Finding my complaints so unavailing, I made up my mind to quit the service; and, intimating my wishes to head-quarters, that a medical board might examine my wounds, I handed over my commandantship to a Captain Oakley, of the 2nd Lancers. I met this gentleman on his way to the convent, with a couple of sets of cats, which he had procured from the British frigate—I believe the ‘Castor’—then lying in the harbour of Santander. He pulled them out of his pocket, and, with an air well suited to his meaning, gave me to understand that he would have no “nonsense!”
While awaiting an answer from head-quarters, I was obliged, much against my inclination, to remain at the convent. This, however, gave me an opportunity of witnessing his first essay at the command. The wants and privations the men had hitherto endured he did not deem sufficient; and, as a last resort, they were, to the number of one hundred and fifty placed at the top of the building, in one room, the windows of which having been totally demolished, laid them open to the northern aspect, in the cold month of November, without even the poor advantage of a fire-place. Two Spanish soldiers were posted sentry, with loaded muskets, to prevent ingress or egress. One of these was employed to escort the men to the closet, one at a time, by day; and, at night, a large tub, placed in the centre of the room, served every purpose till morning.
I was one day on my return from Santander to this gloomy prison-house, when I met a party, bearing on their shoulders, the body of a man on a shutter, to the general hospital. On inquiry, I found his name to be John Bryant, of the 6th—an invalid, not a prisoner. This poor fellow, it appeared, while by order of Captain Oakley, in the act of cutting a few boughs, to make a broom to sweep the cloisters with, was watched by one of the Spanish soldiers, and, while in the tree, deliberately shot. Poor Bryant fell instantly through the branches, mortally wounded, the ball entering at the breast and passing out at the shoulder. He died the same night; but, as usual, his murder was not taken the slightest notice of.
An order at length arrived, and a medical board having sat accordingly, I was pronounced, through wounds, unfit for further service. I packed up my traps, and hastened to leave the neighbourhood. I felt as few ever felt before: and, even now, seated in my family circle, though years have intervened, seem to breathe anew the freedom I experienced at my deliverance from this worse than purgatory.
Thus ends my military career; which, little as it can boast of leading incident, may yet prove interesting. I shall, however, feel contented if it but assist to wile away a dull hour, or keep alive the recollection of personal enterprise among those of my veteran comrades whom war has permitted to live and peruse it. It is but a plain, unvarnished attempt to relate my individual adventures; and, perhaps, like the works of most men, might have amused its author, but for the fatigues and intricacies of compilation. “The fame of a scholar,” an eminent writer has observed, “is acquired only in solitude; and he connects but a chain of silent and cool reflection.” With me it is different: all my recollections are mixed up in extraordinary broils and confusions, which make it no easy task, from out so great a variety, to connect even the few incidents, thus huddled together in the
Adventures of a Soldier.
THE END.
LONDON:
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