From early youth, war has my mistress been,
And tho’ a rugged one, I’ll constant prove,
And not forsake her now.
It will be unnecessary for me to drag the reader through my chequered life, from the time I left the British army until my last campaign in Spain. I shall, therefore, jump across the interval, and bring him at once to the period at which I entered the British Legion.
It is generally remarked that the life of a service soldier is full of incident; but the sphere in which he is designed to move can be understood only by those who have themselves moved in it. In general, old soldiers in describing battles, fill their accounts with the roar of cannon, the clouds of smoke, and the groans and cries of the wounded and dying; but in this part of my narrative, if I cannot relate the former, I will endeavour to describe the miseries of the unfortunate men with whom it was my fate to serve; and as I mean neither to borrow nor dispose of any other man’s stuff, I will relate those things only that came under my own observation.
I am aware that some military men fancy a man cannot fight unless he has his country’s cause at heart, that in their ideas being the only thing capable of arousing his martial ardour; but I beg most humbly to differ from those gentlemen, and to tell them, that when a British subject is put into uniform, and placed in the ranks, with a firelock in his hand, before an enemy, he requires no stimulant nor patriotic impulse to urge him in attacking those opposed to him; neither can I see why a British subject should be ridiculed or prevented from (what he terms) “earning an honest livelihood;” nor why if he prefers being knocked on the head in serving a Foreign Power, he should be termed a mercenary and a murderer, as has been the case with the Legion.
But if he be kidnapped by a recruiting-sergeant, or pressed by a press-gang into the British service, there is no doubt but that John Bull and his brethren of the sister kingdoms, will make the best of a bad matter, which, as old soldiers well know, is only to be done by going the whole hog on every occasion; most soldiers like myself, find in their muskets and bayonets, their only title-deeds; these from the “smallness” of the estates they represent are but poor guarantees: when, cut up and well drilled by bullets, or long and active service; old age steals on, and premature infirmities commence their march upon them.
In the beginning of July, 1835, I enclosed documents from officers of rank in the British army, with a statement of my own service and the rank I had held in that service to Colonel, now Sir De Lacy Evans, and expressed a wish to enter under his command.
In the course of a few days an answer was sent to me from Mr. H. Bulwer,[[25]] M.P. for St. Marylebone, stating that Colonel Evans had appointed me as Lieutenant in the 7th Light Infantry, B.A.L., and requesting me to attend at his house that day, as General Evans wished to see me.
I attended at the hour appointed, and for the first time had the honour of conversing with the General himself, who treated me with that gentlemanly courtesy for which he has ever been remarked; among other matters, he asked me several questions concerning a Rifle regiment, and their probable efficacy in the field. To these, according to my humble experience, I gave him to understand that as the war was principally confined to the Pyrenees, and the northern and more mountainous provinces, no body of men could be more efficient, both from their dress as well as their arms.