With Wellington in Spain: A Story of the Peninsula

by F. S. Brereton

Any doubts Tom may have had as to the determination of Lord Wellington were soon set at rest; for, the weather still continuing atrocious, and the trenches being flooded and almost uninhabitable, an assault of the Picurina was ordered, and the fort carried with brilliant dash by 500 men of the 3rd Division. The storm of shot and shell poured into the fort after we had gained possession of it was such that one wondered how the new garrison could live, for Phillipon, the commander of the French, did his utmost to drive us out. But our men stuck grimly to the task, and again plying their busy spades, soon had advanced to a point where batteries could be erected. And then began a trial of skill and endurance between the gunners of France and those of England. By day and by night the neighbourhood echoed to the roar. A pall of smoke hung over fortress and encampment, while in the depths of night guns flashed redly, and spluttering portfires hovered here and there as the gunners stood to their pieces. At length the work was done; the breaches were declared practicable, though to view them and the grim lines hovering in rear, prepared to defend every inch of the steeply-sloping rubbish, would have caused any but brave men to shiver. But Wellington's men were as determined as he; they had set their hearts on gaining the fortress. The call for a forlorn hope, as ever, produced a swarm of volunteers. That night of 6 April, a night the anniversary of which is ever kept with loving memory by those who now serve in the regiments then present at Badajoz, found 18,000 bold fellows craving for the signal which should launch them to the attack, craving for the signal which, alas! would launch many and many a gallant officer and lad into eternity. Let us, too, remember those heroes with honour, recollecting that by their gallantry and dash they helped in the work in progress, and that every fortress won in this Peninsula campaign was yet another step forward, a step that would add to the difficulties of Bonaparte, and which, with those which followed, ultimately brought about his downfall. Let us honour them as gallant souls who cast off the yoke then weighing upon the peoples of Europe.

"You'll go with the stormers?" asked Jack of Tom, almost beneath his breath, as the two stood side by side in the trenches.

"I've obtained permission, and go I shall," came the determined answer. "Now recollect, Jack, what I've said. If Badajoz is taken, the rascal who has captured my people will do his best to get out of the place. See that our men are lively when the first streak of dawn comes, and let them arrest any civilian."

"Good luck! Take care," gasped Jack, loath to part with his old friend. "I'll watch outside and see that all is done as you've directed; but do take care. Recollect, the regiment can't do without you."

He was sent off with a merry laugh from Tom, and straightway clambered up a rise from which he could view the proceedings. A strange silence hung about the fortress. Within and without the trenches, packed in the batteries, and in many another part lay the stormers, waiting, waiting for that signal. Picton's division on the right crouched over their scaling ladders, ready to rush to the walls of the castle. On the left, Sir James Leith's division waited to make a false attack on the Pardeleras, an outside work. But the Bastion de San Vincente was the real point of attack, and Walker's brigade, part of this division, was destined to assault it. The Light Division was to dash for the Santa Maria quarter, while the 4th was to hurl itself against the breach in the Trinidad quarter. The St. Roque bastion, in between these two latter, was to be stormed by Major Wilson, who was in command of the guards of the trenches. Finally, the Portuguese were to see what could be done with the Tête de Pont, the outwork on the far bank of the River Guadiana, commanding the head of the bridge.

A dull hum above the trenches told of excitement. Flickering lights and a subdued murmur above the fortress showed that the defenders were prepared. Silently men gathered before the 4th and the Light Division, men provided with ladders and axes, with but few rounds of ammunition, and freed of their knapsacks. Each carried a sack filled with hay, which, it was hoped, would give some cover. And before those two parties waiting in front of the two divisions, and each counting 500 men, there fell in yet again two parties of heroes, the forlorn hopes, the officers and men who were sworn to enter the fortress, to show the way in, or to die in the attempt, noble souls who worked not for gold as a reward, but only for the honour and glory of their country.

Ah! a blaze of light from a carcass hurled from the wall showed one of those advance parties. Shouts echoed from the fortress, then there came the splash of flame from guns, the spurting tongues of fire belched from muskets, and the thunder of the explosions. Cheers and hurrahs broke from our men. What matter if the alarm had been sounded half an hour before Wellington was to give the fatal signal? They were ready—the boys of the Light Brigade, the heroes of the 4th Division—the stormers all along the walls were ready. A mad babel broke the former silence or semi-silence, portfires flashed in all directions, while fireballs were hurled into the ditches, lighting the way of the stormers. Pandemonium was let loose at Badajoz that night. A cloudy, star-strewn sky looked down upon horrors which one hopes may never be repeated. For on the side of the French was shown great bravery and demoniacal cunning. Every artifice of the besieged was employed, while on the side of the British soldiers a mad, a frantic courage was displayed. What if mines did burst and blow hundreds to pieces? Their comrades dashed down into the ditch without hesitation, and cast themselves into the selfsame breach where the tragedy had been perpetrated. What if the enemy did cast bags of gunpowder into the confused ranks of the stormers? It was all the more inducement to them to dash onward.

To describe all that occurred would be beyond us. Let us follow our hero, though, and see what happened in his direction. Tom was one of the forlorn hope. Shouldering his hay pack, and gripping his sword, he dashed at the breach before him when the alarm was given. The stunning discharge of a cannon to his front almost swept him from his feet, and cleared a lane through the comrades before him. A fireball danced down the steep slope of the breach and blazed brightly, showing the faces and figures of the enemy plainly, the muskets they were levelling, and an appalling chevaux de frise erected at the top of the breach. Composed of naked sabre blades secured to logs of wood, this obstacle awaited the stormers before they could come to hand grips with the enemy. But that was not all. Tom stumbled over a boulder, floundered on to his face, and was then lifted boldly and flung aside by a mighty concussion.

"A mine," he thought. "Am I alive or not? What's happened to the others?"