I now proceeded to the right breach, which had been carried by the third division, where the mine had been sprung. The sight exhibited was heart-rending in the extreme. The dead lay in heaps, numbers of them stripped, and displaying the most ghastly wounds. Here and there, half-buried under the blackened fragments of the wall, or reeking on the surface of the ruin, lay those who had been blown up in the explosion, their remains dreadfully mangled and discoloured, and strewed about amongst dissevered arms and legs.
The 88th, or Connaught Rangers, had suffered most severely at this spot, and I observed a number of poor Irish women hopelessly endeavouring to distinguish the burnt features of their husbands.
Though heartily sick of the morning’s mournful perambulation, I yet felt anxious to see Captain Uniacke; his remains lay on the suburbs, in a house next to that where those of our brave old General were stretched out. Several of the men of his company crowded about his person, hoping—for he was still living, and sensible—that he might yet return amongst us. But his arm had been torn from the socket, and he died some few days afterwards.
Here let me pay a brief, though sincere tribute to his memory; though young in years, he was gallant, daring, and just to all whom he commanded.
During the Peninsular war our men had divided the officers into two classes; the “come on,” and the “go on;” for as Tom Plunkett in action once observed to an officer, “The words ‘go on’ don’t befit a leader, Sir.”—To the honour of the service, the latter, with us Rifles, were exceedingly few in numbers. But amongst the former, none were seen so often in the van as Uniacke; his affability and personal courage had rendered him the idol of the men of his company.
A very small portion only of the troops that had taken Rodrigo were allowed to remain in the city, and our battalion, among others, were ordered back to their former quarters. The next morning as we marched over the bridge, dressed in all the varieties imaginable, some with jack-boots on, others with frock-coats, epaulettes, &c., and some with even monkeys on their shoulders, we met the fifth division on their way to repair the breach; they immediately formed upon the left of the road, presented arms, and cheered us as we went along.
I was afterwards told by several of our men that the Duke of Wellington, who saw us on our march, inquired of his staff, “Who the devil are those fellows?”
We entered El Bodon, with songs: and welcomed by the “vivas” of the inhabitants.
CHAPTER XIV.
Burial of General Crauford—Anecdote of Ladrone! Ladrone!—Corporal Miles—Burial of Uniacke—A French seat of honour in jeopardy—A wolf! a wolf!—Deserters shot—Scene of execution—March to Castello de Vide across the Tagus—Execution of Corporal Arnal for desertion—Badajoz—A man dreaming of his head being off with his head on; singular fulfilment—Tom Crawley’s dislike to conchology—His alarms—The Duke of Wellington saluted by the enemy—Remarkable feature of the case—A French curative or an ill-wind, &c.