The Military Sketch-Book, Vol. 2 (of 2) / Reminiscences of seventeen years in the service abroad and at home

by William Maginn

THE SPANISH NATIONAL SONG.

I.

The curse of Slavery’s o’er us,
And suffering Freedom weeps;
No hope—no hope’s before us
While Spain’s bright spirit sleeps.
But if her slumbers lighten,
Then Freedom’s glance will brighten,
And lips shall cease to sigh, and hearts to pain.
So let us smite
The drum of fight;
She’ll wake and rise again.
To the war—to the war, ye Spaniards!
The hour is nigh,
To break your chain;
Your rights to gain.
Live free—live free,—or die!

II.

In death our sons are sleeping
Our homes in ruin laid;
Our daughters o’er them weeping,
Alone—forlorn—betrayed!
In vain is Britain’s bravery,
To rid you of your slavery;
In vain her heroes bleed—her arms resound,
Unless the fire
Of Freedom’s ire
Burn every heart around.
To the war—to the war, ye Spaniards!
The hour is nigh
To break your chain;
Your rights to gain.
Live free—live free,—or die!
—But enough of music: let us now march on without it.

I proceeded with the fourth division, and arrived after two marches, at the high banks of the Esla: there it was that I beheld the concentrated army—at least the greatest part of it. Some of the troops had passed the river and “opened the ball” with the enemy on the opposite bank: their rear guard had a brisk engagement with our advanced cavalry, and the 10th Hussars had the honour to draw the first blood of the campaign—they “astonished” the French Dragoons not a little. After this brush the enemy continued their retreat rapidly, in the direction of Burgos.

The crossing of the Esla by the army, as I beheld it, was one of the most impressive, magnificent, and beautiful sights that was ever presented: I will describe it briefly, from my memory, upon which it is indelibly delineated.

The river Esla, at the point where the army crossed, is in breadth equal to the Thames at Richmond or Windsor; high banks—or rather hills—rise abruptly on either side, for the most part covered with short trees and underwood: the approaches to the river are by even pathways winding down each side of it. When standing on that bank where first I saw the river, the water appeared to be about three hundred yards below me, and its course bending so as to exclude a farther view of it than the segment of a circle of about a mile in length. On my left, where the river began to appear, and where the hill on which I stood pushed itself forward and terminated in an overhanging rock, the ponton was placed—immense boats at regular distances, and well planked, so as to form a passage of about twenty feet in breadth, railed on each side compactly: so admirable a bridge it was, that one would suppose it to have been a permanent rather than a temporary erection, which could be at a moment removed and carried wherever the army went. Over this passed the troops, with the exception of some cavalry who forded at another part, and five of whom (Germans) were swept away by the current in crossing. An idea may be formed of the vast quantity of soldiers, muleteers, women, horses, mules, artillery stores, equipage, and baggage, which covered the hills near the ponton, when I say, that I was from ten o’clock in the morning until five in the afternoon, before it came to my turn to pass the water; and all this time the bridge was filled with columns of men. We who waited for our turn, sat on the hill under the trees, eating cold beef and biscuit, chatting, and admiring the splendid scene. The day was as bright as the sun; a general hilarity spread over every countenance; the Spanish and Portuguese muleteers cracked their loud jokes with the soldiers—laughed and sung—ate their rations, and toasted their friends in grog. To add still more interest to the scene, many elegant English ladies—wives of the officers—were to be seen upon the rock which overhung the river, with their gay parasols and waving feathers, while immediately below was the bridge with its moving mass—horse—foot—artillery—baggage—and followers:—a little above this, and still beneath the ladies, were groups of bullocks swimming across the river, and with difficulty gaining the opposite bank, owing to the power of the current; while others were climbing the opposite hills, refreshed and relieved from the dust of their day’s travel, by the cool water from which they had just emerged. The distant and lessening line of troops as it winded upwards to the plain above, and broke into several divisions to take up ground for the night, added an admirable perspective background to the picture. Then arose the hum of the crowd—the loud command—the laugh—the mingling of different languages—the lowing of oxen—the neighing of horses, and the braying of the less noble animals—the clear sky—the bright sun—the crystal river, overhung and darkened in the distance by bold rocks, on which the wondering goatherd lay as his goats carelessly browsed—it was a scene never to be forgotten. Every soldier saw at a glance the collective strength of the great military machine of which he formed a part—all beneath his eye, as it were in a theatre: this heightened the glow of pride within him, and elevated his spirit with the buoyancy of glorious hope—all was cheerfulness, and the army looked more like conquerors, than men about to enter into a bloody and doubtful contest. I spent seven hours in admiring, and then crossed in my turn the ponton; took up my quarters for the night, with my horses, under a shed; and slept as soundly as the Prince who was cast into a seven years’ sleep by a fairy.

The morning was only opening her eyes, when the drum beat and we turned out: the fires of the night were expiring; around many of which groups of soldiers were assembled, packing up their knapsacks and fixing their accoutrements. The moving to and fro of military figures, all over the level ground, before me—the tingling of the mules’ bells—the drums at various distances—the early birds chirping—the horses champing their barley—the men biting their biscuit—the increasing hum and the coming daylight—by degrees, dissipated the heaviness which naturally succeeded to a short field sleep, and the cheerfulness of the preceding day was restored throughout.—The column was in motion; and the field, where thousands crowded, was, in a few minutes, as naked and silent as a desert.

At this ground we had expected a desperate fight; but with the exception of a brush with our Hussars, the enemy showed no wish to trouble us. The soldiers now became still more elevated with a confidence in success; and the wishful cry which every where along the march had resounded in their ears, from the inhabitants, “Vamus a Francia!”—“(Away to France!)” was considered as about to be realized; yet most of the army expected that we should first have a desperate struggle at the Ebro.

We marched by Aguilar to Palencia; our light cavalry by Zamora and Toro: the right and centre columns of the army, with Lord Wellington, passed through Salamanca to Valladolid—the whole directing their march to Burgos. At Palencia I first saw the ponton boats in their carriages: they were drawn by oxen; each boat had a carriage to itself, and each carriage was drawn by from twelve to sixteen. The boats were reversed—or bottom uppermost—and seated on them were the pontoneers, dressed in naval uniform; these were men specially employed to launch the boats, form the bridge, and, in short, to conduct that service through all its branches. I had but a faint idea of the extreme ponderosity of warlike machinery until I beheld these boats upon their carriages: the battering rams of the Romans were go-carts compared with the ponton train on the march: the Spaniards, as they passed, threw up their eyes in an ecstasy of admiration at the sight of them, and cheered loudly while they were in view. Over those boats were to pass to France, which they feared and hated, the invading and delivering armies—over them the cannon that was to thunder their victory:—this thought was enough to make them cheer, and their “vivas!” were well answered by the troops that followed.

I remained at Palencia until the evening of the day on which the pontons passed through it; and there I accidentally met with a young officer, whose subsequent greatness I little thought then depended so on the success of our campaign, as it afterwards turned out. This officer was Captain De Grammont, then of the 10th Hussars, but now his Grace the Duc de Guiche. He is a part of the royal family of France, aid-de-camp to the Duke d’Angoulême, and high in favour at the Tuilleries. When I saw him at Palencia, he appeared one of the finest models of a young Hussar chief I ever beheld: he wore his beard, which curled upon his chin; his regimentals were sufficiently field-rubbed to have lost that very bright gloss which distinguished them on the parade at home; and there was a melancholy cast about his countenance and manner, which, from being mixed with the most affable address, made a strong impression upon me—particularly when I learnt his true situation. He was engaged against his countrymen—but for his country’s rights; and he had only a day or two before met them in the charge. It was his troop that spilled the first French blood of that campaign, and it was his subaltern who gave the first wound. He described the charge to me: it was thus:—The French having crossed the Esla, a strong guard covered their retreat, and the 10th Hussars attacked their rear, which was defended by light dragoons. In advancing to the charge, the Subaltern of Captain De Grammont, Cornet Fitzgerald—a lad of only sixteen years of age—happened to have been somewhat in advance of the troop, owing to the mettle of his horse: the Cornet’s servant rode beside him in the ranks, and determined to protect his master. The French dragoons came on gallantly; their swords were nearly as long again as those of our Hussars; and a ferocious looking Sergeant was coming at full gallop—right in front of the Cornet: in vain was the young officer called on to pull in his horse—on he went, his servant closing up to him in order to avert the steel of the opponent: a moment more and the long straight sword of the French dragoon would have been cased in the youth’s breast; for the servant’s horse could not head his master’s. The Captain expected to see him fall; but just as the point of the weapon approached, the cornet grasped his pistol—fired—and down the dragoon tumbled from his saddle! This was but an instant before the remainder of the hussars were mixed with their opponents; and in a few minutes more, they were pursuing them as fugitives, killing, wounding, and taking many of them. I remembered having seen this heroic youth at Lisbon, when the regiment landed there: he was a mere stripling, with light hair, and rosy cheeks—anything but the man destined to kill the first Frenchman on the campaign; and I still more admired him when I heard that he was a son of the celebrated Lord Edward Fitzgerald, and cousin to the present Duke of Leinster. I met Captain De Grammont afterwards, at the close of the campaign, and he assured me joyfully, that he had had the pleasure, the day before, of looking from the Pyrenees, while on piquet, at the lawful estates of his family; and only a very few months after this, I had the gratification of seeing him enter the town of Bordeaux as a Duke, and on the staff of his lawful Prince, the Duke d’Angoulême. This officer, although born in France, is in language and manners a perfect English gentleman, from having been since his infancy in England. He received his commission in the 10th Hussars when very young, and remained in the regiment until the restoration of the Bourbons. Should we yet go to war with France, I should be sorry to see the gallant soldier arrayed against us, and I am sure it would be no pleasurable office to himself.

We moved on the left of Burgos, which city the French, contrary to our expectation, had not shut up, but quickly abandoned at the approach of the British. I slept in the house of an intelligent peasant, about two miles from the fortress, and of course the war was the subject of our chat. I found the man very communicative: he had the fullest hope of our success, and gave it as his opinion, that the French would not stand at the Ebro. He talked of the time when the British were before on his ground; and showed me in his fields some of their bones—bleached white and dry: he informed me that a great number of our army perished there. This man, from his apparent acquaintance with the events of the war in Spain, I have no doubt had taken an active part in it—perhaps on the French side; for if it had been on the other, he most probably would not have made it a secret in our conversation; however, many of the Spaniards sided with the strongest party, and now that the British held the sway, this peasant was their warmest well-wisher.

We proceeded through Villa Diego towards the Ebro, and came in sight of that river from the plain—or high table land—over which I had been travelling ever since I had left Portugal. The advanced troops had passed the river that morning without opposition, for the French had continued their retreat. The view of the valley—or rather amphitheatre—at the bottom of which the Ebro runs, astonished me by its beauty: for several days I had been accustomed to little variation of scenery—all level country; and now the bosom of luxuriant and romantic nature suddenly presented itself to my sight, as if it were done by magic. Half a dozen steps brought me from a view of mere sky and corn plains, to a scene of the most splendidly varied character—a deep valley, or rather hollow, of about ten miles in circumference, surrounded by woody mountains, except at that part directly facing me. This part opened, and there the eye might travel over blue hills, until the more distant could not be distinguished from the light clouds of the horizon. In this circular valley, every variation of rural beauty was to be seen—cultivated fields—luxuriant foliage—bubbling streams—winding paths—villas, and farm-houses. At the bottom ran the Ebro,—in this place a river of no great breadth; and here the main body of the liberating army had crossed a few hours before me.

The line of march now lay along a small branch of a river, which watered the foot of high and bold rocks, shelved and wooded in the most picturesque manner; trees, rooted over trees, hung out in grotesque attitudes, or dipped downwards, as if seeking the black and clear water beneath—thick moss, streaming underwood, wild flowers, and massy trunks, mingled to beautify the first day’s march after we crossed the Ebro:—this repaid me amply for the toil of the preceding days.

I remained an hour behind the division, to refresh my horses—they having been nearly knocked up; and it was at this place I perceived the first effects of fatigue in some of the soldiers. The army had, for the preceding march, pressed onwards more rapidly than before, and the weather had become very hot; several men, therefore, lagged behind, and I met eight or ten of them sitting by the side of the river—some only severely blistered on the feet from walking, but others extremely ill. There was no depôt nearer than Valladolid—about ninety miles distant; for the army’s advance was so rapid and so unexpected, that no time could be allowed for considerations of this kind; and the soldiers, if left behind, would have fared but miserably indeed—particularly those who were ill there. I, without hesitation, laid an embargo upon a sort of cart, which was drawn by two horses, and which happened, fortunately, to be near; in this vehicle I directed the men to place themselves and their kits, which they had unbuckled from their backs, and dispatched them to continue their march. I also desired the men not to permit the carter to return until they overtook their division. “All is fair in war,” says the unamiable adage: it was a hard case for the Castilian carter, but for the poor disabled soldiers it would have been a still harder; and I thought I could not do better, under the circumstances, than to oblige the peasant, who seemed well-fed and hearty, to do “the state some service,” whether he was so disposed or not.

Our march was now ten times more a march of pleasure than it had been before we crossed the Ebro, although it did not long hold that character: there was soon something for the army to do besides to admire the scenery, sing songs, and smoke cigars. Each day’s march was concluded about twelve or one o’clock, and the men encamped or bivouacked usually on some open glade, near or in a small wood; or perhaps in a valley by a river: here they unbent from the toils of the morning, and escaped the meridian heat of the sun, within their tents, or beneath the thick foliage with which nature so profusely stocked the country. A considerable distance right and left of the road, where the army encamped each day, was changed from the silence in which it had so long dwelt, to the hum and bustle of a populated city. The first thing done, on arriving at the ground for encampment, was to cook:—rations were served out; wood, water, and fire, made ready: and while the meat was boiling—or broiling, more frequently, upon a wooden spit—the men would sit together in groups on the grass, and chat. After dinner, they employed themselves for a short time in washing both themselves and their linen in the neighbouring streams—cleaning their arms, clothes, &c., and then a pipe and a cup of grog prepared the way for a sweet and sound sleep on the turf.

A description of the manner in which I have seen bullocks slaughtered on the march, may not be uninteresting. We had our own butchers,—men from the ranks; but, in general, the oxen were slaughtered by Spaniards or Portuguese: and, in my mind, their mode of depriving a bullock of life is by far the most expeditious; it certainly gives little, if any, torture to the animal. They, having tied a noose about the horns of the beast, drew the end of it round a tree, and secured the head close to it; then instantly pushed a sharp-pointed knife down between the back of the skull and the first vertebræ of the neck: this was no sooner done than the animal was dead: the veins of the neck were then opened, and the blood flowed.

In the division with which I marched, the Spanish butcher adopted a singular mode of securing the bullock destined for slaughter; he had trained a huge mastiff to be his assistant, and thus they operated:—the butcher held his dog by a chain, and having let loose one of the drove of oxen, took the chain off the mastiff, and gave him the word; the dog ran instantly to the bullock; seized him by the nose in his teeth; and, without the least noise, held him forcibly down: the butcher then plunged the knife in, and the animal rolled lifeless. All this was done in less than half a minute. The first place at which I witnessed this dog at his calling, was at Villa Diego; and no sooner were the veins of the neck opened, than several Spanish old women, with pans in their hands, squabbled about catching the blood: the greatest vixen succeeded in obtaining it; and I learnt that it was to be used as food for her family. It is said that the poor of Connaught eat the blood of oxen; if so, may not the practice have been brought over by the Spaniards, from whom the inhabitants of that province claim extraction?

We were now in a mountainous country, and consequently the army, which had been all united on the march after crossing the Esla, was obliged to separate, and move by various roads to one point. In a day or two we found that the French were about to give up their running, and try their fortune by a stand. We were halted on the 20th of June, about four or five miles from Vittoria, and our columns closed in from various directions: we were told by several peasants that the French, under the command of Joseph Buonaparte and Marshal Jourdain, were between us and Vittoria; and when we saw the Duke of Wellington pass along the road close to us, with several of his generals, we suspected we should not long lie idle: we knew his Grace was going to the front to reconnoitre. I never saw him look better in my life; the march had improved his health, and success had brightened his looks in such a manner, that I fancied he felt confident of beating the enemy in “off hand” style at the first brush. I observed the several Portuguese battalions pass, as fresh for work as if they had not marched two miles; and in several Spanish corps which crossed us to the left under the command of Colonel Longa, I saw physical strength, although neither equipment nor high spirits. Our own troops looked as well as ever they did—the sun-browned and laughing faces of Johns, Pats, and Sawneys, gave assurance that they were highly disposed to enjoy “a bit of diversion.”

During the 20th the men refreshed themselves with change of linen, &c. in the best way they could, and enjoyed the evening of that day as happily as if they were reposing after a hunting excursion; every shade had its group, and the country afforded the most picturesque situations for bivouacking. My dinner was spread upon a green spot beneath an overhanging bank, covered with thick foliage, which shut out the hot sun; a clear stream rippling beneath; and here six of us enjoyed an evening’s chat as comfortably as if we were on the banks of one of the Cumberland lakes. We expected to be engaged next day, and the allusions which this expectation brought forth, although calculated to stir up some thoughts of home and friends, did not abate that cheerfulness which the scene present diffused. Our mortal enemy, old Death, was spoken of occasionally, but it was with a smile; no more was thought about him than about Marshal Jourdain or the ex-king Joe.

The night closed around, and the thousands lay down to sleep upon the turf; some by large fires, some beneath the cover of temporary huts, and some with nothing over them but their blankets, and the universal coverlid—beneath which many were to lie the following night for ever without waking! The weather was mild and delightful—the sky was beautiful, and many eyes were employed in gazing on it, and picturing over its blue breast the sweet scenes of home—the faces of those friends then far away! That was the hour for thinking; and I have no doubt it was so spent by thousands of the soldiers before they sunk into sleep.

On the morning of the 21st, we commenced our march early, and in two hours we came to an open country, on the right of which was a ridge of hills; about a mile distant on the left, a gradual descent of even land to a village about two miles off; far in the front—perhaps at three miles’ distance—were the spires of Vittoria to be seen rising to our view as we advanced; while about half a mile in our front we could spy the Frenchmen’s huts, and they themselves running to arms as if we had surprised them:—indeed this was the case; for their cooking utensils were on their fires when our advanced troops trod over their ground. Columns of French were now to be seen moving about in the distance, and columns of our own men were every moment emerging from cover. The Staff was everywhere to be seen galloping to and fro—brigades of artillery and regiments of cavalry taking up their ground; and in about twenty minutes a column of Spaniards, led by General Murillo, moved out from the right of our line—Hill’s divisions—up towards the heights, and commenced firing upon the enemy stationed there: these hills are called the heights of La Puebla, and here rested the enemy’s left. The Spaniards, we could see, made good their ground on the hills; but reinforcements of French troops advanced against them, and Lord Hill ordered out two regiments of British troops to support the Spaniards, led by the Hon. Colonel Cadogan of the 71st. Now began the fight, and every moment increased it. The red coats were met by increased numbers of the blue, and the firing became incessant; the Spaniards poured in their balls in good style on the advancing French, who attemped to overwhelm with numbers their small force; but Lord Hill detached column after column to the attack: we could only distinguish the men as a body, but could not see the individuals; however, the colour of the coats sufficiently marked out friend from foe, and the reds were evidently “doing the business.” The 71st had fired and stood the fire a considerable time, but could not mount the hill effectually (as I have heard from an officer then present): at this time their commander, the Hon. Colonel Cadogan received a ball in the groin: he fell, and was immediately surrounded by some of his men, and lifted up by them in order to be removed to the rear: the 71st was then about to apply to their old friend the bayonet—ready for the charge: their Colonel lay in the arms of two soldiers, the balls showering from the hills—“Stop! stop!” said he, “don’t take me away until I see my men charge!” It was done, and gallantly—up hill too: the Colonel cheered as well as his failing voice would allow, and his last moments were blessed with the smile of victory. The hills were very soon taken, and the enemy driven in.

The artillery now thundered from both sides; and down to the left we could see General Graham’s wing advancing against a distant village there. This was the part of the army to which I belonged; and now, for the first time since the march began, had an opportunity of gaining my division. The centre of the army, with which I then stood, now advanced to cross the Zadora, a small river—for Lord Hill had crossed it soon after he gained the heights; firing was everywhere along the line, before me and on both sides; the French stood bravely and poured in their musketry; their cannon was not a moment silent, unless stormed and taken by our men. I saw a couple of field pieces attacked by a regiment of Portuguese, and they astonished me with their courage and activity—they leaped over the guns like madmen, although blazing in their teeth, and captured them gallantly.

Having now seen where my station ought to be, I determined to proceed to it, and without a moment’s delay galloped to the left, in the rear of the line, just as the troops crossed the river; and I arrived at the village attacked by Sir T. Graham (Gamarra Mayor) just as the bridge was carried. Three pieces of artillery fortified this bridge; but notwithstanding this, as well as a powerful force of infantry for its defence, our troops overcame all; but not without considerable loss. At this place, both the Colonels of the 59th (Weare and Fane) fell, while gallantly leading their men to the bridge.

It was now about half-past two or three o’clock in the afternoon, and no artillery but ours was to be heard; retreating columns and broken crowds were to be seen at various distances, to the extent of about half a mile in breadth, while our men were pursuing. Our dragoons advanced upon their rear—the infantry after them; but from the difficulty of the ground, the cavalry could not finish so completely as was to be wished, what the infantry had begun. The artillery followed up, and cannonaded the flying in their best style; and it was clear that victory was our own at every point.

We marched on to Vittoria without firing a shot; and on the left of the town I had the pleasure of seeing the whole baggage, treasure, &c. of the enemy, in the hands of our troops. It was now getting late in the evening; the whole army continued the pursuit; but too much was done during the day to expect that the troops could advance much beyond Vittoria; they did, however, a couple of leagues, when they halted; and thus the scattered French escaped farther punishment. I was sent on duty to the town of Vittoria, and there passed the night.

The scene which presented itself in the town that evening may be easily imagined:—prisoners—wounded—drunken Spaniards—stray horses and mules running to and fro—broken carriages—dead and dying—the inhabitants panic-struck—the rear of our light dragoons galloping through the town—fires in the streets—drunken plunderers rolling about—the groan and the laugh and the imprecation—all mingled! Such was Vittoria after the battle. To increase the confusion, an explosion took place, which shook every house and spread consternation around: none could imagine the cause. I at first supposed treachery from the Spaniards, but a moment’s consideration removed this suspicion. In a short time our Provost and his assistants informed us of the nature of this explosion. The 18th Dragoons, and many stragglers of infantry, had remained to help themselves to dubloons from a French military chest, which fell into our hands near the town, and plunder raged for two or three hours; our soldiers would not take silver—nothing but gold would pass with them; the former they left to the Spaniards, for it was absolutely a “drug in the market.” About ten o’clock it became dark, and amongst the crowd of waggons, many, containing the treasure, might escape; therefore a number of Spanish peasants, muleteers, &c. procured candles, and went in search of farther golden discoveries, in order to open an opposition mine for themselves, as the English showed such monopoly in their companies. In the prosecution of this speculation, one of them happened to thrust his candle into a powder waggon, while his coadjutors were surrounding it, waiting for the report upon its merits; the mine sprung, and hurled the company into the air: many were blown to atoms, and those who escaped immediate death, I saw next day—they were as black as Africans, their heads and faces swollen, and their eyes closed up: poor creatures, they presented a pitiable sight! very few of them recovered. Had these men been satisfied with humble silver, and not have run after mining speculations, they would have done better; but such folly is not confined to ignorant peasants—the great metropolis of London has furnished us with examples of far greater avarice and folly in the pursuit of gold mines.

The only wholesale dealer in the plunder of the French military chest who essayed his talents at Vittoria, was a commissariat officer: he very coolly ordered one of his muleteers to load eight or nine mules with boxes of dubloons, and dispatched him with a letter of consignment to Lisbon; where, had the treasure arrived, the commissary’s fortune would have been made. But it was otherwise ordained; for the muleteer, in going back through Spain, boasted at a posado that he had immense treasure in his charge. An Alcaldi was present drinking; and from the circumstances of the mules being without a military escort, yet admitted to contain specie, suspicion arose. He continued to drink with the muleteer, and the latter, in his careless cups, dropped the letter which the commissary had given him to deliver to his correspondent at Lisbon. The Alcaldi withdrew; opened the letter—and with the help of the curate of the village, who knew a little English, discovered that the treasure was not sent by any authority. In consequence of this, he seized the whole—mules, muleteer, and all. The result was, that the gold was sent back, and the commissary thought it right to run away, without waiting for farther enquiry. Thus ended his speculation: but speculation at best is only speculation—except in this case; for here it lost a letter, and therefore was clearly—peculation.

The day after the battle, I, in company with another, rode out to view the ground where the armies had so recently contended. It was strewed with dead and wounded, accoutrements and arms; a great part of the latter broken. At those points where obstinate fighting took place, the ground was covered with bodies: a great number of wounded, both French, English, and Portuguese, lay along the road, groaning and craving water. The village of Gamarra Mayor was shattered with heavy shot, and the bridge covered with dead, as well as its arches choked up with bodies and accoutrements. We returned by the main road, to where the centre of the army was engaged. Here were the French huts, and their broken provisions, half cooked, lying about; this was a level interspersed with little hillocks and brushwood: we were then surrounded with dead and wounded; several cars were employed in collecting the latter. A few straggling peasants could be seen at a distance, watching an opportunity for plunder—there was a dreadful silence over the scene. A poor Irishwoman ran up to one of the surgeons near us, and with tears in her eyes, asked where was the hospital of the 82nd regiment—I think it was the 82nd—she wrung her hands, and said that the men told her she would find her husband wounded; and she had travelled back for the purpose. The surgeon told her that the only hospital on the field was in a cottage, to which he pointed; but informed her that all the wounded would be conveyed to Vittoria. The half-frantic woman proceeded towards the cottage, over the bodies which lay in her way, and had not gone more than about fifty yards, when she fell on her face, and uttered the most bitter cries. We hastened to her—she was embracing the body of a sergeant, a fine tall fellow, who lay on his face. “Oh! it’s my husband—it’s my husband!” said she; “and he is dead and cold.” One of the men turned the body on his face; the sergeant had been shot in the neck, and his ankle was shattered. The lamentations of the woman were of the most heart-rending kind, but not loud. She continued to sit by her lifeless husband, gazing on his pale countenance, and moving her head and body to and fro, in the most bitter agony of woe:—she talked to the dead in the most affectionate language—of her orphans—of her home—and of their former happiness. After a considerable time, by persuasion, we got her upon one of the cars with the wounded, and placed the body of her husband beside her; this we did, because she expressed a wish to have it buried by a clergyman. She thanked us more by looks than words, and the melancholy load proceeded slowly to Vittoria.

In our way back to the town, my companion’s attention was attracted by a dead Portuguese; he raised up the body, and asked me to look through it—I did absolutely look through it. A cannon-ball had passed into the breast and out at the back—and so rapid must have been its transit, from its forming such a clear aperture—in circumference about twelve inches—that the man must have been close to the cannon’s mouth when he was shot—it spoke volumes for the courage of the troops.

The hospital at Vittoria that evening presented a sad spectacle; not only was part of it filled with wounded, but the streets all round it—about two thousand men, including those of the French with those of the Allies. Owing to the rapid, and perhaps unexpected, advance of the army, there were only three surgeons to attend to this vast number of wounded, for the first two days after the battle; and, from the same reason, no provisions were to be had for them for a week! The Commissariat had not provided for the exigency, and the small portion of bread that could be purchased was sold at three shillings per pound. From these casualties, I often thought since, that in cases of expected general actions, if one half of both medical and commissariat staff were under orders to remain on the field until relieved, instead of following their respective divisions, it would obviate such privations. However, there is every excuse in this case, considering the unexpected rapidity of the advance. No fault whatever can be laid to either of the departments in this instance: it was wholly owing to advancing to such distance beyond Vittoria, as required too long a time to retrace.

In going through the hospital, I saw in one room not less than thirty Hussars—of the 10th and 15th, I think—all wounded by lances; and one of them had nineteen wounds in his body:—the surgeon had already amputated his left arm. One of the men described the way in which so many of their brigade became wounded. He said, that in charging the rear of the enemy as they were retreating, the horses had to leap up a bank, nearly breast high, to make good the level above. At this moment, a body of Polish Lancers, headed by a General, dashed in upon them, the General crying out, in broken English, “Come on! I care not for your fine Hussar brigade.” They fought for a considerable time, and although ultimately the Lancers retired and left the ground to the Hussars, yet the latter lost many killed and wounded. “That man,” said the Hussar, “who lies there with the loss of his arm and so dreadfully wounded, fought a dozen Lancers, all at him at once, and settled some of them; at last he fell, and the Lancers were about to kill him, when the General cried out to take him to the rear, for he was a brave fellow. The skirmish continued, and the General cut that man there across the nose, in fighting singly with him—but he killed the General after all.”

I turned and saw a young Hussar, with a gash across his nose, and he confirmed what his comrade said. The man who had the nineteen wounds, I have since heard, recovered: he seemed much to regret the fate of the General who saved his life. I saw this brave officer’s body buried the next day in the principal church in Vittoria.

In passing through another part of the hospital, I perceived a Portuguese female lying on the ground upon straw, in the midst of numbers of wounded men. I enquired of her, was she wounded. She pointed to her breast, and showed me where the bullet had passed. I asked her how she received the shot, and was horror-struck when the dying woman informed me that it was her marido,—her own husband,—who shot her just as the action was commencing—she said he deliberately put the muzzle of his gun to her breast and fired! This may be false; I hope it is, for the sake of humanity:—it might be that the woman was plundering the dead; and perhaps killing the wounded, when some of the latter shot her. However, be the fact as it may, it was thus she told her story. She was in great pain, and I should think did not live much longer.

Colonels Weare and Fane, who fell so gloriously, were buried behind this hospital:—but I have dwelt upon this circumstance at another part of the work.

The people of Vittoria were very far from enthusiastic in favour of the English, although they behaved with apparent gratitude; but this may be accounted for by the yet uncertainty which prevailed, as to our ultimate power of driving the French out of Spain. Bull-fights and balls took place, and the new constitution was read and honoured; but there was a want of warmth in the people, quite incompatible with true patriotism:—on the whole, it was supposed that Vittoria was not unfavourable to foreign tyranny.

A few days after the battle, the 6th division of the army passed through Vittoria, on their march to join the main body of the army. This division, from having been often employed on detached service, acquired the name of the “Flying Invisibles,” by the rest of the army. They were certainly not at the battle; but it was not their fault, for they were left three days’ march in the rear, to protect the transport of the stores, &c. The men presented a motley appearance; they had not received a supply of clothing as had been expected, and the consequence was that scarcely any red cloth was to be seen amongst their jackets, so patched were they with that of every other colour. Many had no shoes, and altogether they excited commiseration; but the men themselves were as hearty and as healthy as any soldiers in the army.

While I remained at Vittoria, I learned that an attempt to storm St. Sebastian had been made by the allied armies, and had failed: it was also stated that the Spaniards of the fortress were the most active in defending the breach. Little fighting, I believe, took place in front, except at Roncesvalles and the pass of Maya—the gates of the French territory; and here, I believe, there was an effectual attack made by the French against our troops—at least so far successful, that the latter were obliged to retire a little, after having fought gallantly. A considerable number of men wounded in this affair were sent back to Vittoria.

I was now ordered to the front, and after a few days’ marches through a most delightful and tranquil country, arrived at a village near Pamplona, called Bastania. Here were quartered two heavy Dragoon regiments—all the cavalry, indeed, were near; for it was a wide open country, and consequently fit for the operations of Dragoons. In the centre was the fortified town of Pamplona, within a mile of which we durst not approach. The Pyrenees were about half a mile in front of Bastania, and the cavalry were placed here in case the enemy should succeed in forcing their way down to the plain for the relief of the citadel, in which 1,200 French were shut up:—had they done so, the horse could have acted with great effect upon them. This was in the latter end of July; and I believe the Duke of Wellington had closed the army in from the right, and intended to push on with his whole force to France. The Spaniards he had placed to invest Pamplona.

I slept at Bastania the night I arrived: there were not more than a dozen houses in the village, and all filled with dragoons. Into one of those I went, and found the ground-floor covered thickly with straw, upon which the soldiers—about thirty in all—were lying. They immediately made room for me:—my servant slept with my horses in an out-house. I was fatigued; and so, without any other refreshment than a cup of commissariat grog, lay down and slept happily until the trumpeter sounded “Boots and Saddles:” this was at two o’clock in the morning, and I had been asleep about three hours. The men were soon out and horsed—so was I. The baggage of the dragoons all packed and mounted—every thing ready for “a breeze.” The morning was dark, and for the time of year, rather chilly: I could not see to a great distance, but within my view passed several troops of heavy dragoons proceeding towards the foot of the mountains. There was scarcely any sound but that from the motion of the horses—the men spoke but little, and were yet half asleep. I moved towards the main road, in order to come up with my division, which was in front; but I soon found that it would be unsafe to proceed, on account of a fog which arose, completely obscuring every thing around. In consequence of this I dismounted; took off my saddle; put it on the ground; and directing my servant to stake the horses to their tethers, lay down with my head resting on it. I can assure my readers, that a saddle is no bad substitute for a pillow when the ground is the bed. The spot I selected was soft, though not dry; it was in a furrow of a ploughed field. I was rolled in my blanket, and for an hour never enjoyed a sounder sleep: but I did not find the waking quite so pleasant; for it had rained heavily during my enjoyment, and I felt myself nearly covered by the watery bed of the furrow: however, I shook off my blanket—saddled, and mounted. It was daylight, but not yet sunrise: as I proceeded towards the mountains, I could see to my right, over the distant plain, several bodies of horse evidently stationed to be ready in case the enemy forced their way down—the town of Pamplona on my left in the centre of the plain—the tricolore flying, and occasional guns—I suppose signals—firing. The Pyrenees were capped in grey mist, and therefore I could not discern any of our infantry upon them; but I knew they were in their position there, and had fought the two preceding days in defence of it.

In my way I passed through the bivouac of the Spanish army which blockaded Pamplona, and there beheld a most sublime spectacle—it was the celebration of their religious rites, the mass, in the open air, close to a ruined house. It was now sunrise, and the hour with the circumstances of the time, gave the uncovered and kneeling soldiery a most interesting appearance. The priest was a bald and reverend looking man, and his sacerdotal robes made him look like a patriarch. I stopped in a reverie of admiration—out of which, however, I was roused in a few minutes by the sound of distant firing on the heights; so I left the Spaniards to their prayers, and galloped on towards where there was something going on, which to me was far more interesting.

In about ten minutes more I was upon the mountain where our division was drawn up: they had not yet fired a shot, nor seen a Frenchman, but expected every moment to be engaged. The scene of action here, is to be imagined by the reader placing himself ideally on the top of a bold hill, or moderately sized mountain; in front, and on each side, are similar hills or mountains—some smaller—some greater; far in the front the higher Pyrenees; and, behind, the wide plain, on which stands Pamplona. Over this scene let him then throw the most picturesque foliage—a village or two in the distant valleys—the ground spread with heath and furze: thus he will have the view of where the gallant battle of the Pyrenees was gained, after four days of terrible contest. The fight here was very different from a fight on a plain: in this it was a continual attempt on the part of Soult, with all the force he could collect, to pass the hills, for the relief of Pamplona, and as continual a resistance on the part of the allies—hill after hill was attacked and defended with the most heroic energy on both sides. But our people performed a still more glorious and prodigious task; for not only did they defend their own position, but attacked Soult’s, which was stronger than their’s; and thus for the second time during the campaign, made a wreck of the French army!

Soult was determined to pass to Pamplona if possible; he therefore brought all his power to the point: even his unfledged conscripts were not excused—boys of fifteen, in white undress, unable to use the bayonet; these he posted where they could pull their triggers without being exposed to a charge from our steel, while his veterans were employed in more dangerous situations. Before the attack, Soult in person appeared amongst them at the front, pointed towards the invested town, and offered every man a certain reward in cash, as soon as they passed the few hills before them, and relieved their blockaded countrymen. All this could not suffice; and the best General of France, with a powerful army, could not push over a quarter of a mile of ground, while the British defended it! nor although aware of the Duke of Wellington’s intention of invasion, could they keep him from pursuing them across their own frontiers! On this battle depended the fate of the Peninsula—perhaps of Europe:—the trust fell into worthy hands, and they did their duty.

In about half an hour after I joined the division, a hill in front and on our right, defended by Portuguese, was attacked; the latter received the French with a volley, and then, shouting, advanced down the hill with the bayonet: a cheer from our men involuntarily burst out, and the French rolled and ran, pursued about a hundred yards. The hill was of great importance to us, and very desirable to the enemy: this was the first attack upon it, and having failed, reinforcements were preparing to accomplish its conquest:—we could see several columns of the enemy moving down from another mountain towards it; but this was provided for by our chief, who reinforced the gallant Portuguese by the 48th British regiment, and a regiment of Spaniards. Here then was the hardest fighting for two days—the 27th and 28th; attacks were repeatedly made upon this point, in the most able manner by the French, and as often defeated. Soult and Wellington were both placed within sight of each other, upon the tops of hills, anxiously observing this terrible strife at various times; and the anxiety of the former could be seen plainly in all his attitudes. During this time several other points were assailed, gained and lost: it was up hill at one moment, and down the next; and considering that those hills were so steep at some places, that I was nearly breathless in mounting one, besides a hot sun blazing over us, it is to be wondered how such prodigies of valour were accomplished. I do not know why, but certain it is, that our men usually did more execution when charging up a hill than down; there seemed to be a greater energy about them in overcoming their difficulties, and perhaps a desire of revenge for the advantage their enemy seemed to take of them in firing down at them as they advanced. As an instance of this, I will mention the following fact:—When our troops were passing the Bidassoa, the firing from a bold height on the French bank of the river galled them very much; the water was up to the middle of their bodies, and the men were obliged to hold their muskets over their heads to keep them dry: many fell; others, wounded, continued to cross the ford; the hill in front was to be mounted and taken by those troops in the water, and a strong force was defending it. The men became outrageous as they looked up at the muskets of their enemies pointed at them; and frequent oaths and imprecations plainly showed that they would seek satisfaction when they crossed the river.—“Oh! by J——! we’ll give it to you by and by, you French beggars. D——your eyes, we’ll sarve you out,” &c. &c. Such expressions as these were heard from every man, and when arrived on the other side of the river, scarcely a moment passed till they were up on the heights—stabbing, butting, and flinging over the rocks the bodies of their enemies. The height was gained, and on the top of it they gave three cheers, which made Fontarabia ring. But—to the narrative.

During the 27th and 28th, the contest produced nothing decisive, except that Soult could not gain his point, and the whole line of hills were at one time or other the scene of active operation—cannon, musketry, and bayonet, were all at work. On the 28th, the French made a desperate attack on the 6th division, which had been sent by the Duke of Wellington to occupy the heights on the left, across a valley near Orican: the moment this division appeared, the enemy advanced on it, but was received in fine style—they got into a cul de sac; for the fourth division on their left was so placed on hills as to effect a most destructive fire on their flank, while they gave them their vollies from a ridge upon their right, as well as in front, so that at this point the French met with unequivocal defeat.

The third day closed in darkness, and the work of death ceased for a time. The men were now so familiar with the carnage around that they cared nothing about it: many laid themselves down beside dead comrades and enemies mingled: all slept soundly on the mountain heath that night—not even bestowing a thought upon whether they were to fight next day or not; and when the bugle sounded and the drum beat next morning, jumped up as fresh as if they had been at a review; then, after eating their cold beef and biscuit, and swallowing a mouthful of rum, were ready in their ranks to renew the scenes of the preceding days—nay, anxious for the fight.

This was the day for glory. The Duke attacked Soult on the right and left at once, which proving successful, he dashed at the centre. This was now a change from defence to attack, and the enemy in a few hours were driven from all their strong points, and retreated. Yet they fought desperately: at one village alone—the first on the main road from Pamplona to the pass of Maia—the British were driven back four times; but took and held it on the fifth: the road here was covered with dead of both sides, and well proved the valour with which both fought, in that masterly victory which opened the barrier of France to the allies—led the Portuguese and Spaniards to the glory of shouting “Retribution” in their persecutor’s country—and once more passed the ranks of heroes over the consecrated ground of Roncesvalles.

The whole of the road over which we pursued the retreating and broken army, was covered with the wreck of its baggage and artillery—hundreds of dead mules were lying about, having been killed with fatigue, or hurled off the precipices along which the road sometimes passed—waggons, guns, carriages, tumbrils, casks, medicine chests, and dead men, were the objects that every where, like Rosamond’s clue, marked the track of the devoted victims:—a sickening sight, which, while engaged in the heat of pursuit, was viewed without emotion; but when calm reflection took her seat in the soldier’s mind, was not to be contemplated by him without unenviable feelings.

On this march nothing remarkable occurred in the part of the army where I was stationed. The siege of San Sebastian was begun by Sir Thomas Graham, while the front of our main force occupied the border line of France on the Bidassoa. The two contending armies remained in sight of each other—Soult fortifying the frontier of his threatened country, and Wellington refreshing his victorious troops until after the fall of San Sebastian. All this time the Duke’s head-quarters were at Lesacco, in the mountains, a town about four leagues south of Passages; and these four leagues, I may say, with a little allowance—was up one side of a mountain and down the other,—a wretched town; and perhaps never before had it to boast of the domicile of so many heroes—such glittering nobility. Here, for the greatest part of a rainy and raw winter, the indefatigable Commander of the Forces fixed his quarters; and here I have seen him working with an energy which often threatened his life. He rode so much one week, that he was confined for several succeeding days to his bed; and I have seen his fifteen valuable English chargers led out by the groom to exercise, with scarcely any flesh on their bones—so active and vigilant was their noble rider, and so much were his horses used. Every day during the siege of San Sebastian, I saw the Duke, unattended by his staff, riding by my window, in a narrow street of Renteria, on his way to the besieged fortress, accompanied by an old artillery or engineer officer,—I believe Sir R. Fletcher,[6]—and dressed in a plain grey frock, white cravat, and cocked hat—evidently intent on the matters of the siege; this was upwards of thirty miles a day for a ride, between breakfast and dinner; but he has often rode double that distance, over the worst of roads and in the worst of weather.

The siege of San Sebastian was the next important operation of the Allied Army. This was entrusted to Sir Thomas Graham, under the eye of the Duke of Wellington. From being quartered at Renteria, for three weeks previous to the capture of that fortress, I had an opportunity of witnessing the whole affair; and scarcely a day passed without my visiting the works before it: but from the commencement of the siege up to the battering down of the walls, nothing took place to require a particular notice, beyond the description I have given of the siege of Flushing, in another part of this work: generally speaking, the operations were similarly conducted. The storming of the town, however, was a scene in the campaign of which I write, which ought not to be passed over unnoticed. As I beheld, so will I describe it; and so mighty an achievement as the capture of this town was, I would be happy to hear described by every individual who was engaged in it; for each would tell what he had seen; which, although all generally the same, would be different in particulars, and therefore, like Mosaic work, form a picture of the highest value. We have had several descriptions of the storming of San Sebastian, amongst which that given by the author of “The Subaltern,” (a deservedly popular work) is by far the best, and, with but few exceptions, correctly true—at least those exceptions are at variance with what I recollect of the affair. The author of “The Subaltern” describes what he saw, as a stormer of the town; I can only speak as a spectator: both our remarks, therefore, may be taken as separate parts of the same picture.

San Sebastian is situated at the foot of a high rock, upon the top of which is a fortified castle; the town surrounds this rock, and is backed by the open sea. A river runs in front of the town, into which the sea flows; but at low water it is fordable; and its banks of yellow sand appear to our right—imagining us fronting the town. On first beholding San Sebastian, one supposes it is situated on a little island; but on closer approach, it is seen connected by a neck of land, which at high water is very narrow; and on this neck, which is an island at high water, is a fort mounting three or four guns:—but the best way to proceed in the description, I think, is to place my reader in the position which I took up myself at the battering and storming of the town.

To our right, on a high bold hill, which overtops several others near it, and whose side, next the town, is nearly perpendicular, was a mortar battery:—here must the reader stand. About half a mile in his front and a little to his left, stands San Sebastian around its high rock and castle—its walls watered by the Gurumea stream, and relieved in the distance by the wide blue waters of the Bay of Biscay. To the left of the town he will see several picturesque hills, lessening away into the horizon, while to his right he will behold the Bay of Biscay washing the feet of the Pyrenees. Immediately under him, a little to the left, are situated the British batteries and trenches, on a tolerably level ground, and flanked on the other side by several hills, upon the most forward of which stood the chief of the siege, Sir Thomas Graham;[7]—these, for the most part, covered with apple-trees. Behind all this is a beautifully picturesque and hilly country—the Lake of Leso may be seen, like a patch of shining glass, in the midst of foliage and fertile fields—an occasional farm-house shows itself in the valleys and on the brows of the hills—while the background is formed by the gigantic mountains of the Pyreenees. I can only compare the position which I have now pointed out to my readers, to the highest seat of an amphitheatre, at the bottom of which lies the exhibition for his eye:—the batteries,—the river,—the town,—the encamped army,—all were below; and over the whole I could gaze as on the Thames from the towers of Windsor,—the yellow verging sands of Dublin Bay from Killiny Hill,—or Edinboro’ from the Calton.

On the night of the 26th, the fort between the town and our lines was carried by assault, and its defenders taken prisoners. This was done by a detachment of infantry, assisted by a few marines and sailors: little work was made about this affair, and the garrison, it is supposed, were not aware of it until daylight. On the morning of the 27th, the signal was made to open the fire upon the town; and I can only remember it by having been awakened out of a sound sleep, at three miles’ distance from San Sebastian, by the tremendous roar of the cannon. The batteries continued to play upon the town almost incessantly, for nearly four days and nights,—the cannon at the front wall, for the purpose of effecting a breach—the mortars at the ramparts and the houses. The French returned the fire from both the Castle and walls with great rapidity—their shells were thrown in every direction; but this vigorous return was soon over; for, on the second day of the cannonade, their guns on the walls were silenced; so they contented themselves with throwing a few shells and an occasional shot from the Castle upon the troops in our trenches, whose well-directed muskets were annoying the enemy whenever they appeared on the walls.

Observing the balls striking the wall at one point, first led the beholders to suppose that no impression could possibly be made on the massive and compact structure; for the perceptible effect was that a little dust arose from the spot where each shot struck; and then the ball dropped down, leaving no appearance whatever of an impression: but continued firing first loosened a stone, then moved it, and ultimately displaced it: when this was accomplished, it required very little more to widen the breach to a sufficient extent for storming.

During the day-time the scene was awfully grand—but far more so at night; and from the hill upon which I stood, it had the most terrible aspect. Fancy yourself over the potteries of Staffordshire in a balloon, when the face of the country is covered with fires; this may be likened in some degree, to the trenches and ramparts—dark and flame alternately mixed: then the roaring of the guns, more loud than a thousand thunders; and the shells crossing each other, in their route to destruction:—none could behold the scene without awe and horror!

The breach having been completed on the 30th, the storming party prepared to enter; and on the 31st at about ten o’clock in the morning, the forlorn hope, at the appointed time—which was the hour of low-water—advanced from the trenches. I could see them plainly: one followed the other rapidly into the stream, and boldly advanced—poor fellows! a thousand balls were showered on them, and they dropped as fast as they arrived at about the middle of the river—men followed men, into the gulph of death—yet several arrived at the opposite bank: on they went to the breach, followed by their comrades, and there were knocked down by grape and bullets from the walls: but by rapidly crowding over the heaped up dead, a mass of men succeeded in getting on the breach: there they were stopped by balls and bayonets. At this moment, a mine sprung outside the wall, and threw our advancing men into confusion, killing several; but under the cover of the smoke occasioned by it, many of the rear got up to the breach. Sir Thomas Graham now ordered the heavy artillery to aim over the heads of our men, so as to clear the ramparts of the opposing force, through the embrasures: this was admirably done: I could see the balls striking above them, and knocking stones and rubbish in upon the French, as well as sweeping them away.—Every shot made my heart thrill with delight; for the poor fellows, who were struggling to get into the breach, against such fearful odds, were dropping every instant; but this masterly experiment made immediate way for advance. There were several Spanish females on the hill where I was, and the tears rolled down their cheeks like rain, while this was going on; and many of the men who beheld it could not refrain from weeping. The constant exclamations from one to another, was, “Do you think they are likely to get in?—How long they are on the breach!—God help them!—Brave fellows!”—Not only the English present, but the Spanish, thus heartily felt for the gallant soldiers who were standing on the threshold of death awaiting destruction. At this moment, a column of Portuguese advanced boldly out over the sand, on the right of the town, and exactly under the battery in which I stood: they marched at ordinary time. As soon as they appeared, the grape was showered in amongst them, and strewed the yellow sands with the blue jackets; yet the column never broke, but intrepidly marched into the river up to the arm-pits, and gained the wall of the town; the water all around them, while passing, bubbling by shot as if from large hail—so it appeared to me from the distance. The Portuguese continued along the wall, and mounted the breach gallantly. All this time, the breach was receiving a most destructive flanking fire, from the projections of the walls on both sides—they kept up a continual shower of bullets from the embrasures; fortunately now a mine sprung on the ramparts by accident, and destroyed numbers of the French: a dense black cloud of smoke arose from it: our artillery was sweeping the ramparts, and at this juncture the surviving men on the breach cleared their way into the town—advancing columns followed fast—the batteries ceased—and the work of the British bayonet began. The hearts of all who beheld the attack were now at ease—the artillery men rested on their guns, and shook hands with each other—all was quiet outside the town, but wild uproar and destruction within. In about half an hour after this, we could see the French mounting the rock inside the citadel, to shut themselves up in the castle; then we felt convinced that the town was taken. The French continued to fire upon their pursuers all the way up the hill, and we could track them by the smoke of their guns.[8]

I went into the town through the breach, in the evening, and there witnessed the true horrors of war; the soldiers were, for the most part, half drunk—all were busy plundering and destroying: every thing of value was ransacked—furniture thrown out of the windows—shops rifled—packages of goods torn open and scattered about—the streets close to the breach, as well as the breach itself, covered with dead and wounded:—over these bodies, of necessity, I passed on my way. As few women were in the town, the horrors attending the sex under such circumstances were also few; and the attempt at ill-treating a female on the day subsequent to the capture of the town, was summarily punished by Lord Beresford on the spot. It was thus: although plunder was nearly subdued on the day after entering San Sebastian, yet stragglers were prowling about in spite of all efforts to prevent further mischief: a woman was looking out of a window on the first floor of a house, and I saw a drunken Portuguese soldier run into the passage directly below where the woman was. Lord Beresford happened to be walking a little before me in a plain blue coat and cocked hat, accompanied by another officer: his Lordship saw the Portuguese running into the house, and presently we heard the screams of a female—the woman had gone from the window. Lord Beresford instantly followed the Portuguese, and in a few minutes brought his senhorship down by the collar; then with the flat of his sword gave the fellow that sort of a drubbing which a powerful man, like his Lordship, is capable of inflicting. Under the circumstances I thought it well bestowed, and far better than trying him by court martial.

I understood that when the troops got into the town, the French retreated behind their barricades in the streets, made with barrels of sand and clay; from whence they fired at their pursuers, and when driven from one, fled to the next, until they gained the Castle-hill. It is thus the French generally fight against our troops—they take every advantage of screening themselves from shot, and but on very few occasions stand up man to man with the bayonet.

The town was dreadfully injured by shot, shell, and the destructive fury of our troops:[9] but by no means so dilapidated as Flushing was. A great number of the inhabitants had left San Sebastian previous to its blockade, and the few respectable families who remained, fled to the Castle along with the French.

For several days after the storming, soldiers and sailors were to be seen strutting about the roads outside the town in masquerade—some in silks and satins—others as pedlars selling their plunder to the people who came from Passages to see the wreck of San Sebastian: the roads were like a fair; and the humour of the Portuguese and our sailors glossed over the horrors of the time with strange mirth. In general the sailors were habited in old fashioned silk gowns and petticoats, put on over their tarry jackets; while on a battered sail-cloth hat, Jack sported a Spanish veil. The garrison in the Castle held out a week, but at the end of that time surrendered: the number marched out was, I believe, 1,800.

From the fall of San Sebastian, until the invasion of France in the month following, nothing particular took place, and the army reposed in the luxuriant valleys of Navarre. Here both officers and men enjoyed themselves in quiet: they had plenty of provision—plenty of forage for the horses—a profusion of fruit and excellent wine—the weather was delightful, and the country the most picturesque on earth. However, little more than a month passed over before the army crossed the Bidassoa, driving the enemy from their frontier, and our successful commander established his head quarters at St. Jean de Luz. I had been quartered at Tafalia from a week after the siege until the fall of Pamplona, and that being the only fortress to impede the operations of the army—from its being occupied by the enemy—it is not unlikely that its fall was the signal for the invasion of France.

On the surrender of Pamplona, the French garrison were permitted to march out, with closed knapsacks. They were escorted by the Spaniards through Tolosa to Passages for embarkation as prisoners of war; and, unhappily for many of them, they found the difference between Spanish and British foes on that miserable occasion.

It was cold weather when the garrison marched out: they were disarmed of course. The French governor and several of the superior officers were allowed to ride their own horses, and suffered nothing more severe than mere insults from their escort, the Spaniards. Far different was it with the men: every species of brutality was practised against them short of open massacre. The road from Pamplona to Tolosa is one of the widest and best in Spain, not very inferior to any in Great Britain: it takes a course through valleys along the sides of an immense mountain for a considerable way, and, frequently, over patches of fertile country—the whole abounding in foliage. Occasional villages present themselves at a few miles distant from each other, and now and then a farm house or two opens upon the traveller’s view in some wild spot.

I was on my route from Tafalia, in company with a brother officer; and then returning to the front. We slept one night in a village within a mile and a half of Pamplona, as one of our halting places; and next day in passing the town we saw a considerable body of Spanish troops—principally cavalry—drawn up; and, on enquiry, learnt that they were waiting to receive the French garrison, which were then about to march out as prisoners of war. In a few moments the French appeared and were placed in column to proceed thus on their route to Tolosa. We marched with them all that day, conversing with the governor—a gentlemanly and pleasant officer—who expressed his fears of ill treatment for his men, regretting that it was not by the English that they were escorted. It came on to snow severely about four o’clock in the afternoon, and promised a most miserable night to the poor prisoners, as they had a full league farther to go before they could get under cover; and they were far less able to bear fatigue than the Spaniards who escorted them; for they had been half starved in the garrison—provisions having been exhausted:—the governor declared that they had all been subsisting for twelve days previous to surrender, on four ounces of horse flesh per day to each man, and that the horses killed for that purpose were the private property of the officers.

We rode along with the column until dark, when we left it to take up our quarter for the night at a farm-house, which we saw on the left, in a valley, at the distance of about a quarter of a mile. Here we passed the time pleasantly, having met with hospitable people who accommodated us with what we wished. My friend had purchased a brace of woodcocks in the village where we slept on the previous night, and my servant was busy cooking them: while we sat at the fire along with the farmer, his wife and three children, enjoying ourselves with a glass of good Tafalia wine, about seven o’clock, a youth who was in the employ of the farmer, lifted the latch, and entered, covered with snow; his face was as white as his clothes, and he evidently laboured under extreme terror. His master demanded what was the matter—in the Basque language, which we did not understand, and which is the language of the country people in that quarter: the boy, in the most apparently incoherent manner, spoke for several minutes, shuddering as he spoke. We supposed that he had encountered a mountain ghost in full costume; but the master explained in Spanish the cause of his servant’s fright to be nothing etherial. He said that the boy had been returning from a neighbouring farmer’s house, and was crossing the main road in the snow, when he stumbled over something, and fell; it was quite dark; at first he thought it was a Borachio,[10] or a sack of corn that thus tripped him, and put down his hand to it. He felt it warm, and on closer examination found it to be a dead body quite naked, and bleeding warm blood from the throat and breast, with which the boy’s hands were covered. He ran towards a gap to get into the field which led him towards his master’s, and in climbing up, his foot slipped by occasion of the snow, and down he fell into the ditch upon another dead, naked, and bleeding body! At first I was at a loss to account for this extraordinary affair, but the Spaniard, who was a shrewd man, soon awakened me to the cause. “They are French,” said he;—“French prisoners killed by the soldiers of the escort, for their knapsacks and clothes.” A shudder of horror passed through the nerves of both my friend and myself. At first we thought of proceeding on after the column, and to remonstrate with the Spanish Commanding-officer; but a moment’s reflection showed us the uselessness as well as danger of such an undertaking: we therefore contented ourselves with condemning the dastard villany of the action, and in plans of preventing the like outrages for the remainder of the march.

The next morning we mounted our horses a little after daylight, and proceeded to the main road in order to pursue our route to Tolosa, and there the scene which opened upon us was one of the most heart-sinking nature: at least thirty bodies were scattered along the road, for the distance of about two miles; most of them stabbed in the breast, side, and abdomen—others with their throats cut; and some who had not died of their wounds were gasping in death, hastened by the extreme inclemency of the weather to which they had been exposed the whole of the night—and all completely naked! We stopped with one young man who could just speak a little; I put my canteen to his lips, and he swallowed a mouthful of brandy, which for a moment lighted up the expiring spark of life. The suffering victim told us that the Spanish soldiers stabbed him in the breast when it became quite dark. He said that happening to be on the flank of the column, and being a little tired and weak, he straggled out from it a moment, when one of the Spaniards dragged him into the ditch and plunged his steel into his body; then took off his knapsack and clothes, leaving him naked as he was, exposed all night to the snow and sleet. We threw our blankets down, and lifted him upon them—the blood gushed out afresh from his side. We immediately commenced to carry him back to the house we had slept in the preceding night; but before we had gone many yards with the unhappy soldier, he died.

We lost no time in proceeding onwards to overtake the column, and we came up with it in about two hours. The poor jaded prisoners looked at us as if they thought we could protect them from their abominable persecutors, and many of them begged our interference, and corroborated what the dying soldier told us. We heard the same melancholy complaint from the French commandant and his officers. He said he remonstrated with the commanding-officer of the Spaniards, but was answered that the men should keep close in the column, and then they would not be exposed to the danger of being murdered! My friend and I immediately rode up to the Spanish officer in command, and represented the horrid scene which was acted on the preceding night; but instead of a humane and soldier-like consideration of the report, he cooly observed that he did not see them doing it, and that the prisoners must be more careful not to straggle. I asked him to investigate the matter, and concluded by hoping that the horrors of the night before would not be renewed that night. My friend added, that it was a disgrace to the name of a nation to murder their prisoners thus. He said he could not help it, and that these things must happen in spite of the officers. We plainly saw that those men, who from their rank should have been supposed to have known better, were indirectly as much of the base assassin as the wretches they commanded: however, I believe they were not the regular troops of the line, but the militia of the province. God forbid that all the Spanish army were such as this sample! For the sake of human nature, I hope they were not. The Spaniards had certainly suffered much from the French invading army; but nothing should have operated so disgraceful a crime in them, as to murder the helpless prisoners entrusted to their protection. The British soldiers, with all their faults, never stained the name of their country with conduct like this: they have pilfered—they have plundered—they have rioted in drunkenness and debauchery; but they never struck a prostrate foe: they were the most formidable enemies to the French in Spain; but they were the first to whom the fallen of that nation looked to for protection—and not in vain—except in one grand instance * * * But in this, thank Heaven! the Nation, although bearing the blame, unjustly bears it; for it was the act of its evil director, and wholly unsanctioned by the hearts of its people.

We obtained a sort of promise, however, from the Spanish officers, not again to allow such conduct as disgraced the preceding night; and having cautioned the French in the rear to keep close together, we went to our quarters in a little village, with some hopes that the murderers would not again go to their infernal work; but we were disappointed; for next morning the front room of the cottage in which we passed the night, was filled with Spanish soldiers at day-break, (for it happened to be a sort of wine-house,) and every one of them had a knapsack or two which they took from the French on the preceding evening: and no doubt for every knapsack which we counted, there was a murdered prisoner. We were horror-struck when we beheld them, and spoke in very decided terms of the brutality of the soldiers; but they only replied by recommending the English officers to mind their own men, and let Spaniards do as they liked!—nay, they made no secret of their atrocity, but boasted to each other of the manner in which they selected the prisoners who carried the largest knapsacks, and of the celerity with which they detached them from their comrades and slaughtered them. These wretches held a sort of fair or market in front of this cottage, selling the clothes and contents of the plundered knapsacks to the peasants of the village.

This proved to be the last day of slaughter for the poor unhappy prisoners; for they arrived at Tolosa that evening by four o’clock, and their further march was only to Passages (one day’s march) where they were to embark. My friend and I, however, to guard against further outrage, reported the affair to the Spanish authorities at Tolosa, who, although promising to effectually prevent a recurrence, excused the murderers by saying, “that they had not received a shilling pay for two years; and this,” said they, “is owing to these infernal French.” There would have been some reason in this, if the murdered had been the men who designed and moved the Spanish invasion; but these unhappy prisoners were as much the victims of it as the Spaniards themselves.

I now proceeded to my quarters at Urogne, beyond the Bidassoa, between Fontarabia and St. Jean de Luz. From the appearance of the town, the armies must have had severe fighting there: the houses were all in ruins, and no inhabitants to be seen: here I remained until the advance of the army to its ultimate conquest at Toulouse, which began the winter’s campaign in France.—But, as the crossing of the Bidassoa, properly speaking, was the end of the Last Campaign in the Peninsula, I must with it conclude this sketch—on which I have already, perhaps, dwelt too long.

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NIGHTS IN THE GUARD-HOUSE.
No. V.

“Holloa! what is that, sentry?”

“They are firing on the hills, sir.”

Out ran Sergeant Dobson from the guard-house, and looked through the dark towards the point from which he supposed the muskets had been fired.

“They are at it, sure enough,” said he—“Pop!—there they go. Is that a house o’ fire?”

“I think it is, sir,” replied the sentry.

The Sergeant now ran to a rising ground, behind the guard-house to satisfy himself, by taking an observation. It was a dark, cold, windy night, and the flames from a burning house upon a hill, about half a mile in front of the spot where the sergeant stood, spread a glare of red and white light upon the objects immediately around it, which had a sublime effect. The sergeant could plainly distinguish the figures of soldiers, between him and the flames, running until they disappeared in the darkness of the valley over which the flames waved; and he was now convinced that a desperate resistance must have been made to the party, that was sent to support the excise-officers, in taking possession of a private still, which had long been at work in the house now burning in sight of the sergeant.

The house where the illicit still produced its periodical flow of potyeen, was an old strong stone building, of three stories high, and partly in ruin. The lands upon which it was situated, and of which it had been once the manor-house, were “in chancery,” and the only inhabitants it possessed, were a sort of steward and his family, who received no pay for his services, except his house-room and firing, with leave to grow potatoes in the garden, and feed a cow on the estate—sometimes, perhaps, a pig or two. The agent of the estate seldom visited the ruin, unless when he took a shooting excursion; and then he did not trouble himself much with the old steward’s means of living. To make up for all deficiencies in salary, the occupier of the house, in conjunction with others, set up “a bit of a still,” as he termed it, and supplied thereby a considerable part of the neighbouring people, with potyeen and broken heads for several years, under the very noses of the excise-officers, who were either too wise, or too blind to take notice of the matter. The rumour was not without foundation, which hinted that several mugs and canteens of the old steward’s best, found their way into Ballycraggen guard-house. This, however, was only rumoured, and never happened to arrive at the ears of the officers then quartered in the town; for had that been the case, Corporal O’Callaghan, Private Mulligan, Jack Andrews, and even Sergeant M’Fadgen himself, would have got into a bit of a hobble, as sure as potyeen is good whiskey. But not a word more about that—let the officers find such things out—I’ll never “peach,” upon good soldiers. If they did take a drop while on guard, it was only to keep the frost out of their stomachs—(and as Mulligan says,) nobody ever saw them “a bit the worse o’ dthrink.”

The burning of the house was going on rapidly—the flames encreasing in strength, and streaming along the hill, over high pines and thick bush wood. The whole of the guard were at the front of the guard-house, observing the progress of the fire, when the glistening of the firelocks with fixed bayonets caught their attention, rising from the valley below them; and, through the faint and red light, they could perceive they were some of their own regiment who approached.

The guard immediately got under arms, to receive them. The challenge was given—the watch word passed—and the party commanded by Ensign Morris, halted in front of the guard-house, and delivered to the sergeant of the guard (Dobson) two prisoners—one slightly wounded by a shot in the arm.

The Ensign gave orders that they should be kept in the guard-house until morning, and left Corporal Callaghan with two men, to strengthen the guard: after which, he gave the word to his party, “Right face,”—“March;” and proceeded to the head-quarters of the regiment.

The prisoners were two labourers who belonged to the still, and the only two of its defenders who were taken.

“Well, my gay fellows, you gave us a purty bit o’ business to-night—eh?” growled Corporal O’Callaghan, when all were seated in the guard-house. “Look at that,” continued he, taking off his cap, and showing them a hole made by a bullet; “look at that, ye spalpeens. Which o’ ye did that?”

“Neither of us, plase your honour!” exclaimed both the prisoners; “we never fired a shot, at all, at all.”

“That’s a lie, old chap,” replied one of the soldiers who had escorted them; “that’s a lie; for I’ll take my affadavy I saw your infernal face looking out of the window when the fire first broke out; and if I’m not very much mistaken, it was this musquet that pinked your arm when you were running up the hill.”

“Whoever did pink my arm, as you call it, I wish’d o’ Christ I had him on the top o’ Faudrick’s Hill,—he with his firelock, an’ I with my pitchfork; I’d make him know his Lord God from Tom Bell.” This was the reply of the wounded man, who became evidently agitated with rage as he concluded.

“Well, my boys,” observed Corporal Callaghan, “it’s all over now; you are prisoners, and one o’ you is wounded. The business is over, so say no more about it.”

“Yes, yes,” said Sergeant Dobson, “say no more about it;—but, Corporal, tell us how the matter went.”

“By my soul! Sergeant, we had a throublesome job, I assure you. You know Andrews’s quarthers. Well, I was down there, taking tay with his wife, when the Sergeant-major came running down, and orther’d me out with my squad immajetly. So I had my men out while you’d say ‘thrapstick;’ an’ Liftinent Morris, of our company, with Sergeant M’Fadgen, myself, and twenty-five men, march’d off in the dark, along with two excisemen, down the narrow lane which lades towards the windmill. The lane was rough an’ muddy, an’ it was horrid dark; but the excisemen had lantherns in their pockets, which they pull’d out as soon as we were out o’ the town. When we got about a mile on, we filed off into a narrow path, which ran up the side o’ the hill, upon which that house that’s burning stands, an’ followed the excisemen in single files, through bushes an’ briars, like goats—climbing an’ slipping—till we came to a sort of open space, undther another hill; an’ from this we could see a gleam o’ twilight in the sky, as if the moon was just washing her face, to pay us a visit. Here we were halted, an’ orther’d to keep a sthrict silence. The excisemen shut up their lantherns. Ensign Morris now stooped down, to catch a glimpse o’ the house in front between him an’ the twilight; an’ then both he and the excisemen went on—down the slope o’ the hill. It got a little bit lighter, an’ we could see that the big stone house (more like a castle) was situated between us and another hill on our left, in a wide sloping place, and surrounded with fir-threes. There was no light at all in the windows. ’Pon my sowl, when I looked about at the dark scene, as it was—we dthrawn up undther a steep rock, an’ the roots o’ the big threes out over our heads,—all of us as silent as stones—I couldn’t help thinking o’ the night we were dthrawn up on the advanced posts in the Pyrenees, Sergeant,—just half an hour before the attack. Well—in about ten minutes, Liftinent Morris an’ the excisemen returned. Misther Morris immajetly addthress’d us in a sort o’ whisper, ‘Tention!’ says he. “Now, men, you are about to be employed in a juty which may call upon every individual of you to use his judgment and discretion. You may be required to spill the blood of your countrymen; but it is in support o’ the laws, and you are bound to do it, if necessity calls upon you. These revenue officers are going to make a sazure of a private still in that house, an’ in case our assistance is wanted, we must give it at all hazards; but to those men who will be posted by themselves, I have particularly to remark that they are to allow none to pass them—but, at the same time, not to fire, unless undther the most urgent circumstances. To those men undther my own eye, I say observe my ordthers—our object is to avoid bloodshed, but, at the same time, support the revenue officers in doing their juty.” He then ordthered Sergeant M’Fadgen to post two men at the pass we had just come down; and this being done, three more were sent round to about fifty yards distance, an’ posted at different points, while four others were placed at each flank o’ the big house on the side o’ the hill—all ordthered to allow nobody to pass in or out; an’ not to move from their posts till further ordthers, unless obliged by force. Ensign Morris then marched the remaining twelve, and the Sergeant and myself, down the slope for about a hundthred yards, an’ halted us undther cover o’ the wail, close to the gate o’ the house.

“The excisemen now went softly into the yard o’ the house—for there was no gate—an’ in about five minutes they came out again, to say that there were at least eight or ten men in the house—they saw through a crack in the wall. I must tell ye that the excisemen said they had been in the house twice, but it was in the day time, an’ if they were to be d——d for it, they could not find either still or one o’ the men,—it was so sacretly done between ’em; so they came to-night from information they had received, that a grate quantity o’ potyeen was to be sent out about twelve o’clock; an’ we were to wait ’till they began to load their cars with the stuff.—‘The cars are all harnessed,’ says one o’ the Excisemen, coming out o’ the yard, ’an’ I hard a dale o’ voices inside—so they will soon come out.’

“Here we waited for a little time, when a light from the door stramed out across the road through the gateway, and the excisemen got on their hands an’ feet, an’ kept watching the fellows coming out o’ the house to load the stuff. We heard the cars dthrawing up before the door, and in about five minutes the excisemen got up, and said that they would creep inside o’ the gate, an’ round the wall to the door, so as to get into the house before any alarm was given; an’ that the word “Captain!” roared out by one o’ them, would be the signal for our party to advance an’ support them. So in they crept, like cats, while the men were loading the cars: and we were expecting the signal every instant, when we sees a fellow’s head poking out o’ the gate: at first he didn’t see us, but walked softly out (I suppose to see was the ground clear), when he turned round an’ spies us, an’ immajetly bawled out, as loud as he could, ‘Murther! Dinis, shut the door; here’s the sodgers!’ The signal was instantly given; we didn’t mind the fellow at the gate, but advanced at double quick, right into the yard—Ensign Morris at our head. The door was open—a woman held a light, an’ was pulling in a man, while the excisemen were both knocked down like cocks before our faces. We were dthrawn up in line about ten yards from the door, while Ensign Morris ran forward, undther one o’ the horses’ heads, calling out he would fire if they would not surrendther; but the men were all in, an’ the door slapped right into his face, just as he was grabbing howld o’ one o’ them. You know Misther Morris is a slapping able fellow, that ought to be a Captain long ago—before he left Spain. The excisemen got up—not much worse o’ the wear—an’ Misther Morris ordthered me to remove the cars an’ horses, which we did to one side o’ the yard. He then called to the men to aim at the door when they got the word, and desired the Excisemen to pull out their lantherns, one of which he took, an’ threw the light on the door. “Now men:—ready—present—fire!” says he. Slap went a dozen bullets into the door. “Load!” was given, an’ the officer, with the Excisemen, went forward,—the men marched afther him,—ordthered to butt the door with their muskets; which they did: but neither the balls nor the butting had any effect whatever; for the door was as thick double oak as ever was; an’ well made too—one o’ the owld times.”

The prisoners smiled with satisfaction, as the Corporal observed upon the door.

“Well,” continued O’Callaghan, “we were dthrawn up a little distance from the house again, an’ another volley was sent right at one o’ the windows o’ the first floor. In went the wooden shutthers in smithereens about the ground, an’ slap comes a shot out at us. “Load!”—again—and again. Six men were ordthered to take post on our flank with the Sergeant, and the others with Misther Morris himself:—away went six bullets more into the same window, from the Sergeant’s party, while ours was ordthered to pop one by one, as Misther Morris directed. Another shot was now fired at us from the window, an’ knocked poor Hall head over heels.”

“What! is Hall killed?” demanded the Serjeant and the men of the guard.

“‘Faith! poor fellow he is—or all as one; the ball enthered his breast, an’ he was taken away to the surgeon with very little hopes o’ life.”

At this information of the Corporal’s there was a general murmur of regret.

O’Callaghan continued—“Misther Morris now says to the men, ‘Come—ready lads—an’ when the party on the other side fires, watch the window, while I throw the light right on it; which, when you see, fire at once—the whole of you.’ We then moved in the dark to six or eight paces farther out, an’ more in front. The smoke was now getting away—for a blast o’ wind just then came. In about a minuet or two, slap went the Serjeant’s party—a volley into the window. ‘Steady!’ says the Liftinent; ‘good aim lads’; an’ in less than a minuet he claps the light on the window. There was the fellow with a blundtherbush up to his shouldther, an’ he let fly just as we fired—the light was kept steady on him—I’m sure every man could see him. Rattle went the lead into him:—he jumped like a hopping ball up against the window top, an’ out fell his dead body across the ledge:—there he hung with his head an’ shoulders out. A most dthreadful cloud o’ smoke came now over the house, an’ almost stifled us; at which Misther Morris ordthered me to go round to the rear an’ see what was the matther. I went, an’ the sentheries there tould me the house was o’ fire—’faith! I soon saw it was; for the flames were bursting out o’ the windows; so I ran back to tell the Liftinent. We were all astonishment. What was to become o’ the men inside?

“There was no more firing from the party: the Serjeant was ordthered to remain at his post in front, with his six men, while Misther Morris an’ I ran round to the rear; but before we went, the flames came fleaking out of every window—even over the dead man that was lying stretched out over the ledge. It’s all up, thinks I, for they must ha’ spilt their potyeen, an’ set fire to it; otherwise the house could never be so suddenly in flames.

“Faith an’ you’re just right,” sneered the wounded prisoner; “We wasn’t a goin’ to let the d——d Exciseman taste a dthrop o’ it.”

“By my sowl! ye’re nice boys. I wish ye had been out at Badajoz, an’ may be ye’d ha’ had enough o’ such business,” said Corporal O’Callaghan, and then resumed his narrative. “Well,” said he, “we got round as fast as possible to the rear o’ the house, an’ just as we were approaching it, we sees the senthries—three o’ them—running towards the hill to stop three or four fellows who were galloping up it like monkies, an’ calling out that they would fire; while six or eight fellows made a rush by a hedge close to us, down the hill like devils, an’ we afther them—officer an’ all. I’m a good runner—an’ by my sowl! I could not do much with them fellows; they were like Leberacawns—we had scarcely time to wink our eyes, when they were gone—hooh! off they were like birds.”

“But didn’t Lieutenant Morris order you to fire, Corporal?” said Serjeant Dobson.

“Fire! not he. Why should he, Serjeant? You know what the Liftenant is,—he’ll not dthraw blood in such a case as that—the poor devils were running away. We couldn’t have much glory in killing one o’ them, I’m sure. One o’ the senthries fired though, an’ shot this nate-looking gentleman here getting up the hill, an’ made him prisoner; the other lad there fell right on his head and rowled down; so that he was also caught.”

“And is the house burnt?” demanded the Serjeant.

“Burnt!” replied O’Callaghan, “’faith it is—an’ well burnt too. It’s all in a hape o’ ruins. An’ afther all, the Exciseman didn’t get the still.”

“No, by J——s! they didn’t nor never will,” exclaimed the wounded prisoner with exultation.

“But what made you burn the house?” said Serjeant Dobson to the prisoner.

“I’ll say no more,” replied he; “it’s done now—an’ I’m not sorry; except for the brave fellow that lost his life.”

At this moment, the Sentry at the guard-house door challenged; and in a few seconds Lieutenant Morris with a magistrate of the town, and the gaoler, arrived. Handcuffs were placed upon the prisoner who was not wounded, and the Corporal with two men, were directed to take charge of the delinquents, and march them to gaol; which they did, accompanied by the Lieutenant, the magistrate, and the gaoler.

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