CHAPTER XXXVIII. OPENING OF THE CAMPAIGN—BATTLE OF VITTORIA.
King Henry. “Yet, God before, tell him we will come on,
Though France himself, and such another neighbour,
Stand in our way.
If we may pass, we will; if we be hinder’d,
We shall your tawny ground with your red blood
Discolour.”
King Henry V.
Many a summer has passed away since the spring of manhood saw me on the Agueda—and the sear of middle age finds me recalling the brief but brilliant reminiscences of that “crowded hour of glorious strife” which followed. Time has sprinkled my hair with “wisdom’s silver”—the blood, which once the slightest impulse hurried from the heart, flows temperately—“wild youth’s past”—and I now look back with painful pleasure to one brief era of a life, for which, could it be lived again, I would cheerfully forego years of calm and spiritless enjoyment.
Is not this an ungrateful declaration of thine, Mr. O’Halloran? With every human blessing that can render existence happy, hast thou not been munificently gifted? Thou hast never known the stringent pressure of necessity—thou hast not felt the withering agony of unrequited love—no false friend has abused thy confidence—no lovely woman “stooped to folly,” and made thee blush for her inconstancy. Hast thou not a home?—the pledge of holy love has lisped upon thy knee—the smiles of beauty which never beamed upon another, have brightened at thy presence. What wouldst thou more? Upon my conscience, Mr. Hector O’Halloran, thou art a most unreasonable Irish gentleman.
I said, that I looked^ back upon this epoch of my life with “painful pleasure.”—Well, that association of opposites he who has passed the meridian of existence can easily understand; for in the story of a life, pain and pleasure are generally found close companions. The pulse quickens when Vittoria, Sanroren, and San Sebastian pass in “shadowy review”—but the heart sickens when I recall the memory of him, at whose side I witnessed the enthusiastic heroism of that noble brigade, to whom he so often pointed out the path to victory. In long and cherished remembrance will that honoured name be held. To a lion’s heart he united a woman’s gentleness—the soldier followed him through love—his rivals admired and praised him. Why did he not die in the blaze of battle, where the noblest soldiers upon earth contended for a doubtful victory?—Why did not his glorious spirit wing its flight “from cumbring clay,” in that wild mountain pass, in which it gained its immortally?—Why, on “red Waterloo” did he not find a lifting grave? Alas! it was otherwise appointed and one of the noblest soldiers whom Britain ever claimed, perished by an ignoble hand. *
The middle of May found the allies, in perfect unity of purpose and admirable efficiency, ready to open the campaign, and orders had been already transmitted to General Murray and the Spanish commanders on the eastern coast, to commence initial operations. Gradually, and in a manner not to occasion alarm in the French cantonments; the allied divisions were concentrated and advanced, and the supporting Spanish corps were put in march to co-operate. Bad weather, heavy rains, and an accident to the pontoon-train, delayed the opening of the campaign. It was but for a few days. On the 16th, Graham threw his infantry and artillery across the Douero: Hill moved forward to Bejar; and on the 22d, Lord Wellington marched with his right wing towards the Tonnes; and the practicability of the noblest conception that ever a great military genius matured, was now to be proven. “A grand design,” and grandly it was executed! For high in heart and strong of hand, Wellington’s veterans marched to the encounter; the glories of twelve victories played about their bayonets; and he, the leader, so proud and confident, that in passing the stream which marks the frontier of Spain, he rose in his stirrups, and waving his hand, cried out—“Farewell, Portugal!” **
* It was said—I know not with what accuracy—that Major-
General Ross was shot by a sneaking scoundrel ambushed in a
tree.
** Napier.
To oppose the fiery movements of the allied general, the enemy should have been combined, and in readiness; but they were equally unprepared and unsuspicious that an advance would be attempted. Napoleon’s orders to concentrate on the Tonnes, had been fatally neglected; and no preparation had yet commenced to evacuate the capital, if such a step should become necessary. Joseph was at issue with his generals; the latter on bad terms with each other; and, strange as it might appear, in a country laid open to unmerciful contributions, subordinate officers were acquiring wealth, while the king was without a guinea, and his major-general (Jourdan) actually subsisting upon credit. Every commander seemed to think and act for himself. Joseph issued orders, but none obeyed them—some general asserted that Lord Wellington would attempt to turn the French right;—others declaring that he would march direct on Madrid. One would have it that the north would be his field of operation,—another maintained that it would be the south, and in concert with Sir John Murray. All were referring to what might be the future, when the initial movements were already made; and Wellington was over the Esla, before, it was known in the enemies’ cantonments that a division had been even put in march!
None, save a military reader, can estimate this wonderful and successful operation. A part of Sir Thomas Graham’s corps traversed a distance of more than two hundred miles, its route running through the Tras as Montes, the wildest district imaginable. Over a rugged surface—hitherto unknown to any save the shepherd or muleteer—forty thousand men, with artillery, and all the equipages of war, were passed and placed in safety on the further banks of a river unopposed—not a French general believing that even a cloud was collected, when the tempest had already burst!
Merely waiting one day at Toro, to unite his left with the Gallician army, and enable the rear of his own divisions to close up, the allied general pushed rapidly for the Carion, his own troops beautifully in hand, and either flank protected by Spanish regulars and partidas. Too late, Joseph Buonaparte felt the danger of his position;—when the danger was discovered, it was irremediable; for with the certain stride of victory Wellington marched forward. The Pisuerga and the Arlanzan were passed, to use the language of an historian, “easily as if they contained no water”—and Burgos, that once had foiled his efforts, perished by the same hands which formerly had held it so successfully.
Thus far Lord Wellington’s rapid advance had been attended with splendid success; but bolder operations, and followed by more brilliant results, remained behind. On the 13th, masked by his own cavalry, and a swarm of Spanish partidas, he suddenly marched by his left, to turn the sources of the Ebro, place his army between that river and the Reynosa mountains, and cut the enemy from the sea. It was a bold and judicious, but difficult and precarious, attempt; and one from which a nervous commander would have recoiled. The line of march ran through a mountain country, whose features were singularly rugged. The valleys were deep; gullies and ravines constantly presented themselves; and the roads, narrow and broken, were unsuited for the transport of field equipage and artillery. Still Lord Wellington persevered; and, nobly seconded by his gallant followers, every obstacle was overcome. When the ordinary means of moving forward the artillery were found impracticable, the guns were dismounted, and lowered or swayed over precipices which threatened to bar their farther progress. On went the Anglo-Portuguese divisions, in ceaseless march; and, after six days of incessant exertion, the allied columns issued from their mountain routes, and entered the deep valley of Vittoria.
As yet I had never been fairly under fire; our march from the Esla to the Zadora had been one of manouvre, Lord Wellington turning every position with admirable skill; and the slight collisions which occasionally resulted, occurring always between the light troops. One irregular but dashing affair, on the preceding day, had taken place unexpectedly, between a part of the light division and Maranzin’s brigade, at the entrance of the valley of the Boveda, in which the French were severely handled, and narrowly escaped with the loss of their baggage, and five hundred men.
We reached Espigo, after a very long march, late in the evening of the 18th; and early next morning, moved on to Bayas, in the hope of forcing that pass, and cutting off the armies of the south, and centre. But Beille had taken a strong position, with the army of Portugal, to cover their passage through the defile of La Puebla. We were directed to attack in front, while the light division turned their position. A brief affair ensued, during which the armies of the south and centre threaded the defile, and came into line behind the Zadora. That object gained, Reille fell back, and crossed the river, and we bivouacked for that night upon the Bayas.
It was apparent to all that a great and decisive battle was at hand; King Joseph, with his immense pares and ambulances, was still in front of Vittoria; and although two huge convoys were ready for France, and one had been already despatched, still the quantity of baggage that remained was enormous, and the number of carriages almost incredible. The whole of his miserable Court had followed the steps of the royal fugitive. Traitors to their country, they had no mercy to expect; and in flight alone, was safety. The immense quantity of military stores—the accumulated mass of private plunder, collected for years before, and now heaped together in the confusion of a hurried retreat—the encumbrance of a numerous body of nobles and civilians,—all these tended to render Joseph’s position the more embarrassing.
If he retreated without a battle, all must be lost. He vacillated—valuable time slipped away—and at last he determined to “stand the hazard of the die;” and accordingly, took a position in front of Vittoria.
On the evening of the 20th, we received intelligence that the French were resolved to accept battle the next day; and it was ascertained that they were busily engaged in fortifying the ground that Marshal Jourdan had selected. I was now on the eve of my first field; and a feeling of anxiety and restlessness kept me waking, while two or three veterans, who were huddled into the same tent, slept so soundly that I envied them. At day-break the camp was in a bustle. The third, fourth, seventh, and light divisions, which formed the infantry of the centre, got speedily under arms; and, accompanied by a powerful artillery, and the whole of the heavy cavalry, we crossed the ridges behind which we had pitched our tents, and over a rugged and difficult surface, moved stoutly and steadily towards the points marked for our separate attacks. We took a position in front of the bridge of Nanclares, covered from the enemy’s fire by broken ground and underwood, and there awaited the movements of the third and seventh divisions, whom rougher ground and a greater distance had hitherto prevented from getting up.
About ten o’clock the action began, by General Hill seizing the village of Puebla, and Morillo attacking the heights that domineered it. A doubtful and protracted struggle for the possession of the latter ensued. The French supported Maranzin, who held it; and Sir Rowland detached Colonel Cadogan, with two battalions, to sustain the Spaniards. Fresh troops, from time to time, came into action. Villatte’s division were drawn from the centre, to maintain the heights. Hill reinforced the assailants; the contest still was doubtful; but Sir Rowland ended it by crossing the Zadora, pushing through the defile of Puebla, and carrying the village of Subijana de Alwa.
Three hours had passed; and amid the intervals of the fire at Subijana, a distant cannonade was faintly heard upon our left, and indicated that Graham was up, and coming into action. The light division had already crossed the bridge of Très Puentes; one brigade of the third had forced that of Mendoza, and another, with the seventh division, forded the river, and attacked the French right, in front of Margarita. We were desired now to advance; and, passing the bridge of Nan-clares, were followed by the heavy cavalry, who, forming on our right in squadrons, connected us with Sir Rowland’s left.
Already, fearing that he should be turned on both flanks, Joseph had issued orders to retreat; and, covered by a cloud of skirmishers, and under a tremendous fire of fifty pieces of artillery, he retired his columns on Gomecha, where his reserve was posted. Now the battle was at his height; the third division carried the village of Arinez, the 52d stormed Margarita; and the 87th seized Hermandad. But the last struggle was yet to come. Reille still maintained himself on the Upper Zadora, and, with eighty pieces of artillery in full and rapid play, the wreck of the armies of the south and centre were enabled to fall back, and make their last stand, between the villages of Ali and Armantia.
For a moment the storm of artillery arrested the onward progress of the allies. The battle raged furiously; but the struggle was fated to be short. Cole ordered the fourth division to advance. On rushed its noble battalions, untamed by a terrible cannonade and a heavy and well-supported musketry. The heights on the left of those occupied by the French were carried, and the doubtful conflict ended in a total route.
Throughout the day I had been busily employed. I occasionally carried orders; and the steadiness with which my noble horse faced fire, attested the value of the Empecinado’s present. I had procured at Frenada a very respectable animal, on which to mount Mark Antony; and, to do him justice, the fosterer seemed to follow like a shadow where I went. Just as we crowned the height, General R———— who was leading the column, beckoned to me, and I was directly at his side.
“Gallop back. Tell ————— to launch the cavalry boldly—see!— the French infantry are mobbed, and running!”
I had half wheeled round to convey the order, when, suddenly, my gallant charger gave a convulsive shudder, and sank under me. I sprang from the saddle before he had time to roll over, and called on the fosterer to dismount—made one step to take his horse, and execute the order, when a sharp stroke smote me on the head. All around became confused—memory fled—and for a time I recollected nothing but indistinctly.
When I did recover, I found myself under a small knoll, which sheltered us from ranging shots: the fosterer on one side, a twentieth grenadier on the other; and my excellent and valued friend Peter Grotty, seated on a dead horse, vis-à-vis, and giving orders for my resuscitation.