I have now under my window a characteristic scene. A short Portuguese lad, bloated out with ration beef, with an old French helmet on, a great red grenadier’s feather, and an old French uniform jacket and pantaloons, with a dragoon broadsword, cutting down cabbages and apples in the garden for his brother Portuguese, who has his apron ready to receive them, whilst a dirty, brown, snuff-coloured Spaniard is looking about on the other side with an old French musket trying to shoot something eatable.
The mixture of the silence of a deserted village with the occasional riotous noise of muleteers and stragglers, Portuguese and Spaniards, as well as a few swearing English, is striking; but to a person not actively engaged in what is going on, by which all minor considerations vanish in the dangers and anxiety of the scene, there is a sameness of misery and starvation, of wounds and of death, which, when the novelty of the scene is over, becomes very unpleasant, especially without any rational companion to talk to on what is passing. This appears to be the house of a curé, for there are the remains of many comforts, and of some books, chiefly religious, some crosses, &c.
I just now met a man who spoke English tolerably, and French well, but would address me in Spanish, to say the people were plundering all the flour at the only mill in the place which was at work, and he requested a guard and wanted the Commandant. I luckily noticed by his feather the Superintendent of the provost guard entering a house opposite, and procured him a guard directly. So that one can be of some use without meddling much.
I have just now had a Spaniard at my door to inquire how he could get back safe to Spain, as he had wandered here alone, and dared not return, and had nothing to eat. I have sent him off with a small bit of bread and a shilling, and advised him to go and remain near the provost guard, and keep with the first escort of prisoners which sets out for Spain.
Nearly all the houses about me are empty, and I do not much like my situation, but it is just now like that of a wife—for better, for worse; so I must submit. I do not think we have a hundred men within three miles, and not one soldier within half a mile, only commissaries and young doctors, and a stray shot is fired every three or four minutes. My own muleteers I have just stopped.
November 13th.—Here I am still in my solitary abode. It has rained all night, and the roads are running watercourses, which will, it is to be feared, impede our progress. All, it is said, however, is going on well. I have not seen a creature, or been out; only sent to the Commissary-general, my neighbour, to ascertain whether we are not to march, lest I should be left behind here. Several of the elderly owners of houses have returned, but mine has not. Lord Wellington has ordered what forage can be regularly used, and collected, to be paid for punctually, and I understand has determined to send back at least a part of the Spaniards, on account of their abominable conduct, Longa’s people in particular. I am not surprised at it, but it spoils all our plans. We were admitted quietly into St. Jean de Luz, and the inhabitants remained there. The mayor offered to exert himself to get what he could collected, to supply the troops regularly; and Sir John Hope flogged the two first men he caught taking some wine—this instantly; so I hope that town will be preserved.
We can never do well, if we go on driving all the population before us. The few old people left here, and who are coming in, speak only Basconee and a little Gascon, and no French. There is no making them understand anything.
To-day would have been dreadful in the mountains, so we have at least that reflection to comfort ourselves with. I send enclosed Lord Wellington’s letter to me and Count Gazan’s. Pray keep the former, as I shall always value it.
4 o’clock, afternoon, November 13th.—It has been raining so incessantly ever since morning, that I have not stirred from my hole, and have, therefore, seen no one. I understand that all the grandees were to have gone to the front at five this morning, but from the state of the weather, they have all stopped at home—not for the fear of a wetting themselves, but most likely from the impossibility of getting through the country, and across rivers, when in such a state. It is only wonderful how our men got on, as they did up the hills on the 12th. It was as much as I could do with my horse singly on a slippery clay, either so hard that a horse could not stand on it, or so deep that he was up to his knees, between the hard places. We are now, however, nearly out of the Pyrenees, and I hope the roads will mend, but from what I saw of the high road, this is doubtful.
November 14th.—Still here at St. Fé, so the place is called in an excellent old French map. Still rain, and nothing new, except that the French have been well frightened, and mean, we are told, to quit the new position they have taken, with their left on Bayonne, as soon as it is attacked; that is, as soon I conclude as the roads will permit us to move. The communications here are almost as bad as in Spain, and from hence to St. Jean de Luz almost impassable. The Marquis of Worcester, I have just heard, goes to-day in an hour.