Amongst the convalescents, but very recently from Cockneyshire, was a man named Josias Hetherington. This fellow was one of the queerest I ever met with, and I verily believe had seen service before, but amongst gipsies, prigs, gaol-birds, and travelling showmen. There was not a move but what he was up to, and in addition to these, he was an excellent ventriloquist, and terrified the inhabitants as we went along, whenever an occasion offered.
I think it was on the third day’s march, we had stopped for the night in a small village, and as it happened, Josh. and I got billeted in the same house together. Outside our quarters in front of the house, was a small square (every town, village and pig-stye in Portugal has one,) in the middle of which and while we were cooking our rations the inhabitants had commenced a fandango. This also is usual on Sundays in Portugal. Attracted by the whistle and a small drum beaten by a short, dumpy, ugly looking lump of a Portuguese, Josh. and I would occasionally run down to join, and leave our pots beside the Patrone’s wood fire as close as we could to the red embers. But invariably, when we came in to take a peep at the boiling progress, we found our utensils moved aside and the contents as cold as charity. Josh. looked at me, and I at Josh., the same as to say, “Who the blazes moves our meat about so?” Josh. however hearing footsteps on the stairs, popped me and himself after into a kind of pantry. I partially closed the door, and there we stood watching.
In a few minutes in came the Patrone or lady of the house, and looking about her a little, bounced to our little utensils, and was proceeding to purloin the meat, muttering something to herself at the same moment. But she had scarcely put a hand to it, when a voice as if from the pot plainly told her to “Sperum poco,” (wait a little.) The old woman frisked up, looked doubtful, crossed herself, and with the courage this afforded, again attacked the pot. But the same words only quick and smart as a rifle shot, sent her reeling and screeching to the corner of the kitchen. “Oh Santa Maria! oh Jesu, oh la deos! Pedro aye el demonio ei in panello, (the devil’s in the pot,) Santa Maria ora—ora—ora—ora pro nobis!” and the good soul went off in a Portuguese fit.
Josh. and I, scarcely able to contain our mirth, rushed out of the house instantly and joined in the crowd, which her screams were collecting about the door-way. The old Patrone, when she recovered, was off in a twinkling to the Priest and the Alcalde, but it was all in vain, the billet could not be changed, for the whole village equally feared the devil, and we held quiet possession till the next morning, and might have carried away the house for what the old Patrone cared, for she left her domicile and never returned till we had marched out of the place.
The following day, 12th of October, 1810, I rejoined my regiment encamped near a small village on the lines of Torres Vedras, called Aruda, where I found my old Captain, who despite his severe loss, had scraped together a snug company, partly from men who had made their escape from the French after the affair at Almeida, but chiefly from a batch of recruits that joined our first battalion with the third of our regiment that came from England while I was in hospital. Aruda was a pretty little place enough until we mounted our picquets, when the men dreadfully defaced it, perhaps from a belief that the French might enter—a pleasure they never had.
The inhabitants whose fears had been enhanced by its exposed situation had nearly all evacuated the place, taking with them only the most portable and valuable of their effects, and leaving the houses, as it were, furnished and tenantless. The change was the more extraordinary from the circumstance of its pleasant site having for many years made it a country resort for the rich citizens of Lisbon.
For a few days after our arrival, it presented a picture of most wanton desolation. Furniture of a most splendid description in many instances was laid open to the spoliation of the soldiery. Elegant looking-glasses wrenched from the mantle-pieces were wantonly broken to obtain bits to shave by, and their encasures, with chairs, tables, &c., &c., used as common fire-wood for the picquets; an Israelite would have gloated over the gilded embers, and have deemed perhaps one of them as under the value of what our united fire-places might have been reduced to. These proceedings, however, unravel the secret of spending “half-a-crown out of sixpence a day,” and the philosophical reader will perhaps admit of the plea, that if we had not, the French would have done it for us, an event which we expected, though it fortunately never was realized.
Tom Crawley was particularly pre-eminent in this havoc; his enormous strength and length fitting him especially for the pulling down and “breaking up” department.
Our company was one night on picquet at Aruda; we had, as usual, made a blazing fire close to the stable of a large house, which in the morning we had noticed, contained a very handsome carriage (the only one by-the-bye that I had ever seen in Portugal). Rather late in the evening we missed Tom—who, by the way, had a great love of exploring the houses of the village, and whom we imagined to be employed in his favourite amusement, “looking for wine.” After having consumed sundry chairs to keep alive our fire, we found it necessary to obtain fresh fuel, and while consulting where it was to come from, one man, with an oath, proposed to burn the Portuguese coach. The novelty of the thing among our thoughtless fellows was received with acclamations, and as our officers were absent in a house close by, several started up on their legs for the purpose. The stable-doors were immediately opened, and the coach wheeled backwards into the large blazing fire. “This will make a jolly roast!” exclaimed several of the men, as the paint and paneling began to crack under the influence of the heat. Our scamps were laughing and enjoying what they called a capital joke, but just as the flames were beginning to curl up around the devoted vehicle, a roar like that of a bull came from its interior, and threw us for a moment into consternation: immediately afterwards one of the glasses was dashed out, and Tom Crawley’s big head was thrust through the window, amid shouts of laughter from the men, as he cried out—“Oh bad luck to your sowls! are you going to burn me alive?” At the same moment, urged powerfully by the heat of his berth, he made the most violent efforts to open the door, which from the handle being heated, was a difficult and painful operation. We had some trouble ere we could extricate the poor fellow, and then not before he was severely scorched. It afterwards appeared he had gone half tipsy into the carriage, and was taking a snooze, when he was so warmly awoke. After this occurrence, Crawley used to boast of going to sleep with one eye open.
At this period the French soldiers and ourselves began to establish a very amicable feeling, apart from duty in the field. It was a common thing for us to meet each other daily at the houses between our lines, when perhaps both parties would be in search of wine and food. In one of the houses so situated, I remember once finding Crawley in a drunken state in company with a couple of French soldiers. I was mortified by the merriment his appearance had excited, and could with difficulty get him away, as he stripped, and offered to fight the whole three of us for laughing at him.