At Castle Sarazin we used to be on our usual excellent terms with the French quartered in the neighbourhood, and to while away the time had constant matches with them in running, jumping, and gymnastic exercises. I got acquainted here with a very smart fellow—a French sergeant belonging to the 43rd regiment. A friendship was cemented between us, naturally enough, by our both being free-masons.
One day we were sitting in a wine-house, when the subject of fencing—a science at which the French prize themselves in excelling—was started. My friend, the sergeant, was observing he was a tolerable hand with the foil, when a short lump of a fellow, who proved to be the fencing-master of the town, overhearing him, immediately challenged him to a trial of skill. This the sergeant in an instant accepted, and the sport, at which he showed himself a perfect adept, at the fencing-master’s cost, was carried on with perfect good-humour, until a fierce dispute arose about a hit, when it was mutually agreed to determine the controversy with points. A pair of foils with sharpened points, kept for this particular service were immediately produced, while the by-standers instantly commenced betting upon the combatants with all the sang froid in the world. Both had taken off their coats and bared their right arms for the strife, when—I am sorry to disappoint the reader, who may expect an account of a duel—our guard, which some good-natured soul had privately summoned, came in and put an end to the affair, greatly to the chagrin of the sergeant, who swore he would have killed the professor on the spot.
That same evening the sergeant, whose name, in the lapse of years, I have forgotten, went to our Colonel and obtained leave for me to visit him at Montauban, where his regiment, the 43rd, was quartered. He had invited a corporal, myself, and another, to a dinner given by the non-commissioned officers of his regiment. On the day appointed away we started, Gilbert, the corporal, and myself. I shall never forget it. It was a fine morning. After crossing the Garonne in open boats, for the bridge had been destroyed previous to the battle of Toulouse, we entered Montauban, and found the 43rd and two other regiments forming a brigade, drawn up on parade in the square of the town, and two splendid bands playing in front.
As we went in search of our friend we had to pass down the front of two of the French regiments, which we did, saluting, soldier-like, their officers. The latter returned our salute in the manner for which they are so justly remarked, and made us feel not a little proud of their courtesy. Our uniforms were almost new, and fitted us well. My two comrades had the advantage of being tall, and exceedingly smart-looking fellows; for myself, I was fat as a butt, and as strong as I looked. We moved along the line, until we fell in with the sergeant, who, starting out of the ranks, gave us a hearty welcome. We waited beside him while the band played some favourite airs, until the regiments were dismissed. But they had scarcely broken their ranks when their officers crowded around us, and severally shook us by the hand, giving us also sundry smacks on the shoulders, with “Bravos les Anglais, soyez les bien venus,” &c. The sergeant escorted us immediately to his quarters. The dining-room was a splendid one, and fitted up beautifully. The tables groaned under every delicacy of the season, and we did not forget, even here, to do “justice” to the acknowledged “merits” of John Bull in all matters of this “nature.”
Much good feeling and conviviality followed; and encomiums and compliments were passed on the English; all went on very well until singing was introduced with the removal of the cloth. It had been agreed among the French that no song should be sung that reflected upon our country. Several famous songs, so far as we could understand, were introduced. Our sergeant gave us an excellent specimen; and Gilbert and myself joined also in our own rough manner. But a French corporal, under the influence of wine, commenced a “Chanson de guerre,” rather contre les Anglais, for which, with a very proper feeling, he was by general consent kicked down stairs. The guests, however, resumed their seats, and all went on as quietly as before; here we remained enjoying ourselves till three the next morning, when we were accompanied to the boats by a number of their band, playing “Patrick’s Day,” as they escorted us down to the river-side.
The foregoing anecdote, trivial and uninteresting as it may seem, still serves to show, in a pleasing point of view, the hospitality and kind feelings of the French, who have always claimed our highest respect.
In a few days we received an order to proceed to Bordeaux, to embark for England. The delightful emotions of pleasure this generally induced throughout our men, after all their hardships and sufferings, may be better imagined than described. The second day’s march we stopped at a village, the name of which I forget, where we had to part from our allies, the Spanish and Portuguese. Much, and even deep feelings of regret, were particularly felt by the men of our battalion on parting from the Spaniards, who had been for so long a period incorporated in our ranks. They had been distinguished for their gallantry, and although sixteen had been drafted into our company, but five had survived to bid us farewell. Poor fellows, they had grown attached to the battalion, and expressed much grief on leaving! Even Blanco, the sanguinary Blanco, actually shed tears. Notwithstanding the wretched and ineffective state of the Spanish armies during the campaigns in the Peninsula, I am convinced, and have indeed become more so from subsequent experience, that there is right stuff in the men to make excellent soldiers, far superior to the Portuguese.
Many men of our regiment, bound by the charms of the Signorettas, who had followed their fortunes throughout the war, took this opportunity to desert their country’s cause, to take up that of their Dulcineas. Among others were two of my own company, who, not contented with the “arms” offered by these “invincibles” took rifles and all with them, and we never saw or heard of them after.
We embarked in high spirits at Bordeaux, for Portsmouth, on board the ‘Ville de Paris,’ Captain Jones, commander. She was a splendid ship, and astonished us all with the size and regularity of her crew. The sailors, who seldom like a red coat, went hand in hand with us green jackets, and were a jolly set of fellows.
We had in our regiment, at this time, now on board with us, and on his way to England, a sergeant of the name of S——n, (which must be a sufficient explanation to the reader, as he is, I understand, now living, and in London), a fine, smart-looking fellow, about six feet in height. He had been with us during the whole of the Peninsular campaign, and was one of those who, after the battle of Corunna, had remained in Spain. He was now on his passage homeward to his wife, to whom he had been married for ten or eleven years, and whom, some months after the wedding, he was obliged to leave with her friends at Portsmouth to rejoin his regiment, then going abroad; by some unaccountable circumstances, incidental to long campaigns, he never had received any tidings of or from her; and he consequently was now very uncertain as to where he should find her, or whether she were living or dead.