Random Shots from a Rifleman

by J. Kincaid

Mirth and duty there, however, were, as they often are, very much at variance. Our position was a ticklish one, and required half the division to sleep in the field in front of the town each night fully accoutred, so that while we had every alternate night to rejoice in quarters, the next was one of penance in the field, which would have been tolerably fair had they been measured by the same bushel, but it could not be, for while pleasure was the order of the evening we had only to close the window-shutters to make a summer's night as long as a winter's one—but in affairs of duty, stern duty, it told in an inverse ratio; for our vineyard beds on the alternate nights were not furnished with window-shutters, and if they had been, it would have made but little difference, for in defiance of sun, moon, or stars, we were obliged to be on our legs an hour before day-break, which in that climate and at that season, happened to be between one and two o'clock in the morning.

Our then brigadier, Sir O. Vandeleur, was rigorous on that point, and as our sleeping, bore no proportion to our waking moments, many officers would steal from the ranks to snatch a little repose under cover of the vines, and it became a highly amusing scene to see the general on horseback, threading up between the rows of bushes and ferreting out the sleepers. He netted a good number in the first cast or two, but they ultimately became too knowing for him, and had only to watch his passing up one row, to slip through the bushes into it, where they were perfectly secure for the next half hour.

I have already mentioned that Rueda was a capital wine country. Among many others there was a rough effervescent pure white wine, which I had never met with any where else, and which in warm weather was a most delicious beverage. Their wine cellars were all excavated in a sort of common, immediately outside the town; and though I am afraid to say the extent, they were of an amazing depth. It is to be presumed that the natives were all strictly honest, for we found the different cellars so indifferently provided with locks and keys, that our men, naturally inferring that good drinkers must have been the only characters in request, went to work most patriotically, without waiting to be pressed, and the cause being such a popular one, it was with no little difficulty that we kept them within bounds.

A man of ours, of the name of Taylor, wore a head so remarkably like Lord Wellington's, that he was dubbed "Sir Arthur" at the commencement of the war, and retained the name until the day of his death. At Rueda he was the servant of the good, the gallant Charley Eeles, who afterwards fell at Waterloo. Sir Arthur, in all his movements for twenty years, had been as regular as Shrewsbury clock; he cleaned his master's clothes and boots, and paraded his traps in the morning, and in the evening he got blind drunk, unless the means were wanting.

In one so noted for regularity as he was, it is but reasonable to expect that his absence at toilet time should be missed and wondered at; he could not have gone over to the enemy, for he was too true-blue for that. He could not have gone to heaven without passing through the pains of death—he was too great a sinner for that. He could not have gone downwards without passing through the aforesaid ceremony, for nobody was ever known to do so but one man, to recover his wife, and as Sir Arthur had no wife, he had surely no inducement to go there; in short the cause of his disappearance remained clouded in mystery for twenty-five hours, but would have been cleared up in a tenth part of the time, had not the rifleman, who had been in the habit of sipping out of the same favourite cask, been on guard in the interim, but as soon as he was relieved, he went to pay his usual visit, and in stooping in the dark over the edge of the large headless butt to take his accustomed sip, his nose came in contact with that of poor Sir Arthur, which, like that of his great prototype, was of no mean dimensions, and who was floating on the surface of his favourite liquid, into which he must have dived deeper than he intended and got swamped. Thus perished Sir Arthur, a little beyond the prime of life, but in what the soldiers considered, a prime death!

Our last day at Rueda furnished an instance so characteristic of the silence and secrecy with which the Duke of Wellington was in the habit of conducting his military movements, that I cannot help quoting it.

In my former volume I mentioned that when we were called to arms that evening, our officers had assembled for one of their usual dances. Our commanding officer, however, Colonel Cameron, had been invited to dine that day with his lordship, and in addition to the staff, the party consisted of several commanding officers of regiments and others. The conversation was lively and general, and no more allusion made to probable movements than if we were likely to be fixed there for years. After having had a fair allowance of wine, Lord Wellington looked at his watch, and addressing himself to one of his staff, said, "Campbell, it is about time to be moving—order coffee." Coffee was accordingly introduced, and the guests, as usual, immediately after made their bow and retired. Our commandant in passing out of the house was rather surprised to see his lordship's baggage packed, and the mules at the door, saddled and ready to receive it, but his astonishment was still greater when he reached his own quarter, to find that his regiment was already under arms along with the rest of the troops, assembled on their alarm posts, and with baggage loaded in the act of moving off, we knew not whither!

We marched the whole of the night, and day-light next morning found us three or four leagues off, interposing ourselves between the enemy and their projected line of advance. It was the commencement of the brilliant series of movements which preceded the battle of Salamanca. Pass we on, therefore, to that celebrated field.

It was late in the afternoon before it was decided whether that day's sun was to set on a battle or our further retreat. The army all stood in position with the exception of the third division, which lay in reserve beyond the Tormes. Its commander, Sir Edward Packenham, along with the other generals of divisions, attended on the commander-in-chief, who stood on an eminence which commanded a view of the enemy's movements.

The artillery on both sides was ploughing the ground in all directions, and making fearful gaps in the ranks exposed—the French were fast closing on and around our right—the different generals had received their instructions, and waited but the final order—a few minutes must decide whether there was to be a desperate battle or a bloody retreat; when, at length, Lord Wellington, who had been anxiously watching their movements with his spy-glass, called out, "Packenham, I can stand this no longer; now is your time!" "Thank you," replied the gallant Packenham, "give me your hand, my lord, and by G—d it shall be done!" Shaking hands accordingly, he vaulted into his saddle, and the result of his movement, as is well known, placed two eagles, several pieces of artillery, and four thousand prisoners in our possession.