The morning turned out showery, the division formed in three sides of a square, and the guard, headed by the band with Arnal in front, slowly marched round; the muffled drum beat in dull time the “Dead March,” and the swell of its solemn harmony, though it filled the eyes of every man present, only seemed to strengthen the glance of the doomed. He led the van of his funeral procession, like one who was to live for ever: his step was as firm and more correct than any, and I thought at the time, a finer soldier never stepped. Poor Arnal, I shall never forget when we halted at his own grave, the heavy rains had filled it half with water, which he noticed with a faint smile, and observed:
“Although a watery one, I shall sleep sound enough in it.” He then stood upright in a fine military position, while the Brigade-Major read aloud the proceedings of the court-martial. The provost came to tie the handkerchief round his eyes, when he coolly remarked, “There is no occasion—I shall not flinch.” Being told it was customary, he said, “Very well, do your duty.” Before this last office was performed, he turned round, and calling most of the guard by name, bade them farewell. As I nodded to him in return, I fancied it was to a dead man, for in two minutes he was no more. The intrepid and cool manner in which he met his fate, drew forth a general feeling of admiration.
A few days after the execution we marched for Badajoz, in the environs of which we arrived on the 17th of March. This celebrated city, of which so much has been said and written, stands on an extended plain equidistant three leagues from Elvas and Campo Mayor. The Guadiana which hereabouts forms the boundary between Spain and Portugal, flows on one side of the fortification, and connects with them by a bridge over its surface, one or two forts on the opposite banks. The fortress on all sides is surrounded by strong bastions to the number of thirteen or fourteen, which with trenches and other forts and outworks rendered it almost impregnable. In addition to these the Rivella a tributary stream to the Guadiana flowed round and through the trenches in our front.
Our battalion on its arrival took up its encampment on the Spanish side of the river, where we occupied a small hill, and for the first time during our campaigns made use of small square tents, belonging to the Portuguese.
The first night of our arrival we commenced laying siege, by breaking ground within three or four hundred yards of the town, Fort St. Roch and Fort Pumena rather on our left; we lost a man named Brooks, whose death was connected with a very singular circumstance.
Brooks several days before his death, dreamt he saw the body of a rifleman without a head: this apparition appeared three or four nights successively in his dreams. Some days after we had taken one of the forts from the enemy, our battalion was relieved in the trenches. On this occasion, as was very customary with some of us, Brooks, another man named Tracey, and myself, jumped out of the trench, exposing ourselves to a fire from the walls of the town while we ran to the next parallel. In executing this feat I was a little ahead of my comrades, when I heard the rush of a cannon-ball, and feeling my jacket splashed by something, as soon as I had jumped into the next parallel, or trench, I turned round and beheld the headless body of Brooks which actually stood quivering with life for a few seconds before it fell. His dream, poor fellow! had singularly augured the conclusion of his own career. The shot had smashed and carried away the whole of his head, bespattering my jacket with the brains, while Tracey was materially injured by having a splinter of the skull driven deep through the skin behind his ear. This circumstance is well known to several now living in London.
About the 22nd of March, a party was ordered to proceed to Elvas for the purpose of conducting some heavy artillery from that strong fortress for our own use against the walls of Badajoz; after placing six or eight large guns on things resembling sledges, the weather being exceedingly wet, it took twelve bullocks to draw each gun. On arriving at the pontoon bridge that crosses the Guadiana river, which separates Badajoz from Elvas, a distance of about three leagues, the bridge was so damaged that the guns could not pass over, so we were obliged to bivouac for the night amongst a party of sappers, stationed there for the purpose of repairing the pontoons.
After the bullocks were unharnessed, they began jumping and frisking about, to the no small amusement of our men, but to their danger, as it afterwards proved. The French seeing the bullocks grazing, commenced firing on them, as well as occasionally sending a twenty-four-pounder at our little party then stationed on a rising ground, amusing ourselves at the random twenty-four-pound shots as they hopped about. At night, placing our advanced picquet near the town, the remainder of the party turned into the tents of the sappers for the night, but their slumbers were not so sound as they anticipated, for at the dead but not silent hour of night, a round-shot came whirling through one of the tents, striking the pole, and brought it down on those within. Their cries having awoke those of the adjoining tent, they immediately flew to their assistance, and having relieved them from this new-fashioned man-trap, rats never flew with more agility than did the poor sappers from their lair. I could not forbear laughing at the scene, although attended with bad consequences, as one man had his thigh broke, and another his leg taken off at the calf. While helping to raise the tents every eye was intent, looking out for another French visitor in the shape of a twenty-four-pounder, but the drollery of a countryman of mine gave some zest to their serenity; instead of bolting like the rest, he coolly said, “Where the devil are you all scampering to? Sure you don’t think the French took aim? I wished they did, for if they had, by Jasus they wouldn’t hit our tent in a week! You may be easy then, for they never hit twice in the same place.” The two poor fellows thus dangerously wounded were comrades, and natives of Coventry, one named Green, and the other Gea. The next morning the sappers having put the pontoons to rights, the guns passed over, and we arrived safe at our own camp.
The greatest annoyance we experienced during the siege arose from the shells thrown at us from the town. Our works effectually screened us from the round-shot; but these dangerous missiles, falling into the trenches where we worked, and exploding, frequently did great mischief. Immediately a shell fell, every man threw himself flat upon the ground until it had burst. Tom Crawley, I remember, though tolerably fearless with reference to other shot, had a most inveterate dislike to those deadly visitors. His fears made him believe, that more of them were thrown where he chanced to be, than in any other part of the trenches. At night in particular, Tom was always on the qui vive: as soon as he beheld a shell coming he would call out, “Here’s another brute—look out!” and instantly fall on his face. This, however, did not always protect us, for the head was no sooner on the ground, than its presence was again required, to watch the falling splinters. These, from their composing large portions of the metal of the missile, descended with great violence, and were sometimes of themselves sufficient to crush a man into the earth.
Lord Wellington used occasionally to pay us a visit during the work, to make observations, and to examine the trenches, &c.