Random Shots from a Rifleman

by J. Kincaid

There is no doubt but I must at that time, have borne a much stronger resemblance to the gentleman in the box, than to the gentleman proprietor; but to shew the justice and discrimination of mobites, I had no sooner exhibited my countenance such as it was, than half of them shouted that they knew me to be the man, and demanded that I should be handed over to them; and had there not been some of the family of the hotel fortunately on board seeing their friends off, who vouched for my authenticity, and for my having been in bed in their house ever since I came to town, there is little doubt but they would have made a subject of me.

Returning from this grave anecdote to the seat of war, I pass on to the assembling of the army in front of Ciudad Rodrigo preparatory to the advance upon Salamanca.

Our last assemblage on the same spot was to visit the walls of that fortress with the thunder of our artillery, and having, by the force of such persuasive arguments, succeeded in converting them into friends, in whom, with confidence, we might rely in the hour of need, we were now about to bid them and our peasant associates an adieu, with a fervent wish on our part that it might be a final one, while with joy we looked forward to the brightening prospect which seemed to promise us an opportunity of diving a little deeper into their land of romance than we had yet done.

Division after division of our iron framed warriors successively arrived, and took possession of the rugged banks of the Agueda, in gallant array and in gayer shape than formerly, for in our first campaigns the canopy of heaven had been our only covering, and our walking on two legs, clothed in rags, the only distinction between us and the wild beast of the forest—whereas we were now indulged in the before unheard of luxury of a tent—three being allowed to the soldiers of each company, and one to the officers.

There is nothing on earth so splendid—nothing so amusing to a military soul as this assembling of an army for active service—to see fifty thousand men all actuated by one common spirit of enterprize, and the cause their country's! And to see the manner, too, in which it acts on the national characters enlisted in it—the grave-looking, but merry-hearted Englishman—the canny, cautious, and calculating Scotchman, and the devil-may-care nonchalance of the Irish.

I should always prefer to serve in a mixed corps, but I love to see a national one—for while the natives of the three amalgamate well, and make, generally speaking, the most steady, there is nevertheless an esprit about a national one which cannot fail to please.

Nothing occasions so much controversy in civil life as the comparative merits of those same corps—the Scotchman claiming every victory in behalf of his countrymen, and the Irishman being no less voracious—so that the unfortunate English regiments, who furnish more food for powder than both put together, are thus left to fight and die unhonoured.

Those who know no better naturally enough award the greatest glory to the greatest sufferers; but that is no time criterion—for great loss in battle, in place of being a proof of superior valour and discipline, is not unfrequently occasioned by a want of the latter essential.

The proudest trophy which the commanding officer of a regiment can ever acquire is the credit of having done a brilliant deed with little loss—and although there are many instances in which they may justly boast of such misfortunes—witness the fifty-seventh at Albuera, the twenty-seventh at Waterloo, and a hundred similar cases, in which they nearly all perished on the spot they were ordered to defend, yet I am of opinion that if the sentiments of old service officers could be gathered, it would be found among a majority, that their proudest regimental days were not those on which they had suffered most.

National regiments have perhaps a greater esprit de corps generally than the majority of mixed ones, but in action they are more apt to be carried away by some sudden burst of undisciplined valour, as Napier would have it, to the great danger of themselves and others.