THE PASS OF RONCESVALLES.
Before the victorious army of the allies left Badajos, Wellington determined to send a convoy to Brussels with the treasure and spoils found in that place. The regiments selected to form this convoy were the 28th, the 80th, and 87th and 43d. We were to leave Badajos, and pass through the northern part of Spain to Pampeluna, and through the romantic gorge of the Roncesvalles to St. Jean Pied de Port, in France, and from this place take the most direct course to Brussels. The day before our army was to leave for Beira was the day selected for our march. Our farewell words were soon spoken, and we were on our way. No event of consequence had marked our course until we were near Pampeluna. On the left of this place, near Roncesvalles, is the beautiful valley of Bastan, one of the most fertile and delightful valleys in Spain, and abounding in every species of plenty. From Pampeluna to Zabieta, the road passes over a gentle ascent. From Zabieta this ascent increases, and becomes extremely rough and fatiguing near the village of Borquette. From this village it begins to ascend very lofty mountains, but which are extremely fertile and well wooded. Immediately after passing Borquette, the road ascends a mountain, and then descends the same, when it enters upon the memorable plain of Roncesvalles, where happened that memorable defeat of Charlemagne, which has furnished so copious a theme for poetry and romance. As there are few who have not heard of this celebrated pass, perhaps the legend connected with it may not be uninteresting to my readers.
Several Moorish chiefs, in the north-western part of Spain, had implored the protection of this celebrated emperor, and invited him to accept their vassalage. He at once assembled an army, crossed the Pyrenees, penetrated as far as Saragossa, and received the submission of all the neighboring lords. News of threatened hostilities on the Rhenish frontiers caused him to hasten his march onward. Dividing his army into two bodies, he advanced, in person, at the head of the first division, leaving all the baggage with the rear guard, which comprised a strong force, and was commanded by some of the most renowned of his chieftains, among whom was Roland, the nephew of Charlemagne. Mounted on heavy horses, and loaded with a complete armor of iron, the soldiers pursued their march through the narrow passes of the Pyrenees, without suspecting the neighborhood of an enemy. The king himself, with his first division, passed from these intricate woods and narrow defiles unmolested; but when the rear body, following leisurely at a considerable distance, had reached this wild and lonely valley, the woods and rocks around them suddenly bristled into life, and they were attacked on all sides by the perfidious Gascons, whose light arms, swift arrows, and knowledge of the country, gave them every advantage over their opponents. In the first panic and confusion, the Franks were driven down to the bottom of the pass, embarrassed by their arms and baggage. The Gascons pressed them on every point, and slaughtered them like a herd of deer, singling them out with their arrows from above, and rolling down the rocks upon their heads. Never wanting in courage, they fought until the last moment, and died unconquered. Roland and his companions, the twelve peers of France, after innumerable deeds of valor, were slain with the rest; and the Gascons, satiated with carnage, and rich in plunder, dispersed among the mountains, leaving Charlemagne to seek fruitlessly for vengeance.
During the lapse of many centuries, tradition has hung about this famous spot, and the memory of Roland and his companions has been consecrated in a thousand shapes throughout the country. When we entered this famous pass, we could but recall the legends connected with it. The mountains rose high and towering to the skies on either side. Far up their rocky sides we could see mountain paths descending, while here and there a shelf would exist that might give a standing-place to a body of men. Huge crags seemed to bid defiance even to the fleet steps of the mountain goat, while deep caverns opened their mouths on every side, giving shelter to the hordes of banditti which always infest those regions. The stroke of Roland’s sword upon the rocks was pointed out to us by our guides; while, just beneath, we noticed patches of the beautiful little wild-flower of the Pyrenees, which is called the casque of Roland. I know of no fitter place for the assault which took place here; certainly none which could give the assailants a better advantage. But, ominous as the scenery appeared, we crossed this famous pass in safety, and emerged, with gladdened and lightened hearts, on the plain beyond, where rises the beautiful and venerable abbey of Roncesvalles, whose moss-clad walls, which have felt so heavily, and yet sustained so well, the hand of time, are covered with mementos of its famous hero. On the further side of this plain, the road, after passing over a small elevation, reaches the foot of that tremendous mountain, called Mount Altobiscar, which separates France from Spain. The ascent to this is very steep and laborious, and almost impassable for carriages. A ravine descends from this into French Navarre. Our party were leisurely descending into this ravine, hardly anticipating danger, when suddenly our advance guards were stopped by the report of a musket. The alarm was in a moment given, and our arms prepared. On the huge rocks which rose above us a body of men were seen descending, and in a moment they were upon us, preceding their arrival by rolling huge stones down from the mountain, which killed a number of our men. In a moment we had formed ourselves, as far as the position of the ground would admit, into two squares; and, as they drew near, we discharged our muskets into the midst. Nearly all the foremost fell; but their places were soon supplied by others, who came on with still more force. Their subtle chief was very active in the affray. Fortunately, we had gained a part of the ground where there was a wide shelf, which enabled us to meet the attack more in a body, while the road to it was narrow, and the ground rough. Consequently, they fell fast before our fire. A few minutes only the combat lasted, and yet, on our own side, a hundred men had fallen. Fifty were killed outright; and in several places men and horse had died simultaneously, and so suddenly, that, falling together on their sides, they appeared still alive,—the horse’s legs stretched out as in movement, the rider’s feet in the stirrups, his bridle in hand, the sword raised to strike, and the expression of the countenance undistorted, but with such a look of resolution and defiance as gave to it a ghastly and supernatural appearance. The loss of the assailants was still greater than ours. Seeing that it would be impossible to attain their object, which was, doubtless, to possess themselves of our baggage, they retired in good order; and, as we considered our charge too valuable to be left in such a spot, we did not attempt to pursue them.
ARRIVAL AT BRUSSELS.
No other incident of interest occurred in our route, and we found ourselves, on the 3d of June, in safety in Brussels. The next day we reported our arrival to the commanders there; and, on the 5th, our charge was delivered up, and we were inspected, and then ordered to join the garrison which was stationed in Brussels. Here I remained, only performing garrison duty, until that great battle which decided the fate of Europe, and sent the French emperor to his last and lonely home on the barren rock of St. Helena.