[*] This battle was fought at Navarete, a village on the Zadorra, near Vittoria. See the Chronicles of Sir John Froissart.
Early on the morning of the 21st of June the allies were in motion; Sir William Stuart's brigade moved in front of the second division, which marched along the high road to Vittoria. The morning was beautiful, the earth was fresh with dew, and the merry larks were soaring aloft over bright yellow fields, which were soon to be drenched with blood. The sky was clear, blue, and cloudless, and the shining current of the Zadorra flowed among thickets and fields of ripe waving corn, which often afforded concealment to the light troops during the action. Violets, cowslips, and a thousand little flowers which flourish so plentifully by the way-sides in Spain, were blooming gaudily in the fresh dew; the brown partridge was whirring about, and ever and anon a fleet rabbit shot past as the troops moved into the corn-fields, treading and destroying the hopes and support of many a poor husbandman. Afar off, their hues mellowed by the distance, rose the bold and lofty ridges of the Pyrenees and other sierras, the outlines of which appeared distinctly against the pure blue beyond. Save the near tread of feet, or the distant blast of a bugle, no other sounds were borne on the morning wind but the bleating of sheep and goats, or a matin-bell tinkling in some solitary hermitage, calling its superstitious inmates to prayer for the success of the friends of Spain.
To the British it was known that the enemy were in position in front, and every heart beat high, and every fibre was thrilling with excitement, as the columns moved towards the plains in front of the town of Vittoria. Moving in close column of companies, the Highlanders marched through a field of ripened corn, which nearly overtopped the plumes of their bonnets. The other corps of the division followed and then halted for a time, during which the crop, which was all ready for the sickle, was soon trodden to mire. But 'necessity has no law.' The flints were examined, the colours uncased, and the drummers were provided with temporary litters, formed of pikes and blankets, for bearing off the wounded officers.
Fassifern's eyes kindled up with that bright and peculiar expression which they ever had when he became excited.
"Highlanders!" cried he, as the regiment again moved forward, "in a few minutes we shall be engaged with the enemy; but I need not exhort you to do your duty, for in that you have never yet failed. Keep the strictest silence on the march, but you may shout till the mountains ring again when the pipes blow to the charge."
"Fu' surely and brawly well set up a skraigh then, lads!" said his equerry, Dugald Mhor, who was the only man who dared to reply. "But it's an unco' thing for Hielandmen to keep their tongues still, whan the bonnie sheen o' steel is glintin' in their een. Troth, lads, we'll gie a roar that will mak' Buonaparte himsel shake in his shoon, if he be within hearin'."
The soldiers began to cheer and laugh, while Dugald waved his bonnet, but the voice of the colonel arrested them.
"Silence, Dugald!" said he to that aged follower, who with his sword drawn stuck close to the flanks of his horse; "silence! You always create some uproar in the ranks by your odd observations. I am ever apprehensive that you will thrust yourself needlessly into danger; and indeed it would relieve me of much anxiety, if you would remain in the rear. You know well, Dugald, how much I would regret it, should any thing happen to you during the engagement to-day."
"That depends just upon yoursel, sir: whar ye lead, I will follow," replied the old man, whom the world would not have tempted to separate himself from Cameron, who had often insisted on many occasions that Dugald should not peril himself by coming under fire. These were injunctions which the obstinate old vassal valued not a rush; and so in these good-natured altercations the master was always overcome by the man, who seemed to regard fighting rather as a sport or a pleasant source of excitement, just as one would view a fox or stag-hunt.
While Major Campbell was boring Ronald Stuart with a painfully accurate account of the battle of Alexandria, and the position of the French forces on that memorable occasion, the legions of Joseph Buonaparte appeared in sight. As each regiment quitted the path among the corn-fields and entered upon the plain before Vittoria, they came in view of the whole battle-array of the enemy, occupying a strong position covering each of the three great roads, which at Vittoria concentrate in the road to Bayonne. The long lines of dark infantry appeared perfectly motionless, but their burnished arms were shining like silver in the sun; the tri-colours of the legions were fluttering in the breeze, and many of their bands struck-up the gay Cà ira and Marseillois hymn on the approach of the allies.