The French had once or twice made a powerful attack on our picquets, but were repulsed with loss; and the skirmishing at our outposts, and firing from the batteries, were now carried on almost without intermission. We expected them to make an attack on us with their whole force; and scarcely a night passed without being turned out, in consequence of movements making on their side, notice of which was communicated to the troops by different coloured rockets, thrown up at our outposts.
At this time we had a strong force of British here. Besides artillery and engineers, we had a battalion of guards, and nine or ten regiments of the line. There was also a strong fleet of British vessels in the bay; at one time we had three first-rate men-of-war, namely, the Caledonia, Hibernia, and Ville de Paris, besides seventy-four gun ships, frigates, and a great number of smaller vessels and gun-boats. Batteries were built on every commanding situation: one of which (St Fernando) we used to call the Friars’ battery, having been built in part by these gentry, and certainly among the best deeds they had done in that part of the country. It was on a very commanding situation, extending completely across the Isthmus at its narrowest part, with a wide trench, which could be filled with water from the sea on either side.
At this time the wound on my leg, to which I had paid little attention, became so ill that I was obliged to go into the hospital; and I, in a great measure, lost sight of what was going on amongst the troops. I had now nothing to relieve the monotony of an hospital life, unless a visit from Dennis now and then, when he could gain time from working or duty; and one visit from a sergeant, (a townsman,) who joined the regiment at that time, and had brought a letter from my parents. He had been long on the recruiting service, and was considered a first-rate hand at it. After some inquiries respecting my friends and native place, I happened to remark how successful he had been in getting recruits, and expressed my surprise that he should have been so much more so than others who had been on the same service. He replied, ‘No wonder at it—no wonder at all. I knew Glasgow well. It was my own place—knew the minds of the young fellows better than they did themselves—for I had been a weaver myself, and a lazy one too. I knew how I used to feel. In winter it was too cold, and in summer too warm to work. When it was good trade, I could not resist the temptation of drinking and going idle two or three days in the week; and when it was bad, I had no time to work for trying to find out the cause, and setting the government to rights. The truth is, you could scarcely ever catch a weaver contented. They are always complaining. Therefore, you would never have much trouble enticing them to enlist, if you know how to go about it; or much in going after them, for whenever they got lazy, they came up and lounged about the Cross. You could not manage them, however, the same as a bumpkin. They were too knowing for that. The best way was to make up to the individual you had in your eye, and after bidding him the time of the day, ask him what sort of web he had in. You might be sure it was a bad one; for when a weaver turns lazy his web is always bad: ask him how a clever, handsome-looking fellow like him could waste his time hanging see-saw between heaven and earth, in a damp, unwholesome shop, no better than one of the dripping vaults in St Mungo’s church, when he could breathe the pure air of heaven, and have little or nothing to do, if he enlisted for a soldier,—that the weaving was going to ruin, and he had better get into some berth, or he might soon be starved. This was, generally, enough for a weaver; but the ploughboys had to be hooked in a different way. When you got into conversation with them, tell how many recruits had been made sergeants, when they enlisted—how many were now officers. If you saw an officer pass while you were speaking, no matter whether you knew him or not, tell him that he was only a recruit a year ago; but now he’s so proud he won’t speak to you; but you hope he won’t be so when he gets a commission. If this won’t do, don’t give up chase—keep to him—tell him that in the place where your gallant honourable regiment is lying, every thing may be had almost for nothing,—that the pigs and fowls are lying in the streets ready roasted, with knives and forks in them, for the soldiers to eat, whenever they please. As you find him have stomach, strengthen the dose, and he must be overcome at last. But you must then proceed quickly to work, before his high notions evaporate. You must keep him drinking—don’t let him go to the door, without one of your party with him, until he is passed the doctor and attested.’
‘But,’ said I, ‘you would not find every one so easily duped.’—‘To be sure,’ said he, ‘some of your sentimental chaps might despise all this, but they were the easiest caught after all. You had only to get into heroics, and spout a great deal about glory, honour, laurels, drums, trumpets, applauding world, deathless fame, immortality, and all that, and you had him as safe as a mouse in a trap.
‘But, if all these methods failed, and the fellow remained obstinately determined against parting with liberty, the next resource was to pretend you had been joking with him—that you had no wish to enlist any man against his will—that you had advised many a one not to enlist. Ask him in to take a friendly glass, ply him briskly, send one of your party out to put on plain clothes; let another of your men bring him in as a young man wishing to enlist, set him down next to the man you have in your eye. After allowing them some conversation, put the question to them, if they were talking about enlisting. “Yes, I’ll enlist,” would be the reply of your man, “if this young man will go also.” Perhaps he might; but if not, your last resource was to get him drunk, and then slip a shilling in his pocket, get him home to your billet, and next morning swear he enlisted, bring all your party to prove it, get him persuaded to pass the doctor, as it will save the smart should he be rejected. Should he pass, you must try every means in your power to get him to drink, blow him up with a fine story, get him inveigled to the magistrate in some shape or other, and get him attested; but by no means let him out of your hands.’
‘At this rate,’ said I, ‘men are taken into the service by as unfair means as they are pressed on board a man-of-war. Were you not afraid of complaints being made to your officers; and did the magistrates not scruple to attest men who were drunk?’
‘Not at all, man,’ was the reply. ‘It was war times. As for the magistrates, we knew who to go to on these occasions. You know it was all for the good of the service.’
‘But had you no honour or conscience of your own?’ said I.
‘Honour or conscience!’ said he, laughing. ‘Pretty words in the mouth of a private soldier. You must do your duty, you know. A good soldier does what he is ordered, right or wrong.’
‘But I am afraid,’ said I, ‘that you did more than you were ordered.’