During a violent snow-storm which overtook us on our march upon Corunna, several of my comrades, and myself among the rest, wearied with fatigue, took refuge one evening in a small out-house or hovel, as it afforded temporary shelter from the descending storm. There we resolved to pass the night; and having gathered a few sticks, we placed them in the middle of the shed, and kindled a fire for mutual benefit. In the course of the night we were surprised by hearing a rap at the door, accompanied by the weak tone of some one craving admission. Half a dozen voices instantly exclaimed: ‘Come in!’ when, lo! a woman, recognised as the wife of a soldier, but hardly able to stand, crept into the shed, and asked protection from the hurricane that was loudly howling along the sierra. Had Satan himself begged an entrance at such a moment, we should scarcely have been able to repress our pity. The poor, wandering woman was received with rough but honest sympathy, and was invited to approach the fire. When able to speak she asked for a certain company, to which her husband belonged; we told her it was considerably in advance, and at present out of her reach. Modesty prevented the poor creature from further explanation; when, to the surprise of the men present, the weak cry of a child was heard. The fact was, the mother had in the course of the preceding day given birth to an infant while on the snowy ridge of a desolate mountainous tract, and without the company of a single human being; and yet, so far all was well: there is One Who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. The lives both of the mother and her offspring were likely to survive. English soldiers know how to feel, nor are they quite destitute of discretion; they may be rather rough in manner, nor can they at all times invent the phraseology of oily compliment, but they have no part of the bear about them except the skin, unless provoked, and then the consequences must be abided: when virtue is in distress, none can show sympathy with greater delicacy, or exercise benevolence with more perfect freedom. At the appearance and sad tale of this suffering daughter of affliction, every heart in the place was touched; wretched as was our own condition, each man contrived to spare something. They even parted with some article of their own linen, much as they needed it, for the purpose of contributing to the warmth and comfort of the sufferer; kindness of speech was added, and it did wonders. While on our march the following day, the woman, again on her feet, was observed by one of our officers; he was told the story of her distress, and, with kindness which none but a great and gallant heart possesses, he alighted from his horse and tramped with us in favour of the poor woman and child. The animal, like his master, joined in the scheme, and carried his novel load most comfortably. I rejoice to add, that both root and branch were preserved, and eventually transplanted in the soil at home.
Let me be permitted here to relate the particulars of another circumstance, the truth of which is attested by evidence which none need doubt. But it will be as well to premise at once, that if the fact to be disclosed should meet the eye of any person disposed to deny the doctrine of a particular Providence, overseeing and directing the concerns of men, to bring down the lofty, to raise the lowly, and support the weak and feeble, the detail will be unworthy of notice, as the instruction it conveys is based upon the belief that, from the rapt seraph that burns before the throne, to the minutest particle of dust borne upon the eddying gale, and in and through the all but infinite gradations of rational and instinctive beings which lie between, almighty Goodness provides and metes out its dispensations with justest weight and measure.
Not long before our arrival at Corunna, and in the severest part of the retreat, Surgeon Griffith, of the Dragoons, while riding at a rapid pace, observed a woman with a child reclining on the snow: the weather was tempestuous, and the advanced posts of the enemy not far in the rear. Humanity, however, compelled him to notice the unfortunate female; he immediately reined in his horse and dismounted, when he discovered with regret that the woman now stretched upon the ground had just breathed her last. She had dropped, no doubt, and perished like many others from mere exhaustion; while the infant, all unconscious of the calamity, had nestled his head close to the cold bosom of his hapless mother, and was endeavouring to suck as heretofore. The melancholy spectacle had now fully aroused the compassion of the horseman, and as relief came too late for the parent, he determined if possible to save the child. He accordingly lifted him up, and after placing him comfortably on the saddle, again mounted and rode on. The apprehended danger was soon realised: having lost time by this merciful act, he was overtaken by the enemy’s cavalry, by whom he and the child were captured and ordered to the rear. This good Samaritan was, however, faithful to his charge, and he and the infant, though prisoners, were inseparable companions. After being detained some time in France, and having visited Paris, Griffith obtained his liberty on parole, and proceeded to England. The tender little child had by this time grown into a healthy boy, and was placed by the interest of his benefactor in the Military Asylum at Chelsea. Even here his kind attentions were continued; he generally paid the lad a Sabbath-day visit, and never failed to bring him a present either for his instruction or amusement, not forgetting to line his pocket with a little of the needful for passing exigencies.
About three years after the occurrence just related, a soldier who had lost his wife and child in Spain came to the asylum at Chelsea to inquire concerning the welfare of a son of his named Hector, who had been previously placed in the establishment. The veteran had not long been engaged in conversation with Hector when the attention of the former was excited by the appearance of a younger lad, in whose countenance there were lines on which his sight seemed to be unavoidably riveted. On consideration, the features were more familiar than ever; the thought then arose, ‘Perhaps this may be my long-lost child who I deemed had perished in the snow,’ The father recollected that on a particular place just above one of the knees, his child had a scar; and on raising the boy’s trousers, there it was! The two brothers, though unknown, had been playfellows, and were mutually attached. The delights of this singular recognition may be better conceived than described. Let us hope that a life so remarkably preserved was well spent. How justly might the father exclaim: ‘This my son, who was dead, is alive again; and he who was lost is found!’
On the 18th of January, 1809, we left the shores of Spain, and made the voyage home on board the Hindostan, of sixty-four guns, which had been partially cut down and prepared as a transport. We encountered several heavy gales during the passage, but were mercifully preserved from a watery grave. It was on a Sabbath evening that the lighthouse near Plymouth became visible from deck; it is built on a ledge of rock, about eighteen miles from the harbour, and gave us cheering proof that we were nearing the land we loved. After remaining at anchor for a short time, it was judged advisable to proceed up the Channel; we accordingly weighed, and stood for Portsmouth, at which place the shattered remains of our regiment were safely landed. Aware of the deplorable figure we made, the debarkation was cleverly effected under cover of the night. The pride which urged this method was, I trust, excusable. Such a legion of ragged warriors I should think never before approached this or any other land; we were therefore glad to escape observation, and march quickly into barracks. Our old clothes, by far too bad for amendment, were speedily burned, together with a countless company of Spanish insects thereunto appertaining, and which, to our oft-repeated sorrow, we were never able fully to eject. A few weeks’ residence on shore restored us to society and our friends; and in a period of time marvellously short we held ourselves ready for service either at home or abroad.
Time rolled rapidly away, and though our stay in England was extended to the space of several months, such was the buoyancy of our spirits and the general hilarity that it had passed like a summer’s day. The business of recruiting our ranks had gone on so rapidly that by the end of May we mustered a thousand rank and file; nor were our arms in the least danger of contracting rust: firing at a target was an every-day exercise, field-days were frequently appointed, and the note of warlike preparation was familiar and agreeable. I am sorry to say that my boasting cannot extend to the morals of my friends. Cards and dice, with other games of chance, connected with the intemperance and dissipation of which they are the usual forerunners, consumed the time of most of those by whom I was surrounded. From these excesses I was preserved; and if asked by what means, I can only reply, that I felt an aversion to such practices, grounded, I firmly believe, upon the advices once received from my honoured mother, which as a warning and monitory voice pursued and protected me through life, and by which, though far away, she seemed to speak the words of wisdom. The regularity of my conduct as a private soldier attracted the notice of the officers, and I had the satisfaction of hearing that there was some probability of an elevation from the place I held in the ranks to that of a corporal in the British army,—a distinction to which my wishes were earnestly directed. Having remained some time at Colchester, orders were received towards the close of May to march to the coast. We accordingly proceeded to Harwich, and immediately embarked. With the exception of the inconveniences arising from crowded berths and provisions of very defective quality, nothing occurred to ruffle the good humour that prevailed between decks during the passage.
In little more than thirty days from the time of leaving home we were released from our confinement on shipboard. It was a pleasing sound when the man on look-out exclaimed, ‘Land ahead.’ In the course of a few hours we passed the castle of St. Julian, and soon after rode at anchor in the Tagus, from whence we were conveyed in boats to Villa Franca and Santarem. The latter is a fine, large town, commanding a noble view of the adjacent country. The weather was extremely hot, and water scarce. Wine was cheap, three pints of which could be obtained for about fourpence. Anxious to form a junction with the forces under Sir Arthur Wellesley, who, it was rightly conjectured, might be engaged with the enemy, our march was urged by every possible means. We suffered in consequence very severely. Over head the scorching rays of an almost vertical sun appeared to wither the face of nature, while the hot sand on which we trod blistered and inflamed our feet.
By uncommon exertion we reached Abrantes, where we found a small encampment, formerly occupied but hastily abandoned by the French. Ready to drop as most of us were, the halt, though short, was grateful, and of great value. After a brief stay, our march was renewed with greater speed than before; and as the nights were comparatively cool, we advanced without intermission. Proofs that hard fighting had commenced now crowded on us on every side. We met several dastardly renegade Spaniards, who asserted that the British forces were defeated, and all was lost. Scattered groups of wounded men were also occasionally seen silently retiring. The muttering of distant artillery had been heard for some time; but these indications of actual contest, so far from dispiriting our party, called forth redoubled exertions to press forward. Our pace increased to a kind of impetuous movement, which, by tacit agreement, was to be neither retarded nor turned aside. The result was, that though three thousand strong, with the exception of seventeen stragglers left behind, one of whom was well thrashed with some olive twigs for leaving the ranks, we had, in twenty-six hours, crossed the field of battle in a close and compact body, and passed over sixty-two English miles, in the hottest season of the year, each man carrying from fifty to sixty pounds’ weight upon his shoulders. It is not for me to boast; but if this was not stepping out with spirit, I should like to know what is.
