CHAPTER XVII.
Battle of Salamanca—My wounds break out afresh—I go into the Hospital at Salamanca—The Germans and their prisoners—A recognition—Michael Connelly—His death and burial—Josh Hetherington again—A new acquaintance—His accounts of the Guerillas, &c.—A keepsake for a sweetheart—The Guerilla—The army retrace their steps to Salamanca—Proceed to Rodrigo—Heavy wet—Spanish payment; acknowledgment—A dry coat—Lord Charles Spencer and his acorns—We continue our march—The babes in the wood—Hard skirmishing with the enemy’s advanced-guard—A woman in distress—Pepper—Hunger, cold, and fatigue—Finish of the Burgos retreat.
The night previous to the morn that ushered in the day of battle, viz., the 22nd of July, 1812, was the most stormy, I think, I ever witnessed. The thunder, lightning, and rain seemed striving which should excel, while their united effect was terrible. We lay, without covering, in an open field close to the river Tormes. It is needless to say, not a man that night had on a dry shred. It has, I believe, been previously remarked, by military and other writers, that rain has been the forerunner of almost all our general battles. From my own recollection, the truth of this assertion is singularly supported by facts.
The battle of Salamanca commenced about ten or twelve o’clock, upon our right, on a rising ground. Our position was first disturbed by some cannon-shot of the enemy that fell very near, but fortunately without doing any harm.
Although every moment expecting to be sent into the thick of it, we kept undisturbed possession of our ground, from whence we could see the column of the enemy on the heights engaged in attempting to repel the advance of our troops. When the “glad sounds of victory” reached us, a general feeling of pleasure pervaded our ranks, mixed perhaps with some regret that we had not taken a more active share in the battle. But all we could do we did, which was to pepper the French well in their hurried retreat from the field. In fact, it seemed to me as if the whole French army might have been cut off by a little promptitude.
We halted at Huerta. The following morning our division crossed the river Tormes in pursuit of the enemy. We came up with their rear strongly posted on the side of a hill on the left of the road. Here we beheld one of those few charges that so seldom succeed against well-trained infantry: this was the celebrated charge of Major-General Bock, who, at the head of his heavy German cavalry, broke the French squares, taking them prisoners almost to a man. It was the most gallant dash of cavalry that ever was witnessed.
This day I began to feel the ill effects of the wound I had received at Badajoz, which the fatigue of marching and the warmth of the weather had again caused to break out. On inspecting the sore, our surgeon immediately recommended me to go into hospital at Salamanca, for a few days of medical treatment and rest. Accordingly I set out for Salamanca with the guard appointed to escort the prisoners taken in the recent cavalry affair by our Germans. I never before saw such severe-looking sabre-cuts as many of them had received; several with both eyes cut out, and numbers had lost both ears. Their wounded, who were carried in waggons, were extremely numerous, and it was painful, even to an old soldier, to hear their groans and incessant cries for water. The escort consisted chiefly of the Germans that had taken them prisoners, and it was pleasing to behold these gallant fellows, in the true spirit of glory, paying the greatest attention to the wants of the wounded. Water, as I have remarked, from the loss of blood that had taken place among the wounded, was in particular request. One of the prisoners, who had his arm hanging, probably in endeavouring to defend his head from a sword-cut—for, indeed, there were very few gun-shot wounds among them—was in particular very frequent in his demands for “eau” (water), when none could be obtained. Perhaps imagining himself neglected, we were not a little surprised to hear him suddenly change his language, and call out in English, “For the love of Jesus, give me something to quench my thirst; I am a fellow-countryman of your own.” On entering into conversation with him I found he formerly belonged to the 9th Regiment of Foot, and had been taken prisoner with a number of others of his regiment, while on board a ship some time previous, since which occurrence he had been prevailed upon to enter the French service in preference to being kept in close confinement. At Salamanca a sentry was placed over him; what became of him I know not.
On arriving at Salamanca our wounded prisoners, some other invalids, and myself were immediately taken into hospital. There we were, French and English, laid up together; and there, I must say, I saw sufficient practice daily in the use of the surgeon’s knife to become perfectly familiar with every form attendant upon amputation. While lying in hospital, at all times a wretched place, from the groans of the numerous sufferers, I was here placed under the immediate attendance of Sergeant Michael Connelly, in charge of our ward, who being sufficiently recovered from a slight wound, was appointed sergeant to the hospital. He was one of the most singular characters I ever met with, and if an awkward person and uncouth face had gained him the preferment, his match certainly could not be found elsewhere. Mike was exceedingly attentive to the sick, and particularly anxious that the British soldier when dying, should hold out a pattern of firmness to the Frenchmen, who lay intermixed with us in the same wards.
“Hould your tongue, ye blathering devil,” he would say, in a low tone, “and don’t be after disgracing your country in the teeth of these ere furriners, by dying hard. Ye’ll have the company at your burial, won’t you? Ye’ll have the drums beating and the guns firing over ye, won’t you? Marciful God! what more do you want? ye are not at Elvas, to be thrown into a hole like a dog—ye’ll be buried in a shroud and coffin, won’t you? For God’s sake, die like a man before these ere Frenchers.”
Mike, however, had one great failing, he drank like a whale, and did not scruple to adopt as gifts or legacies, the wine rations of both the dying and the dead, until he drank himself out of the world, and as his patients remarked, after all, he died “like a beast.”