SORTIE OF BAYONNE.
Bayonne invested.—Sortie on the night of the 13th.—Thouvenot driven back.—Wellington advances.—Soult sends in his adherence to the Provisional Government.—Wellington visits Paris and Madrid. The army returns to England.—Duke of Wellington takes his seat in the House of Peers.
The British and French officers having passed through Bordeaux, forwarded a hurried notification to Sir John Hope, announcing the termination of hostilities; but, unfortunately, no accredited person was despatched. Of course, Sir John waited for orders from Lord Wellington; but he communicated the important intelligence he had received to the French outposts—and as the siege guns had not arrived, no jealousy should have been entertained by Thouvenot, who commanded the garrison of Bayonne.[277] Like Soult at Toulouse, that general, however, wantonly provoked an affair, from which no glory resulted to himself, and much blood was unnecessarily wasted.
On the night of the 13th, two deserters came over to the allied outposts, and gave information that the whole of the garrison were under arms, and prepared to make a sortie early on the following morning. At three o’clock the British regiments were formed and ready to receive the enemy—and a false attack was presently made on the outposts in front of Anglez. In the darkness, which was intense, the firing was too apparent in its feebleness, not to betray that the attempt was but a feint, and intended only to mask a more determined effort. The true attack was speedily made. The allied pickets in front of the citadel were partially surprised—and, rushing forward, two French columns with their customary impetuosity broke through the line of outposts stationed between St. Etienne and St. Bernard, while another powerful column moved upon the former village, and the whole line of pickets on the right bank of the river became seriously engaged.
A deep hollow way leads through St. Etienne, inclosed in some places by high banks, and at others by garden walls. The ground about St. Etienne is everywhere confined, and the communications are few and difficult. Hence, when the advanced line was broken, many of the pickets were totally cut off. In their attempts to retire, several murderous affairs ensued—when finding themselves desperately situated, they resorted to as desperate means. Some fought their way through, and succeeded in escaping—more, however, perished in the attempt,—and heaps of dead, both French and English, lay crowded together in spaces of little extent, and the bayonet wounds by which they had mutually perished, betrayed the ferocity with which the British had resisted to the last.
As it might be naturally supposed that the grand object of the sortie would be the destruction of the bridge of vessels over the Adour, Lord Saltoun placed himself in readiness to repel the expected attack, and occupied in force the convent of St. Bernard, which he had already strongly fortified. The first division, moved forward to support the picket, was cannonaded by the French gun-boats, which dropping down the river had covered the sortie. The enemy came forward in imposing numbers—the whole of the village of St. Etienne fell into their hands—and while giving orders for the defence of some important buildings, Major-general Hay was unfortunately killed.
On the first alarm, Sir John Hope, with his staff, hastened towards St. Etienne—and not aware that the village was already in possession of the enemy, and that his pickets had retired, he entered the hollow road as the shortest way to reach the scene of action. In a few minutes the enemy’s column was discovered in the feeble light, and the general wheeled round to extricate himself from the threatened danger of being taken. It was now too late—the French infantry hurried on, and commenced firing within a dozen yards—Sir John’s horse was killed, and falling on his leg prevented him from rising. Two of his staff dismounted to assist him, but they too were severely wounded, and rendered unable to relieve the general—and the whole fell into the hands of the enemy.[278] Sir John was immediately hurried to Bayonne, and on the road was again wounded in the foot by a shot from the English pickets. Other prisoners, of lesser note, had fallen into the hands of the French, during the darkness and confusion incident on a night attack—among these was Colonel Townshend, who commanded the pickets of the Guards.
The first brigade of Guards was now desired to support the right flank, and the second directed to recover the ground that lay between it and the village of St. Etienne. Finding the attack confined to the centre of the British lines immediately in front of the citadel, the third battalion of the Guards was detached, under Colonel Stuart, to regain the hollow road, and drive the enemy from the fields in its rear.
These attempts were finally successful. The Coldstream and first Foot Guards rushed forward on opposite flanks, cheering loudly as they charged—and the French, alarmed lest they should be cut off from Bayonne, rapidly retired over the glacis of the citadel, suffering considerable loss[279] from the musketry of their pursuers.
The contest at St. Etienne had been maintained with great obstinacy. A company of the 38th, commanded by Captain Forster, occupied and held a house in that village, against every effort the enemy made to dispossess them. The little garrison were sadly reduced, when a brigade of Germans under General Hinuber, recovered the village, and saved the remnant of the gallant band.
A night attack is always attended by an awful grandeur that it is almost impossible to imagine or describe—and, in effect, nothing could exceed the sortie from the citadel of Bayonne. The deeper flashes of the cannon, the sparkling of the musketry, the sudden bursting of the shells, after describing curves of light in their transit,[280] and the brilliant illumination occasionally produced by the fire-balls thrown from the fortress to direct the range of its artillery, were singularly contrasted with the darkness of the night, which, after these brief and brilliant displays, appeared gloomier and denser than before. Presently, a fascine depôt became ignited by the bursting of a shell, and several houses at the same time caught fire and burned furiously, throwing a lurid glare over a field on which death was busy. To complete this fearful picture, the thunder of one hundred guns, and the bursting of shells, united with the cheering of the combatants and the cries of the wounded—all, in point of horror, rendering it, as a scene of slaughter, perfect.
On both sides the sortie of Bayonne entailed a deplorable loss of life.[281] Independent of prisoners, the British numbered fully five hundred killed and wounded, while the French loss was estimated at eight hundred and fifty. Several superior officers fell—and a great number of subordinate rank were reckoned among the killed and wounded.
“Towards the close of the action, the moon had risen, and as dawn broke over the scene of battle, a spectator could discern the dreadful havoc that had been made. The French and English soldiers and officers were lying on all sides, either killed or wounded; and so intermixed were they, that there appeared to have been no distinct line belonging to either party.”[282]
The command of the left wing devolved on Major-General Colville, and the rival armies continued to observe each other with the most jealous vigilance.
Lord Wellington never relaxed his active movements; and Soult having refused to acknowledge the provisional government, the allied commander advanced. The bold and decisive measures of the allied leader doubtless hastened the Duke of Dalmatia in making his decision—and, on the arrival of a second official communication, Soult notified his adherence, and hostilities ceased. Suchet had already shewn him the example—and Toulouse displayed the white flag. A line of demarcation was made by commissioners between the rival armies, and a regular convention signed by the respective commanders.[283] On the 27th, Thouvenot was instructed by Soult to surcease hostilities, and acknowledge the Bourbons—the lilies floated over the citadel—and saluted by three hundred rounds of artillery, Napoleon’s abdication, and the restoration of the Bourbons, were formally announced.[284]
In the north of France, Napoleon’s downfal had been hurrying rapidly to its close. The congress at Chatillon finally concluded its sittings on the 19th of March—and on the next day, Buonaparte was severely repulsed in a general engagement with the allies at Arcis. Even the repeated reverses he had latterly endured, could not extinguish that audacity of action for which the French emperor was so remarkable. With a ruined army, he threw himself behind the Marne on the 22nd, regardless of the enormous corps d’armée collected in his front, and whose numbers were quite adequate to crush a force like his, weakened by defeat, and disheartened by the defection of the southern provinces. Directing his march on St. Dizier, he declared “that he should reach Vienna before the allies entered Paris.” If this mad project were devised only to interrupt their advance on the French capital, it failed entirely,—the allied corps marched steadily on Paris—Marmont and Mortier were driven back upon that city—and the capital was regularly invested on the 29th.
Affairs had now reached a crisis. To defend that city with a corps not mustering twenty thousand men, would have been, with every assistance attainable from the inhabitants and gendarmerie, an act of madness. On the 30th, the allies carried the heights of Bellevue. The marshals retired—Joseph, the ex-King of Spain, quitted the capital—and the city, evacuated by the regular troops, capitulated.
Failing in his efforts at distracting the allied generals in their advance, Napoleon, after a smart affair, decided to countermarch on Paris—but the Prussian corps, that held Vitry, completely barred the direct line of march, and obliged him to take a circuitous rout. Having put his army again into motion, Buonaparte travelled post, and when within four leagues of Paris, learned that his capital was actually in possession of the allies. After much indecision he determined, with what troops he could collect, to march from Fontainbleau to Paris, on the 3rd of April. But his history had been already politically closed by a decree passed on the preceding day by the conservative senate. His deposition was solemnly pronounced—the soldiery liberated from their allegiance—all confidence, civil and military, was destroyed—and a throne, erected on the ruins of kingdoms, and cemented by seas of blood, crumbled into nothingness, and,
“Like the baseless fabric of a vision,
Left not a wreck behind.”
With political events we have no business, and it is sufficient to cursorily observe, that arrangements were effected for Napoleon’s retirement from public life to the “lonely isle,” where he might still, in fancy, “call himself a king.” To this secluded spot, many of his old and devoted followers accompanied him. Peace was generally proclaimed over Europe; tranquillity restored in France; the “Grand Nation,” to all appearance, contented itself with the change of government; the allied sovereigns retired with their respective corps, each to his own dominions; and the victorious army of Wellington quitted the French soil, on which it had consummated its glory; and received, on landing on the shores of Britain, that enthusiastic welcome which its “high deeds” and boundless gallantry deserved from a grateful country.[285]
Lord Wellington quitted Toulouse on the night of the 30th of April, and reached Paris safely on the morning of the 4th of May. His reception by the restored monarch and the allied sovereigns was most gratifying—for none had done so much for the deliverance of Europe;—none, when all beside, with few exceptions, “blanched from the helm,” so fearlessly persevered, regardless of disheartening abandonment abroad and more evil auguries at home. Advanced to a dukedom, the allied general had gained every honour to which a British subject was admissible—while every court in Europe had already marked their admiration and respect, by presenting to the Liberator of Spain the insignia of the highest orders at their disposition.
The flattering reception bestowed upon the English duke in the French capital detained him but a brief space from his high command. He left Paris on the 10th—hurried to Toulouse—arranged every thing for a short absence—and hastened to Madrid to welcome the deposed monarch, who, through his instrumentality, had been replaced upon the throne. The honours already conferred upon the duke by the provisional government were confirmed by Ferdinand, and the rank of Captain-General of Spain added to the rest. On the 5th of June he quitted Madrid—reached head-quarters on the 10th,—reviewed those splendid divisions to whom so often he had pointed out the path of victory,—and, in a modest and plainly-written order, bade his companions in arms farewell[286]—and returned to England “the admired” of his own, and the “envied one” of his opponents. His general order was dated the 14th of June,[287] and on the 23rd he landed at Dover and proceeded to the capital.
It is a singular, and, we believe, an unprecedented occurrence, that when presented to the House of Lords, four patents of nobility, namely, those of Viscount, Earl, Marquis, and Duke, were severally read, when, for the first time, Wellington took his seat among the assembled peers of Britain.