One sixteen-pounder came whizzing amongst the light company, and, striking the breast-work of loose earth, buried Seaton and a section of men under it; and a hearty laugh arose from the regiment, as they scrambled out of the trench, shaking off the soil and turf which had covered them up.
Although shot were crashing, shells bursting, and houses falling incessantly for seven consecutive hours, only about fifty Highlanders were killed. The loss of the other corps I have never ascertained, but the streets were every where strewed with the dead. Many of the wounds were beyond conception frightful, being all by cannon-shot or bomb-splinters, tearing absolutely to pieces those they struck, and shearing off legs and arms like withered reeds. Macildhui, a Serjeant, was killed as Ronald was delivering some orders to him. His head was carried away like an egg-shell, and his brains were spattered over the pavement. Night was closing, and the enemy's guns were still in position on the heights, from which another iron dose was expected in the morning, when an aide-de-camp from Salamanca, covered from plume to spur with dust, dashed into the town at full gallop, and informed General Howard that 3,000 French cavalry had forded the Tormes some miles above Alba, that his position was turned, and that the Marquess of Wellington desired he would abandon the town without a moment's delay, otherwise the first brigade were lost men. The order was instantly given to decamp, and the place was quitted double-quick, the troops moving through those streets which concealed their movements from Soult, and forming in close columns on the other side of the Tormes to be in readiness for the cavalry, should they make their appearance. To deceive the French marshal, the sentries were kept on the walls until the last moment; and Stuart, with ten light-company men, was sent to "bring them off."
"Farewell, senor!' cried Truxillo, waving his sabre to Ronald over the battlements of the ancient Moorish tower, which he had volunteered to defend to the last with his two companies of Castilians, to cover the retreat of Howard's and Hamilton's brigade.
"Adieu, gallant condé!" answered Ronald, as he passed beneath the walls with his party. It was the last time he ever beheld him. By the sound of his silver whistle he collected the Highland sentinels from all points. These, with Major-general Howard, Wemyss, the brigade-major, and Ronald himself, were the last men who quitted the ruins of Alba. The mounted officers rode at a trot, and the heavily laden infantry followed double-quick, with their musquets at the trail. The moment the bridge was cleared the sappers sprung the mine: a roar like that of thunder shook the current of the Tormes, and a cloud of dust and stones rose into the air. Ronald, who was severely bruised by the falling fragments, cast a glance behind as he hurried along. The bridge was a mass of ruins. The Spanish flag was waving from the round tower of Alba, which was now enveloped in smoke, and flashes of musquetry broke from it on all sides as the forlorn band of the condé opened a sharp fire from the rampart and loopholes upon a dense and dark column of French infantry, which was seen descending rapidly towards the town, with tri-colours flying, and brass drums beating in that peculiar manner by which the French regulate the quick step. After a desperate resistance, Truxillo and his Castilians were captured; but the sound of the firing was long heard by the brigade as it retreated in squares along the road for Ciudad Rodrigo, thus completely frustrating Soult's design to enclose and cut them off by his cavalry, who appeared in about half an hour, and met with so desperate a resistance that they were compelled to retire with immense loss.
That night the brigade halted on the skirts of a cork wood, five leagues distant from Alba de Tormes. The half-leafless branches afforded but a poor protection from the rain, which continued to pour without cessation until day-break, when the weary march was recommenced.
It was indeed a night of misery! Although worn out with fatigue and hunger, it was impossible to sleep on the wet ground, on which the rushing rain was descending in drops larger than peas; and almost equally impossible to stand, after what had been endured for some days past,—marching from dawn till sunset laden with seventy-five pounds weight, and fasting for six-and-thirty, or eight-and-forty consecutive hours. Cursing themselves and their fate, many of the soldiers were so disheartened at the retreat, and the miseries they had undergone since they left Aranjuez, that they were often heard aloud "wishing to Heaven their brains had been blown out in Alba!"
Ronald, being sent on out-picquet, lost even the slight shelter afforded by the wood; but the soldiers had lighted prodigious fires, upon which even the power of the rain was lost; and seated by one, he passed a sleepless night, listening to the rain-drops sputtering in the flames, and to the hoarse croaking of frogs in a neighbouring marsh. During the night it was discovered that the wood was the lair of wild pigs, and a regular hunt ensued; by which means scores were shot during the glimpses of moonlight. As fast as they were killed they were quartered, and served out to the men, who crowded round the fires, broiling them on their bayonets and long steel ramrods. Major Campbell, who was a keen sportsman, and had been accustomed to shoot by moonlight at home, exerted himself so well, that with his own hand he shot five, and brought them to the bivouac, where he threw them among the soldiers. The out-picquets had been puzzled to comprehend the meaning of the firing within the wood, and Ronald was agreeably surprised by his servant bringing him a slice of wild pork, famously fried in a camp-kettle lid, and with it a berengena (a fruit of the cucumber genus) which he had found in the wood and reserved for his master, although almost perishing for want of nourishment himself. But the instances of Evan's fidelity are innumerable.
The contents of the camp-kettle were shared between master and man, without ceremony, and without the absence of salt or other seasoning being perceived.
For this affair of pig-shooting in the cork wood, the commander-in-chief took the opportunity to tell the army, in a general order, that they had degenerated into "a lawless banditti," and that, without having suffered the least privation, they were in a state of mutiny and disorder. This taunting and bitter address is still remembered with peculiar annoyance by the few survivors of that brave army.
But, to return to the unhappy and unlooked-for retreat from Burgos, privations the troops did suffer, (and I say so, in defiance of that general order,) and privations such as soldiers never endured before or since. Continuing their rapid retreat across the frontier, on the evening of the 19th of November, the first brigade entered the miserable village of Robledo, in Leon; and as the soldiers halted and formed line in the street, pale, exhausted, wayworn, famished, and absolutely in rags,—shirtless, shoeless, and penniless, they seemed more like an assemblage of gaunt spectres than British men. Ronald's shirt had not been changed for ten days, nor had his beard been shaven for the same period. His shoes were completely worn away, and his bare feet had been cut and wounded by the flinty ground, while his uniform hung in fritters about him. Every officer was in the same predicament.