CHAPTER VIII.
The enemy retire upon Santarem—We retire upon Vallée—The bridge over the Rio Mayor—The French out-lying sentries—Their camp ground—Comparative quietude—The still—Escape from assassination—Tom Crawley’s ghost story—The “Death and Glory men”—The charms of a Brunswickian appetite—Their desertions—Sergeant Fleming—His court-martial—We meet our enemies on the water and contend—A comment on both sides.
About the middle of November the enemy retired, and we made a movement to follow them towards Santarem, which they immediately occupied and strongly fortified. As soon as we came in sight of their works, our battalion received orders to cross a river (the Rio Mayor), which discharged itself into the Tagus, about half a mile lower down on our right. While executing this movement, we met with rather a warm reception, which became more intense as we attempted to get a peep into their position; we however were obliged in turn to retreat, and finally took up our cantonments at a place called Vallée. The regiment was distributed in companies on the houses on both sides of the main road, that to which I was attached being in an old wine-store near the bridge crossing the Mayor.
On this bridge we had double sentries, and abbatis of fallen trees. But the better to foil the incursions of the enemy, the arches had been undermined, and the powder secured from the wet by bullocks’ hides, trained ready for explosion.
About two hundred yards in front of this were the French outlying sentries, and a little in their rear, on a slight eminence, their camp ground, which they had very beautifully built over with ranges of huts.
About three or four miles to our left, and divided from us by the Rio Mayor, rose the pretty town of Santarem; its towers and steeples peering up from the summit of a hill, studded on all sides with groves of olive-trees. The prospect from it must have been very “soul-stirring,” as the two armies lay within shell range, although they never interfered with each other for the whole of the four or five months that we were there; during this time we were flanked on the left and right by the 43rd and 52nd regiments, and enjoyed the most uninterrupted repose, almost our sole employment being to watch the French movements.
Some of the men, for want of better pastime, succeeded in constructing a still, with which they managed to make spirits from a quantity of dried grapes, found in the old wine-house; a discovery, however, soon took place, much to our chagrin, and the still was destroyed by our old Captain, Peter O’Hare.
The sanguinary nature of the Portuguese during the whole period of the war was notorious. When crossed or excited, nothing but the shedding of blood could allay their passion. It was always with the greatest difficulty that we could preserve our French prisoners from being butchered by them even in cold blood. They would hang upon the rear of a detachment with prisoners like so many carrion birds, waiting every opportunity to satiate their love of vengeance; and it required all the firmness and vigilance of our troops to keep them in check. It was well known that even our men fell in stepping between them and the French, whom they had marked out as victims. Indeed it was not unfrequent for our own men to suffer from the consequences of their ferocity, and I myself, while at Vallée, had a narrow escape. I had crossed the hills to purchase some necessaries at the quarters of the 52nd regiment, and on my return fell in with several of the soldiers of the 3rd Caçadores; one of them, a fierce-looking scoundrel, evinced a great inclination to quarrel, the more particularly as he perceived that I was unarmed and alone. Having replied rather sharply to some abuse they had cast upon the English, by reflecting on their countrymen in return, he flew into a rage, drew his bayonet, and made a rush at me, which I avoided by stepping aside, and tripping him head foremost on the ground; I was in the act of seizing his bayonet, when a number of his comrades came up, to whom he related, in exaggerated terms, the cause of our disagreement. Before he had half concluded, a general cry arose of “kill the English dog,” and the whole drawing their bayonets, were advancing upon me when a party of the 52nd came up, the tables were turned, and the Caçadores fled in all directions.
Among other laughable circumstances that made the time pass gaily while we remained here, was a ghost story, in which Tom Crawley cut rather a conspicuous figure. We had accoutred ourselves, as was our custom before laying down for the night’s repose, when in rushed Tom Crawley like a distracted man.
“Bring me some salt and water for the love of God, boys!” he immediately demanded; “I have seen a ghost.”