If there are any among my readers so lost to common sense and patriotism, as to glory in the prospect of revolution in their own favoured country, let me tell them that the “lopping” of the limb is a dangerous remedy, and that can scarcely ever be justifiable. Few can wander amid the realities of dissevered and disjointed Spain, and not feel the truth of my observation. Her treachery may be a good plea with some, but war, and especially those inappropriately called “civil” are enough to make any nation treacherous, especially when “pretended friends” ride rough-shod over the soil and feelings of the inhabitants.
At Breviesca we commenced a regular system of drilling, but, in my opinion, useless; the Rifles were drilled collectively, instead of being exercised in light infantry manœuvres, which last, every practical soldier must well know, was better adapted to the mountain warfare we were about to engage in (not only for the Rifles, but for every regiment of the Legion). But instead of this, they were confined to marching round in columns of companies, saluting the General, forming lines, &c. This I pointed out to our Colonel, with a request that we might be allowed fifteen or twenty rounds of blank cartridge, to exercise the men a little in sham fighting; to this he acceded, and it afterwards proved of great service.
During the short time we remained at Breviesca, the drilling and the provosting system were as usual carried on most rigorously: these, with our long and harassing march from Bilboa, together with the damp convents, &c., laid the foundation of all the sickness and mortality that afterwards befel the unfortunate Legion.
About this time an order came from Madrid, for the whole of the men to be paid up to the last day of November, 1835; this was the only settlement that Captains of companies had with the paymaster, until the dissolution of the Legion.
After remaining in this town about three weeks, the Legion marched for Vittoria, leaving two large hospitals crowded with sick.
The morning of our departure was exceedingly inclement, and those who witnessed our march from Breviesca, will not readily forget the scene that presented itself. The ground was covered with snow; such of the sick as could not be accommodated in the hospitals, in the absence of every other conveyance, were mounted upon donkeys, supported on each side by their comrades, and enveloped in old rugs, watch-coats and blankets, as a protection against the inclemency of the season. As this spectre group moved along in sad and melancholy procession, their gaunt appearance produced a strong sensation upon the troops, as they passed them on the line of march. The Englishman commented on their worn and wretched appearance, and commiserated their sufferings; while the calculating Scotchman anticipated that before long, such probably might be their own fate. But an Irishman roared out from the ranks, “Prepare to receive cavalry!” and then making a full stop, and scratching his head, as he deliberately surveyed, with a serio-comic expression of countenance, the melancholy cavalcade of invalids, exclaimed, with a significant nod to his comrades, “By Jasus, boys, there’s no danger, they are quietly marching to tother world!”
After going through the romantic pass of Pancorbo, we halted for the night in a mountain village, on the left of the main road. My company was told off to two houses, and as I ever made it a rule to visit the men’s quarters after a day’s march, I found in one of their billets, the patrone and two of his children laying dead, huddled together on some Indian corn-leaves, with an old blanket thrown over them, and the unfortunate mother in another corner of the room weeping most bitterly, with an infant in her arms, without fire, or any other thing to comfort her. It appeared, from the forlorn widow’s statement, that her husband was pressed by the Carlists for a soldier. Being fond of his children he deserted, and remained secreted until he died from want. We collected a small sum for her, and I got the children interred.
The next day, at about two o’clock, we came in sight of the city of Vittoria; its towers slowly emerging to the view as we neared it over the plains.
I cannot describe how I felt, on again beholding this place, so celebrated for the victory we had gloriously achieved here, under our immortal Wellington, some four or five-and-twenty years before. The very hedges became familiar to me; but when we arrived at the village on the main road where we had taken the first gun, and where I so fortunately escaped death, I could no longer suppress my emotions, but turning my pony off the road from my company into the fields, I gave vent to my feelings. Weak as this may appear, it nevertheless is true, and I stood as one—the last of the time-forgotten numbers who had consecrated the scene. I felt as it were amidst them, and, unconsciously looked about, as if under the impression that the soil would throw out some of my old comrades. But all was one bleak flat, edged in on either side by mountains, which seemed to rear their heads like tombstones o’er the glorious sleepers at their base.
How many a year had passed, how many a care had done its best to wither up my heart-strings, but oh! how vain! I was still the “old soldier!” and though garbed and tilted with the appointments of Captain of a company, it had not altered my nature; and I verily believe, if the offer could have been made, that I should have given up epaulettes and all for one short hour’s converse with my old brother campaigners.