Recollections of the eventful life of a soldier

by Joseph Donaldson

Contiguous to the church belonging to the convent there was a Gothic mausoleum of hewn stone, in the midst of which were two magnificent sepulchres of white marble, containing the remains of Don Pedro the First of Portugal, and of Dona Ignes de Castro,—a description of whose tragical death forms a beautiful episode in the third book of the Luciad.

The kitchen of the holy fathers, which was on the sunk floor, presented a scene of plenty, which was not very favourable to the opinion of their severe abstinence. It was about a hundred feet long; the fire-place, which was raised on cast-iron pillars in the centre of the apartment, was thirty feet long, by twelve wide; a stream of water ran through the kitchen, which was occasionally overflown to cleanse the floor, and also supplied the tanks in which they kept live fish. Certainly, if they lived as well every day as they seemed to do while we were there, they could not boast much of fasting; for, in their larders, and kitchen, there was a profusion of every delicacy which could be thought of. Their cellar contained upwards of seven hundred pipes of the choicest wines, and in the gardens belonging to the convent were the rarest and finest fruits, besides vegetables and plants of every description.

To judge from what we saw, they ought to have been the happiest fellows imaginable. Good eating and drinking, fine grounds to walk in, and plenty of books! What could they wish for more? It is likely, however, that their usual mode of living was not so luxurious as we were inclined to think, from what we saw of their kitchen; but I suppose they considered it better to use what they could of their dainties, than leave them to the French; and, to tell the truth, the poor monks did not seem to have any great appetite while we were there: for any of our men who entered the kitchen were liberally supplied with anything that was cooked.

Previous to the regiment being dismissed, the colonel cautioned us against taking anything which had been left by the inhabitants. Before the division came in, I believe this order was punctually obeyed, and our men walked peaceably up and down the streets, the same as they would have done in a village at home; but when the other regiments, composing the division, arrived, the scene was soon changed; for they scarcely took time to take off their knapsacks, before they commenced breaking up the doors, and plundering every thing they could lay their hands on.

Some of our men, considering, I suppose, that they might as well have a share of the spoil as the others, joined in the throng; but they had a lesson to learn which some of them paid for rather dearly. They were not aware that there was a provost marshal[8] attached to each division.

And while they were busy he came upon them with his guard: the old campaigners made good their retreat, but our innocent boys, (as the Irish regiments in the division called them,) not being acquainted with his person or power, kept their ground, and were so warmly received, that they did not forget either him or his kindness while in the division.

An inspection was made next day of the division, to ascertain whether they had any plunder in their knapsacks, and anything found more than the regulated compliment of necessaries was taken from them. The town fell into the hands of the French the following day, and it may be thought that it would have been better to allow us to take the things left than that they should fall into the hands of the enemy; but nothing is more subversive of discipline in an army than the habit of plundering, exclusive of the men, through covetousness, burdening themselves in such a way that they cannot march. Whether the means used to prevent it were the best and most efficient, I do not pretend to say; but there can be no doubt as to the necessity of preventing it as much as possible.

In the course of this day, the monks who had been left departed in chaises, and took not a few boxes of doubloons with them. The greater part of the pipes of wine in the cellars were staved, to prevent them falling into the hands of the enemy. We left the convent that afternoon, and having marched as far as Torres Vedras, encamped outside of the town.

When I say encamped, I do not mean that we pitched tents, for the army were not supplied with tents, until the last campaign in 1813-14. At this time, the blue canopy of heaven was all our covering, the earth our bed, and a single blanket our bed-clothes.

A newly-ploughed field, on the face of a hill, was our portion. We got out our blankets, and lay down, expecting to get a comfortable nap, although the weather was rather cold; but towards morning, it began to rain so heavily that we were soon wet to the skin. Some, who had a little wisdom in their heads, got up, and packed up their blankets; but others lay still, until they were literally floated with water and mud, which came rolling in streams down the ridges, in such a way that they could scarcely be distinguished from the soil around. They were then obliged to get up, and squeeze their blankets in that wet and dirty state into their knapsacks. The rain got heavier, the longer it continued, and we stood huddled together, shivering with cold and wet. At last, an order came for us to march into Torres Vedras; but such a march I never saw, even in the worst of times afterwards. We were novices in the business, and not yet weather-proof. Had it not been that the town was so near, we would have occupied three or four miles of a line of road, we were so straggled. The ground was of a clayey nature, and with the rain that fell it had become like bird-lime. Our feet stuck fast at every step, and our shoes were actually torn off, and many of them were left lying in the clay. Some were walking barefoot; others in their stockings, without shoes; and more had one shoe on, and another carrying in their hand. We were a set of drenched and miserable-looking creatures, and the officers were in as bad a plight as ourselves.