On the following day, we bivouacked near Malpartida de Placentia, when a report reached our corps that a battle had been fought at Talavera, and that the English had been beaten and dispersed. Although I believe few of us gave credit to the story, still it created some uneasiness amongst men and officers. Its effect, however, upon our brigadier, was to make him hurry forward with, if possible, increased speed. Our bivouac was immediately broken up. We got under arms, and leaving the sick of the brigade behind us in the town under charge of a subaltern from each regiment, we commenced one of the longest marches, with scarcely a halt or pause, on the military records of any country. To use the words of our admirable historian of the Peninsular War, we “passed over sixty-two miles, and in the hottest season of the year in twenty-six hours.” As Colonel Napier justly observes, “Had the historian Gibbon known of such a march, he would have spared his sneer about ‘the delicacy of modern soldiers.’”
As we approached Talavera, we learned for a fact, that a battle had been fought from the crowds of disorderly Spanish soldiery we continued to meet upon the road; some few of them were wounded. These men were part of General Cuesta’s army that had been beaten by the French on the 27th, and who chose to give the most disastrous account of the English army, which they stated was completely destroyed. We could not but remark, that these Spaniards, whom we knew to be a disorganised crew, had not forgotten to help themselves to plunder in their flight, as most of them carried some article or other to which they could have little claim, such as hams, cheese and fowls. Some, although infantry-men, rode on excellent horses, while others drove mules, carrying sacks of flour, &c. Never was seen such a thoroughly demoralized wreck of an army.
As we advanced nearer to the scene of action the reports became less formidable, until the heights of Talavera burst upon our sight, and we hailed, with three loud huzzas, the news that the British, in the action of the preceding day with the French, had been victorious.
Our bugles struck up merrily as we crossed the field of battle early in the morning, on the 29th of July. The scene, however, was most appalling, especially to the young soldiers; we had partaken in no encounter as yet, and here had missed the interest which blunted the feelings of the men engaged. We “raw ones,” indeed, had as yet scarcely seen the enemy, and recognised no comrades among the fallen. The ice still remained to be broken which the experience of one engagement would have done effectually. The field of action had occupied an extensive valley, situated between two ranges of hills, on which the British and French armies were posted. It was now strewn with all the wreck of the recent battle. The dead and dying, to the amount of some thousands, conquerors and conquered, lay diversely in little heaps, interspersed with dismounted guns, and shattered ammunition-waggons, while broken horse-trappings, and blood-stained chacots, and other torn paraphernalia of military pomp and distinction, completed the reality of the battle scene.
The long grass which had taken fire during the action was still burning, and added dreadfully to the sufferings of the wounded and dying of both armies; their cries for assistance were horrifying, and hundreds might have been seen exerting the last remnant of their strength, crawling to places of safety.
In the midst of this, it was that I saw, for the first time, our immortal chief Sir Arthur Wellesley. I also then beheld that deformed-looking lump of pride, ignorance and treachery, General Cuesta. He was the most murderous-looking old man I ever saw.
On our arrival we were immediately ordered upon outpost duty: in executing which we had to throw out a line of sentinels facing the French position. Another and a more painful duty that devolved upon us, was to carry the wounded men into the town of Talavera. Many of these poor fellows, I remarked, were dreadfully burnt.
In consequence of the increasing weakness of the British army at this period, the ranks of which were daily thinned through the scantiness and wretched quality of the food with which they were, of necessity, supplied, as well perhaps as by the accession of strength which the French had received, Lord Wellington was induced to retire. After retracing, for a few days, the route by which we had arrived, our brigade was left by the main army encamped upon a rocky eminence partly surrounded by wood, and overlooking the river Tagus. It was a wild and beautiful scene, with several corn-fields in our immediate neighbourhood.
Our living here became truly savage. Although we remained at this place for two or three weeks, I think we scarcely received half a dozen rations during that period, but existed, as we could, by our own ingenuity. Fortunately for us, as regards meat, there were some droves of pigs that were taken into the woods to feed, and which fattened upon the acorns. To these animals, that were generally under the charge of some Spaniards, we were obliged to have recourse for food. For bread we took the corn from the fields, and, having no proper means of winnowing and grinding it, were obliged as a substitute to rub out the ears between our hands, and then pound them between stones to make into dough, such as it was. From this latter wretched practice, we christened the place “Dough Boy Hill,” a name by which it is well remembered by the men of our division.
From the preceding place we marched to Campo Mayor; we remained here three months, during which time a dreadful mortality took place. In our regiment, alone, the flux and brain fever reigned to so frightful an extent, that three hundred men died in hospital. I myself was seized with the prevailing fever shortly after our arrival, and was sent to the Convent of St. Paul, the general hospital at Elvas.