Random Shots from a Rifleman

by J. Kincaid

I know not what sort of toes the Pope keeps for his friends to kiss, but I know that after a week's marching in summer I would not kiss those of the army for a trifle; however, I suppose that walking feet and kissing ones wear quite different pairs of shoes. The fording of the clear broad waters of the Tormes at all events proved a luxury in various ways, and considerably refreshed by that part of the ceremony, we found ourselves shortly after in the heart of that classical city, where the first classics which we were called upon to study, were those of three forts, of a class of their own, which was well calculated to keep their neighbours in a constant supply of hot water. They were not field works such as I have been treating of in the last few pages, but town ones, with walls steep enough and ditches deep enough to hold the army, if packed like herrings. For ourselves we passed on to the front, leaving the seventh division to deal with them; and a hard bargain they drove for a time, though they finally brought them to terms.

I rode in from the outposts several times to visit them during the siege, and on one occasion finding an officer, stationed in a tower, overlooking the works and acting under rather particular orders, it reminded me of an anecdote that occurred with us in the early part of the war. One of our majors had posted a subaltern with a party of riflemen in the tower of a church, and as the place was an important one, he ordered the officer, in the event of an attack, never to quit the place alive! In the course of the evening the commanding officer went to visit the picquet, and after satisfying himself on different points, he demanded of Lieut. —— what dispositions he had made for retreat in the event of his post being forced?—To which the other replied, "None." "None, Sir," said the commanding officer, "then let me tell you that you have neglected an important part of your duty." "I beg your pardon," returned the officer, "but my orders are never to quit this spot alive, and therefore no arrangements for retreat can be necessary!" It may be needless to add that a discretionary power was then extended to him.

In a midnight visit which I paid to the same place in company with a staff friend, while the batteries were in full operation, we were admiring the splendour of the scene, the crash of the artillery, and the effect of the light and shade on the ruins around, caused by the perpetual flashes from the guns and fire-balls, when it recalled to his remembrance the siege of Copenhagen, where he described a similar scene which was enacted, but in a position so much more interesting.

The burying-grounds in the neighbourhood of that capital, were generally very tastefully laid out like shrubberies with beds of flowers, appropriate trees, &c., and intersected by winding gravel-walks, neatly bordered with box. One of the prettiest of these cemeteries was that at the Lecton suburb, in which there was a profusion of white marble statues of men and women—many of them in loose flowing drapery, and also of various quadrupeds, erected in commemoration or in illustration of the habits and virtues of the dead. These statues were generally overshadowed by cypress and other lugubrious trees.

Closely adjoining this beautiful cemetery, two heavy batteries were erected, one of ten-inch mortars, and the other of twenty-four pound battering guns.

In passing alone through this receptacle of the dead, about the hour of midnight, the rapid flashes of the artillery seemed to call all these statues, men, women, and beasts, with all their dismal accompaniments, into a momentary and ghastly existence—and the immediate succession of the deep gloom of midnight produced an effect which, had it been visible to a congregation of Scotch nurses, would in their hands have thrown all the goblin tales of their ancestors into the shade, and generations of bairns yet unborn would have had to shudder at the midnight view of a church-yard.

Even among the stern hearts to whose view alone it was open, the spectacle was calculated to excite very interesting reflections. The crash of the artillery on both sides was enough to have awakened the dead, then came the round shot with its wholesale sweep, tearing up the ornamental trees and dashing statues into a thousand pieces,—next came the bursting shell sending its fragments chattering among the tombs and defacing every-thing it came in contact with. These, all these came from the Danes themselves, and who knew but the hand that levelled the gun which destroyed that statue was not the same which had erected it to the memory of a beloved wife? Who knew but that the evergreens which had just been torn by a shot from a new-made grave, were planted there over the remains of an angelic daughter, and watered by the tears of the man who fired it? and who knew but that that exquisitely chiseled marble figure, which had its nose and eye defaced by a bursting shell, was not placed there to commemorate the decease of a beauteous and adored sweetheart, and valued more than existence by him who had caused its destruction!

Ah me! war, war! that

"Snatching from the hand
Of Time, the scythe of ruin, sits aloft,
Or stalks in dreadful majesty abroad."

I know not what sort of place Salamanca was on ordinary occasions, but at that time it was remarkably stupid. The inhabitants were yet too much at the mercy of circumstances to manifest any favourable disposition towards us, even if they felt so inclined, for it was far from decided whether the French, or we, were to have the supremacy, and therefore every one who had the means betook himself elsewhere. Our position, too, in front of the town to cover the siege was anything but a comfortable one—totally unsheltered from a burning Spanish sun and unprovided with either wood or water, so that it was with no small delight that we hailed the surrender of the forts already mentioned, and the consequent retreat of the French army, for in closing up to them, it brought us to a merry country on the banks of the Douro.