they would charge across the bridge, which was barely wide enough to allow three horses to cross abreast.
“‘This is but a feint, Sergeant Jamieson,’ Captain Clarke said to me as we watched the movements of the enemy. ‘This is a feint, I feel sure. Depend upon it, Soult will try to turn our right, which is our weak point.’
“Now it happened that Beresford, who had come round to visit the piquets, overheard my captain’s remark, and turning sharply round, said:
“‘They are going to retreat, sir. I expect to attack their rear-guard by nine o’clock!’
“The words were hardly out of his mouth when an aide-de-camp galloped up from the right, where the Spaniards were posted, with the alarming intelligence that our right was turned!
“We afterwards learned that during the night Soult had quietly concentrated 15,000 troops, with 30 guns, behind the wooded range which Beresford left unoccupied, within ten minutes’ march of our weakest point—the right; and this movement he carried out entirely unknown to Beresford or his lieutenants, who remained in total ignorance of the proximity of this powerful force until it was too late to interpose between it and the Spaniards.
“So Blake was vigorously attacked and driven back with great slaughter; and Soult, confident that the day was won, pushed forward his columns.
“At this critical moment General Sir William Stewart galloped up to our brigadier and ordered him to move to the right in support of the Spaniards; our company then rejoined the battalion. Without waiting to form order of battle the brigade, led by the fiery William Stewart, doubled up the hill in open column of companies, and, passing the Spanish right, attempted to open line by succession of battalions as they arrived. But the French fire was too hot and well-directed to be borne quietly, and before the manoeuvre was completed the word was given to ‘charge.’
“With a ringing cheer we dashed onwards, but when close to the enemy the ‘halt’ was unexpectedly sounded, and the ‘retire’ followed almost immediately. At this time a heavy rain was falling, which obscured the view; and whilst we were wondering why the ‘retire’ had sounded the enemy’s cavalry appeared in rear of the ‘Old Buffs,’ who were, I believe, in the very act of re-forming column.
“We then advanced again; but before we had moved many paces a perfect swarm of Polish lancers, supported by several squadrons of chasseurs-à-cheval, charged the rear of the brigade and threw the four regiments into confusion. Separated and taken at a terrible disadvantage, our men had to act for themselves; so they formed groups of six or eight, and thus withstood the furious onslaught of the savage Poles. Many of the officers joined the men, and prepared to sell their lives dearly; for quarter was neither given nor asked for. Captain Clarke, his junior subaltern, Ensign Hay, and I, found ourselves in the midst of a group composed of a dozen men of our own company. Clarke snatched up a musket and blazed away as fast as he could ram home the cartridges, encouraging the men a while with words of approval or exhortation. Ensign Hay followed the captain’s example, and fired as hard as he could fire; and I too abandoned my pike for ‘Old Brown Bess,’ and may safely say that I never made better practice.
“All this time the Polish lancers were wheeling round the groups, stabbing at us with their long lances whenever they got a chance. It was reported afterwards that they had been promised a doubloon apiece if they broke the British line. Gradually our men became mixed up with these lancers and with the chasseurs and French linesmen; and every one of us was thrusting and parrying, hacking and guarding, loading and firing, to the best of his ability. Never have I witnessed such a mêlée.
“I saw a savage-looking, bare-headed lancer attack our ensign and run him through the lungs, the lance coming out at his back. He fell, but regained his feet immediately. The Pole again delivered point, his lance striking Hay’s breast-bone; down he went as if shot, whilst his assailant pitched over his horse’s head and rolled over in the mud beside him. I ran forward to the ensign’s assistance, but came in collision with a chasseur-à-cheval, who cut at me with his sabre and brought me on my knees. I staggered up and drove my bayonet through his leg, pinning him to the saddle. He then cut at me again, inflicting a severe wound on my head and partially depriving me of my senses. At that moment my adversary’s horse was killed by a musket ball, and in its fall the poor brute crushed me to the ground. I struggled hard to regain my feet, but the weight of the dead charger kept me down, and so I was placed hors-de-combat for the rest of the day.
“In this desperate hand-to-hand encounter Colborne’s brigade suffered terribly, for of the four regiments composing it the 31st alone was able to form square when the French cavalry charged us. The 3rd Buffs, the 48th, and ‘Ours’ were nearly annihilated.
“At length a gust of wind blew aside the mist and smoke and revealed our desperate condition to General Lumley, who was in the plain below; and he at once despatched four squadrons of heavy dragoons against the lancers. Almost at the same moment Houghton’s brigade came up, and Major Julius Hartmann brought his light guns into action.
“When I heard the artillery thundering over the ground I gave myself up for lost, making sure that they must inevitably gallop over me; but they passed a few yards to my right, and, quickly unlimbering, opened fire.
“The battle was now continued with redoubled fury; the guns belched forth grape at half-range, the musketry kept up an incessant rattle; and the carnage on both sides was truly awful. Presently our gallant fellows found that their ammunition was beginning to run short, and they were obliged to slacken fire; and at this juncture—misfortunes never come single—another French column established itself on the right flank.
“Marshal Beresford—who had been doing his utmost to induce the cowardly Spaniards to advance to the assistance of their well-nigh vanquished allies—now saw that retreat was inevitable, and he most reluctantly gave the unwelcome order. But happily the battle was saved by the moral courage—hark ye to that, you young fellows!—by the moral courage of a young staff-officer, Colonel Hardinge, (afterwards Lord Hardinge, commander-in-chief), who entirely on his own responsibility rode off at full speed to General Cole (who had just arrived from Badajos) and urged him to advance with the 4th Division and Abercrombie’s brigade of the 2nd Division. Cole readily assented, and at once led the 7th and 23rd Fusiliers, flanked by a battalion of Portuguese caçadores, up the hill; whilst Abercrombie’s brigade followed in support.
“Separating themselves from the crowd of broken soldiery, these fresh troops attacked the French with irresistible fury, and slowly but surely drove them back to the farthest edge of the hill. In vain did Soult call upon his veterans to hold their ground, in vain did he bring up his reserves; nothing could withstand Cole’s splendid infantry; and after a desperate struggle the French masses went down the slope of the hill, breaking like a loosened cliff.
“The battle was over. By three o’clock the last shot had been fired, and the remnant of the British troops, who had fought with such devoted courage, stood triumphant on the bloodstained ground. Since that memorable day I have taken part in many a ‘stricken field,’ but never have I seen harder fighting than at the battle of Albuera.”
“It was indeed a brilliant affair,” said Major G—n when the old officer stopped speaking; “and our soldiers gave unmistakable proof of their superiority over Bonaparte’s veterans. Pray, what were the losses on either side?”
“I cannot say how the Spaniards and Portuguese came off; but out of 6000 British and Hanoverian troops actually engaged more than 4000 were killed, wounded, or missing,” Captain Jamieson replied. “The French, I believe, lost between 7000 and 8000 men. As for the poor old —th, we went into action over 400 strong, and on the morrow only 53 bayonets mustered at parade! The battalion may almost be said to have ceased to exist.”
“Well might Byron exclaim, ‘O Albuera, glorious field of grief!’” said S—. “But you have not told us how you fared after the battle.”
“Well, I lay crushed beneath the chasseur’s dead charger until morning, when I was found by a party of the light company who had been searching for me throughout the night. My wounds were not very severe, and when I recovered, the commanding officer, Major K—, appointed me sergeant-major of the battalion. I held that post until the end of the war, when I was invalided home and promoted to an ensigncy on the half-pay list. In 1821 they gave me my lieutenancy in the Cape Mounted Rifles.”
“You are to be congratulated on having seen so much active service,” said Major G—n. “I always envy you Peninsula heroes. Few men, I should imagine, have passed through so much peril, and yet lived to tell the tale.”
“I am not out of the wood yet, G—n,” was Jamieson’s quiet rejoinder. “But talking of peril, no man has experienced more of ‘moving accidents by flood and field’ than my friend Richards,” he went on, nodding at a wiry-built grave-looking man who sat near him. “You’ve seen some rough work in America—eh, John?”
“Yes, Jamieson,” responded the person addressed, who was an officer of native levies; “but not such work as you’ve been describing. This, you must know, is my first regular campaign. I have always been a ‘man of peace,’ gentlemen—that is to say, when the Red-skins would let me!”
“Which was seldom enough, no doubt,” put in Captain Jamieson. “By the way, hadn’t you a remarkable escape from the Indians some years ago? I think I remember hearing of it.”
“A—ah!” rejoined Mr Richards with a sort of gasp—he spoke, too, with a slight American intonation; “a—ah! that was an adventure! Why, do you know, gentlemen, that though it happened twenty-two years ago come next fall, I feel kinder nervous even now when I think of it; for ’twas just about the very narrowest shave of being scalped that ever I did run.”
“Come, tell us all about it, John,” said the captain. “I’m sure our friends will appreciate the yarn.”
“Well, then, gentlemen,” Mr Richards began, taking a look round the company as if he wanted to find some individual upon whom to fix his eye, “you must know that I met with this adventure in ’25, when I was a smart spry young fellow of nine-and-twenty. I was trapping beavers at the time, in company with my friend Job Potter, near the head-waters of the Missouri; and as we knew that the Blackfoot Indians were on the war-path, and that we should meet with but scant mercy if we fell into their hands, we just set our beaver-traps at night, visited them at dawn, and remained concealed in the woods during the day.
“Early one morning Job and I were paddling up stream in our canoe, on our way to examine the traps, when of a sudden we heard a noise as though a herd of buffaloes were galloping towards us; and the next minute a number of Red-skins in their war-paint came rushing along either bank of the river—a couple of hundred of them at the least.
“We turned the head of the canoe like lightning and paddled down stream as hard as we could paddle, but the Indians sent a flight of arrows after us and killed poor Job Potter, who in his fall upset the canoe. By a miracle, I only received two slight flesh-wounds; and when I found myself in the river I dived like a duck in order to escape the second shower. Now some thirty yards lower down the stream was a small island, and when we paddled past it I had noticed that against the upper part a sort of raft of drift-timber had lodged. This raft, I must explain, was formed of the trunks of several trees, large and small, covered over with smaller and broken wood to the depth of five or six feet.
“In my extremity I happily remembered this raft, and I saw in it my only chance of eluding my pursuers. Rising for one second to the surface in order to make sure of its position, I dived again and swam under water until I found myself directly beneath the raft. I then—not without considerable difficulty—managed to force my head and shoulders between the trunks of trees, so that the upper portion of my body was well above water, and at the same time completely hidden from view by the broken wood on the top of the raft.
“Hardly had I fixed myself in this position when the Indians arrived opposite my place of refuge, and several swam off to the island and searched for me amongst the brushwood; one or two actually got on the raft.
“Gentlemen, I remained in that terrible position for eleven mortal hours!—in fact, until the Red-skins took their departure, which was not before nightfall. As soon as I was certain that they were gone I dived from under the raft and swam some distance down the river, and there landing, made my way to Fort Jefferson. When I arrived there, after two days’ tramp, I found that my hair had turned quite grey; and I can assure you, that, if I live to be a hundred, I shall Dever forget the agony of suspense I suffered when fixed up between those trees.”
Many a thrilling tale of sport and war, of peril by flood and field, was told that evening; and the circle round the watch-fire would not have broken up until the small hours of the morning had not the commanding officer reminded them that they must be on the move by cock-crow. So the officers lay down to rest with their weapons beside them, ready for aught that might occur; and before midnight the camp was hushed in slumber, no sound being heard save the measured tramp of the patrol or the hoarse challenge of the sentinels.