Until the 2nd of November, my fatigue was great: constructing batteries and other works, we were forced to labour night and day. My hands, when I left home, were white and soft; now they were excoriated and brown, and, where they were unbroken, as hard as horn. Often overpowered by fatigue, sleep has sealed my eyes;—I have awoke groaning with thirst, and the intense heat of my hands. It was then I felt, in all its horror, the folly of my former conduct. Bitter was the sigh that acknowledged my punishment was just.
In the storming of Monte Video, I had no share. We remained with the camp to protect the rear. While we lay before the town, the shells of the enemy were falling often near where I stood; one, in particular, seemed as if it would fall at our feet. A young officer ran backwards and forwards, as if he would hide himself; an old soldier said to him, with all the gravity of a Turk, “You need not hide, Sir; if there is any thing there for you, it will find you out.” The young man looked confused, stood to his duty, and I never saw him appear uneasy again,—so soon was he converted to the warrior’s doctrine.
We marched into Monte Video the day after the assault, where I remained seven months. It is a most delightful country, were it not so hot. The evening is the only tolerable time of the day. The sea-breeze sets in about eight or nine o’clock in the morning, which mitigates the heat a good deal; yet I suffered much. It was now the middle of December. Summer had commenced with all its sweets, on a scale I had no conception of; neither can I convey any idea of it in words. We had the greatest abundance of every article of food, and, as the summer advanced, the choicest fruit, indeed even more than we could consume, and at length we loathed it.
I had been along with the other youths appointed to Sir Samuel Auchmuty’s guard, as the least fatiguing duty. I would have been comparatively happy, had I known my parents were well, and had pardoned me: the uncertainty of this, and reflections on my past conduct, kept me in a state of continual gloom.
I was billeted upon a young widow, who did all in her power to make me comfortable, alongst with her aged father. Her husband had been slain in the first attack of our troops upon the place, and she remained inconsolable. During the seven months I remained in Monte Video, she behaved to me like a mother. To her I was indebted for many comforts. Never shall I forget Maria de Parides: she was of a small figure, yet elegant in her appearance. Like the other women of the country, she was very brown, her eyes sparkling, black as jet, her teeth equal and white. She wore her own hair, when dressed, as is the fashion of the country, in plaits down her back. It was very long, and of a glossy black. Her dress was very plain: a black veil covered her head, and her mantilla was tied in the most graceful manner under her chin. This was the common dress of all the women; the only difference was in the colour of their mantillas and shoes. These they often wore of all colours, and sometimes the veil was white. The men wore the cloak and hat of the Spaniards; but many of them had sandals, and a great many wanted both shoes and stockings. The native women were the most uncomely I ever beheld. They have broad noses, thick lips, and are of very small stature. Their hair, which is long, black, and hard to the feel, they wear frizzled up in front, in the most hideous manner, while it hangs down their backs below the waist. When they dress, they stick in it feathers and flowers, and walk about in all the pride of ugliness. The men are short of stature, stout made, and have large joints. They are brave, but indolent to excess. I have seen them galloping about on horseback, almost naked, with silver spurs on their bare heels, perhaps an old rug upon their shoulders. They fear not pain. I have seen them with hurts ghastly to look at, yet they never seemed to mind them. As for their idleness, I have seen them lie stretched for a whole day, gazing upon the river, and their wives bring them their victuals; and, if they were not pleased with the quantity, they would beat them furiously. This is the only exertion they ever make, readily venting their fury upon their wives. They prefer flesh to any other food, and they eat it almost raw, and in quantities which a European would think impossible.
I had little opportunity of seeing the better sort of Spanish settlers, as they had all left the place before we took it; and, during the siege, those I had any opportunity of knowing, were of the poorer sort, who used to visit Maria de Parides and her father, Don Santanos. They are ignorant in the extreme, and very superstitious. Maria told me, with the utmost concern, that the cause of her husband’s death was his being bewitched by an old Indian, to whom he had refused some partridges, as he returned from hunting, a few days before the battle. As I became acquainted with the language, I observed many singular traits of character. When Maria, or old Santanos, yawned, they crossed their mouth with the utmost haste, to prevent the Devil going down their throats. If Santanos sneezed, Maria called, “Jesus!” his answer was, “Muchas gracias,” “Many thanks."—When they knock at any door, they say, “Ave Maria purissima;” they open at once, as they think no one with an evil intent will use this holy phrase. When they meet a woman, they say, “A sus pies senora,” or, “Beso los pies de Usted,” “I lay myself at your feet,” or, “I kiss your feet.” As they part, he says, “Me tengo a sus pies de Usted,” or, “Baxo de sus pies,” “I am at your feet,” or, “Keep me at your feet;” she replies, “Beso a Usted la mano, Cavallero,” “I kiss your hand, Sir.” When they leave any one, they say, “Vaya Usted con Dios,” or, “Con la Virgen,” “May God, (or, the Holy Virgin,) attend you.” When they are angry, it is a common phrase with them, “Vaya Usted con cien mil Demonios,” “Begone with a hundred thousand Devils."—Maria was concerned that I should be a heretic, and wished much I would change my religion and become a Catholic, as the only means of my salvation. In vain I said to her, “Muchos caminos al cielo,” “Many roads to heaven.” There were few priests in the town, as they had thought it better to move off to Buenos Ayres, with the church plate, &c. before we took the town, than trust to their prayers and our generosity. Maria, however, got one to convert me, as her own father-confessor had gone with the rest. It was in the afternoon, on my return from guard, I first met him. His appearance made an impression on me, much in his favour; he was tall and graceful, and wore his beard, which was grey and full, giving a venerable cast to his face, and softening the wrinkles that time had made in his forehead. Maria introduced me to him as a young man who was willing to receive instruction, and one she wished much to believe in all the doctrines of the Holy Church, that I might not be lost for ever through my unbelief. He then began to say a great deal about the errors of the Protestants, and their undone state, since they had left the true church. The only answer I made was, “Muchos caminos al cielo.” He shook his head, and said, all heretics were a stubborn sort of people, but begged me to consider of what he said. I answered, certainly I would, and we parted friends. Maria was much disappointed at my not being convinced at once; and her father, Santanos, said he had no doubt that I would yet become a good Catholic, and remain with them. I loved them the more for their disinterested zeal: their only wish was for my welfare.
Thus had I passed my time, until the arrival of General Whitelock, with reinforcements, in the beginning of June, 1807. It was the middle of winter at Monte Video; the nights were frosty, with now and then a little snow, and great showers of hail as large as beans. In the day, dreadful rains deluged all around. We had sometimes thunder and lightning. One night in particular, the whole earth seemed one continued blaze; the mountain on the side of which the town is built, re-echoed the thunder, as if it would rend in pieces. The whole inhabitants flocked to the churches, or kneeled in the streets.
On the arrival of the reinforcements, we were formed into a brigade, alongst with the light companies of the 36th, 38th, 40th, 87th, and four companies of the 95th regiments. On the 28th June, we assembled near Ensenada de Barragon, with the whole army, and commenced our march towards Buenos Ayres.
The country is almost all level, and covered with long clover that reached to our waists, and large herds of bullocks and horses, which seemed to run wild. The weather was very wet. For days I had not a dry article on my body. We crossed many morasses in our march, in one of which I lost my shoes, and was under the necessity of marching the rest of the way bare-footed. We passed the river at a ford called Passorico, under the command of Major-General Gower. Here we drove back a body of the enemy. We were next day joined by General Whitelock, and the remainder of the army. Upon his joining us, the line was formed by Sir Samuel Auchmuty on the left, stretching towards a convent called the Recolletta, distant from the left about two miles. Two regiments were stationed on the right. Brigadier-General Crawford’s brigade occupied the centre, and possessed the principal avenues to the town, which was distant from the great square and fort three miles. Three regiments extended towards the Residenta, on the right. The town and suburbs are built in squares of about 140 yards on each side; and all the houses are flat on the top for the use of the inhabitants, who go upon them to enjoy the cool of the evening. These, we were told, they meant to occupy with their slaves, and fire down upon us as we charged through the streets. From the disposition of our army, the town was nearly surrounded. We remained under arms on the morning of the 5th of July, waiting the order to advance. Judge our astonishment when the word was given to march without ammunition, with fixed bayonets only. “We are betrayed,” was whispered through the ranks. “Mind your duty, my lads; onwards, onwards, Britain for ever,” were the last words I heard our noble Captain Brookman utter. He fell as we entered the town. Onwards we rushed, carrying every thing before us, scrambling over ditches, and other impediments which the inhabitants had placed in our way. At the corner of every street, and flanking all the ditches, they had placed cannon that thinned our ranks every step we took. Still onwards we drove, up one street, down another, until we came to the church of St. Domingo, where the colours of the 71st regiment had been placed, as a trophy, over the shrine of the Virgin Mary. We made a sally into it, and took them from that disgraceful resting-place, where they had remained ever since the surrender of General Beresford to General Liniers. Now we were going to sally out in triumph. The Spaniards had not been idle. The entrances of the church were barricaded, and cannon placed at each entrance. We were forced to surrender, and were marched to prison.
It was there I first learned the complete failure of our enterprise. During the time we were charging through the streets, many of our men made sallies into the houses in search of plunder; and many were encumbered with it at the time of our surrender. One sergeant of the 38th had made a longish hole in his wooden canteen, like that over the money drawer in the counter of a retail shop; into it he slipped all the money he could lay his hands upon. As he came out of a house he had been ransacking, he was shot through the head. In his fall the canteen burst, and a great many doubloons ran in all directions on the street. Then commenced a scramble for the money, and about eighteen men were shot, grasping at the gold they were never to enjoy. They even snatched it from their dying companions, although they themselves were to be in the same situation the next moment.