Random Shots from a Rifleman

by J. Kincaid

Of all the commanders in that army at the period I speak of, none stood more distinguished than he who was for the moment our head (the gallant Spencer,) and yet, singularly enough, the moment he was left to himself, not only his usual daring but all spirit of enterprise seemed to have forsaken him. Witness the escape of the French detachment as just related, as well as the various subsequent movements under him; whereas, within a few days, when in the field of Fuentes under Wellington, he was himself again.

While halted behind the hill already mentioned, I got my first look at the celebrated Guerilla chief, Don Julian Sanchez. He was a middling-sized thick-set fellow, with a Spanish complexion, well whiskered and mustached, with glossy black hair, and dressed in a hussar uniform. The peasantry of that part of the country used to tell rather a romantic story of the cause which induced him to take up arms,—namely, that the French had maltreated and afterwards murdered his wife and family before his face, besides firing his house, (cause enough in all conscience,) and for which he amply revenged himself, for he became the most celebrated throat-cutter in that part of the world. His band when he first took the field did not exceed fifty men, but about the period I speak of his ranks had swelled to about fifteen hundred. They were a contemptible force in the field, but brave, enterprising, and useful in their mountain fastnesses—in cutting off supplies and small detachments. I did not see his troops until some time after, when his heavy dragoons one day crossed our line of march. They afterwards cut a more respectable figure; but at that period they looked a regular set of ragamuffins, wearing cocked hats with broad white lace round the edges; yellow coats, with many more than button-holes, and red facings; breeches of various colours and no stockings, but a sort of shoe on the foot with a spur attached, and their arms were as various as their colours; some with lances, some with carabines, and in short, every one seemed as if he had equipped himself in whatever the fortune of war had thrown in his way.

As the battle of Fuentes approached, our life became one of perpetual motion, and when I raised my head from its stone pillow in the morning, it was a subject of speculation to guess within a league of its next resting place, although we were revolving within a very limited space. Nothing clings so tenaciously to my mind as the remembrance of the different spots on which I have passed a night. Out of six years campaigning it is probable that I slept at least half the period under the open canopy of heaven, (barring latterly a sheet of canvas,) and though more than twenty years have since rolled over my head, I think I could still point out my every resting place.

On the night of the 1st of May I was sent from Alameda with thirty riflemen and six dragoons to watch a ford of the Agueda. The French held a post on the opposite side—but at daylight in the morning I found they had disappeared. Seeing a Spanish peasant descending on the opposite bank—and the river not being fordable to a person on foot, while its continuous roaring through its rugged course drowned every other voice—I detached one of the dragoons, who brought him over behind him, and as he told me that the French were, at that moment, on the move to the left, I immediately transmitted the information to head quarters. I was soon after ordered to join my battalion, which I found lodged in a stubble field about half way between Gallegos and Alameda, on a piece of rising ground which we had christened Kraüchenberg's hill, in compliment to that gallant captain of German hussars, who, with his single troop, had made a brilliant and successful charge from it the year before on the enemy's advancing horsemen.

The following night we had gone to bed in the village of Espeja, but were called to arms in the middle of it, and took post in the wood behind.

With the enemy close upon us, our position was any thing but a safe one; but, as it included a conical hill, which commanded a view of their advance, Lord Wellington was anxious to retain it until the last possible moment.

The chief of the German hussars, who covered the reconnoitring party, looked rather blank when he found, next morning, that the infantry were in the act of withdrawing, and tried hard to persuade Beckwith to leave two companies of riflemen as a support, assuring him that all the cavalry in the world were unable to harm them in such a cover; but as the cover was, in reality, but a sprinkling of the Spanish oaks, our chief found it prudent to lend his deaf ear to the request. However, we all eventually reached the position of Fuentes unmolested—a piece of good luck which we had no right to expect, considering the military character of our adversaries, and the nature of the ground we had to pass over.

Having been one of the combatants in that celebrated field, and having already given a history of the battle such as the fates decreed, it only remains with me, following the example of other historians, to favour the public with my observations thereon.

In the course of my professional career several events have occurred to bother my subaltern notions on the principles of the art of war, and none more than the battle of Fuentes; but to convey a just idea of what I mean to advance, it is necessary that I should describe the ground, and while those who choose, may imagine that they see it sketched by one who never before drew any thing but the cork out of a bottle, or a month's pay out of the hands of the pay-master, others, whose imaginations are not so lively, must be contented in supposing themselves standing, with an army of thirty thousand men, between the streams of the Tourones and Dos Casas, with our right resting on Nava d'Aver, and our left on Fort Conception, a position extending seven miles.

The French advanced from Rodrigo with forty-five thousand men to relieve their garrison, which we had shut up in Almeida, which is in rear of our left—and in place of going the straight road to it, through Alameda and Fort Conception, Massena spreads his army along our whole front, and finally attacks the most distant part of it, (Nava d'Aver.)