Recollections of the eventful life of a soldier

by Joseph Donaldson

Having taken up another position, from which they were driven by our division, with the first, and light, they concentrated their whole army on the Seirra Moito, from which they retired on the eighteenth, and our army occupied the ground they had left. They now continued their retreat so rapidly that our army, with the exception of our division, the sixth, and light, were halted for the necessary supplies of provision to come up. From this until the twenty-seventh we followed them through the mountains, harassing their rear, and suffered much fatigue, for during that time we were very ill supplied with rations, at times wanting bread and rum for two days together, and when we did get it, perhaps only half allowance; we were almost always supplied with beef, but it was of that description that there was little nourishment in it. The cattle were brought from Barbary, and often had to travel many hundred miles before they were used, with very little to eat during their journey; the consequence was, that when killed they were nothing more than a mass of emaciated muscle, with a semi-transparent covering of, what would be a perversion of language to call fat—it was more like a coating of train oil. It was never bled properly; and when boiled, it was as tough and stringy as a piece of junk. The water it was boiled in was dignified with the name of soup: and if the blood which boiled out of the beef, along with the wood ashes that fell into it, constituted soup, we had it in perfection.

One day we had halted rather early; at this time we had been without rations for two days. Many a curse was poured on the head of the commissary, who was considered the responsible person.

‘There comes the stores, at last,’ cried one of the men.

‘Where? where?’ said those around. Every eye was now directed to a hill at some distance, where a long train of mules were perceived successively rising over its summit, and bending their way towards the division. The men were in transports of joy; a general cheer greeted their appearance.

‘We will have full rations to-day,’ cried one; ‘and rum too,’ said another, ‘for I can see casks on the mules.’

Another cheer succeeded this discovery; and we were dancing about overjoyed. ‘Who goes for the rations? Get out blankets for the biscuit, and camp kettles for the rum.’ There were soon enough of volunteers for this duty. The mules had by this time got into a sort of defile. Every eye was on the stretch, waiting for their re-appearance. As the first mule emerged from the place where they were hid, every face was dressed in smiles; but the next second produced an effect, similar to that which a criminal might feel, who had been informed of his reprieve on the scaffold, and the next moment told it was a mistake; for it turned out to be mules with ammunition for the division. Never did I witness such a withering effect on men, as this disappointment produced. We stood looking at each other for a minute, in all the agony of hope deferred: the next was opened by a torrent of execration on all concerned. Those who have never experienced extreme hunger can form no idea of our feelings.

A day or two after this, we crossed a river and ascended a hill, where we encamped. Dennis and I were for duty, and both placed on the out picquet, which was posted on the face of a hill in front of the division. The French were on the opposite rise, and a small river ran at the foot of it. We had only got one day’s rations from the time the incident mentioned above occurred; and as Dennis expressed it, ‘our bellies were thinking our throats were cut.’

I procured leave from the officer to go to the river for water; intending to proceed a little farther down, to try if I could find anything that I could eat. Turning round the hill, I came to a mill; and entering it, found a number of soldiers belonging to different regiments of the division busy grinding Indian corn; others were employed drawing a baking of bread, which the French had left in their hurry, when we took up our position. I attempted to help myself to some corn, which was lying in a basket.

‘Drop that like a hot potato,’ said one of the Connaught Rangers.

I tried another basket, but it was also appropriated; and as there were none of my regiment there, I could not expect to succeed by force; so I left the place sorrowful enough, on my way back to the picquet, with a cargo of cold water—poor cheer, certainly. But just as I turned round the hill, I met my friend Dennis, who had got leave from the officer on some pretence to go down to the river. I told him my melancholy story; he paused for a moment; then clapping his hand to his forehead, he exclaimed, ‘Now I have it! Give me the canteens.’