I had not proceeded far with the intention of gaining the battalion, when I observed the Duke of Wellington forcing his way, with some of his staff, through gun-carriages and waggons into Vittoria. To my great relief, however, he took no notice of myself and mule. In fact, his Grace was too much occupied in securing the brilliant results of our victory in the capture of the entire matériel of the French army which fell into our hands.
Almost all our men at this time, I must remark, to use a phrase much in vogue among us, were endeavouring to see what they could make—in other words take. I reached our camp, however, in safety.
This night we encamped amidst the wreck of the French army, every man bringing into his camp ground whatever he fancied—for the unfortunate enemy were compelled to leave everything behind them, even to their women and children—so that, if our fellows were inclined to be honest, their good fortune would not allow them. The ground occupied by our regiment was near a small village, a little off the main road that leads to Pampeluna.
As soon as our fires were lighted, the men, who had been under arms from three o’clock in the morning until eleven at night, and consequently had not tasted food for the whole of the day, began to fill their hungry maws from the luxuries of the French camp. Roast fowls, hams, mutton, &c. were in abundance, and at midnight the wine and brandy went round in horn tots which we generally carried about us. The men mostly lay stretched on the ground, their feet towards the fires, and elbows resting on their knapsacks; as soon as the grog began to rouse up their spirits from the effects of the day’s fatigue, each one commenced inquiries about their absent comrades, for Riflemen in action being always extended, seldom know who falls until the affray is over.
“Blood an ounds,” said Dan Kelly, bouncing up from his reclining posture; “don’t drink all the wine, boys, until we hear something about our absent messmates. Does any of you know where Jack Connor is?”
“He was shot through the body, when we took the first gun in the little village near the main road,” was the reply.
“Where is Will John,” asked Bob Roberts, with a sudden glance of suspense.
“The ball passed through his head,” said another, “I saw poor Will fall.”
“Musha, boys! is there any hope of poor Jemmy Copely getting over his wounds?” said Tom Tracy, earnestly, lifting his head from his knapsack.
“Poor Copely!” replied another; “both his legs were knocked off by a round shot.”