DRESSING A WOUND.
After the field dressing Simpson departed in search of other wounded persons; and on his report of my wound two or three other medical officers sought me, fortunately in vain, that they might remove the limb. On the 4th day I was conveyed to a place where a hospital was established; but the inflammation of the leg was then so great (it was as big as my body) that no amputation could be attempted. A dressing took place which was long and painful, for I had bled so profusely while in the cottage that a cement hard as iron was formed round the limb, and before my removal it was absolutely necessary to cut me out of the bed on which I lay. After a considerable time passed in steeping with tepid water, the piece of mattress and sheet which I carried away from the cottage were removed; and now began the more painful operation of setting the leg. Staff-Surgeon Mathews and Assistant-Surgeon Graham, 31st Regiment, were the operators. Graham seized me by the knee and Mathews by the foot. They proposed that four soldiers should hold me during the operation; to this I objected, saying with a kind of boast that I was always master of my nerves. They now twisted and turned and extended my leg, aiming along it like a spirit level. The torture was dreadful; but though I ground my teeth and the big drops of burning perspiration rapidly chased each other, still I remained firm, and stifled every rising groan. After all was concluded I politely thanked Mathews, carelessly remarking that it was quite a pleasure to get wounded to be so comfortably dressed. This was mock heroism, for at the moment I trembled as if just taken from the rack; however, it had a strange effect upon Mathews, who told Lavens that he feared I was somewhat deranged from the great loss of blood and agonising pain which I suffered. Lavens, Assistant-Surgeon of the 28th Regiment and an old messmate, only laughed and offered to be responsible for the soundness of my intellect if no other cause than bodily pain interfered. Some time afterwards Mathews told him that the inflammation had much subsided and he thought that amputation might safely be performed; yet I appeared so strong, doing so well and in such good spirits, he felt some little inclination to give the limb a chance, if he could believe that my good spirits would continue. Lavens, whom I saw every day, replied that he need not dread low spirits on my part under any circumstance, and as to the difference between the loss of life and that of a limb he felt convinced it would be no great matter to me. If therefore he thought the preservation of the limb depended on corporeal or mental constitution, he recommended the trial. Mathews told all this to me, when I willingly concurred in the attempt to save the leg. It had served me well during many a long and weary march, in many a lively skirmish and some hard-fought battles, particularly whilst in the 28th Light Company; I therefore felt extremely unwilling to part with it. One feels regret at losing even a favourite walking-stick; what then must the feeling be at losing a faithful leg? The trial was decided on; but in justice to Dr. Mathews I feel called upon to declare that he most fully pointed out the imminent danger attending the experiment. Thus far I have entered into detail in consequence of a remark made to the General Medical Board, Drs. Weir, Franklin and Car, who said, when I appeared before them in London, that the medical officer who saved my leg was in no way borne out in making the attempt, for there were ninety-nine chances to one against my life. It is true that the wound was as severe as could possibly be inflicted; the tibia and fibula were both shattered, and the orifice made seemed the entrance to a quarry of bones, five-and-thirty pieces of which exfoliated and kept the wound open for several years.
A GENEROUS SPANIARD.
When I was carried out of the field my whole fortune consisted of one crusado novo, a Portuguese silver coin value three shillings. This I had much difficulty in persuading the poor cottagers to accept, not from a consideration that the sum was an inadequate remuneration for the mutilation of their mattress and whatever food they supplied, but solely from pure motives of generosity. They wept at my parting, and prayed to every saint in heaven or elsewhere for my speedy and perfect recovery. On my arrival therefore in hospital, I possessed not a single farthing; and in my situation other nourishment was required than that of a ration pound of bread and beef. My host, Don Martin D’Echiparre, continually sat by my bedside. Looking upon him as a generous and liberal person, I, after a few evenings, candidly confessed my pecuniary embarrassments, requesting him to lend me a few dollars and offering him my gold watch until I should receive a remittance from the paymaster. He replied, “Do you take me for a Jew? I never lend less than a hundred guineas; these you may have when you please.” This I considered a bombastical evasion and declined his offer. Next morning he made his usual visit and approaching close said in a low voice, “You refused last night to take a hundred guineas; take at least these fifty,” and he held them forth. I told him that so large a sum was both superfluous and useless; however, after a good deal of controversy, he consented to lend me so small a sum as ten guineas.
After a lapse of three months an order was received to remove the hospital depôt to St. Jean de Luz. What was to be done? I had received no remittance; consequently I had no means of repaying the ten guineas, six of which were already spent—one more was absolutely necessary to defray the cost of my removal to St. Jean de Luz, which would take four days. I was to be carried in a litter borne by inhabitants, to pay whom would require the greater part of the guinea. To pay back the remaining three would be but a poor return; but my truly noble and generous host having entered the room, relieved me from my unpleasant dilemma. After expressing his deep regret at my departure, he thus addressed me: “Being aware that you have had no remittance from the army; and knowing from the hospitable and generous manner in which you have entertained the many officers who continually came to see you, in which hospitality I nightly participated with pleasure, that you must want money, I put these four farthings in my pocket for you,” presenting four Spanish doubloons. “I offer you,” continued he, “this small sum because of your obstinacy in refusing the hundred guineas; but if you will accept that sum and another hundred in addition, you would please me much more. Do not pay me from St. Jean de Luz nor from England, but only when you get home to your friends in Ireland; and if you never pay, it will be of no consequence whatever.” However I declined to accept either hundreds or doubloons: and after mutual protestations of sincere friendship and regard, we bade each other a final farewell and parted with unfeigned regret. This anecdote I relate as highly honourable to the country in which it occurred. D’Echiparre was a Frenchman by birth, but a Spaniard by adoption, and in the Spanish language we always conversed. He was a Valladolid merchant and had realised upwards of ten thousand pounds, which in that part of the country was considered a handsome fortune.
A POSTCHAISE, BUT NO ROAD.
On my arrival at St. Jean de Luz I was so fortunate as to procure two months’ pay (not in advance for we were seven months in arrear), when I immediately sent the ten guineas to my generous host.
The time having arrived to get rid of the cumbrous sick and wounded officers, we were removed to los Pasages and there embarked in a transport bound for Portsmouth; but the wind proving contrary prevented our entering the channel and we were compelled to put into Bantry Bay in Ireland. Here we anchored close to a village, if I recollect right, called Castletown, and put up at an inn kept by the widow Martin. The wind continuing very boisterous and contrary, we resolved to travel overland through Ireland. Enquiring for a postchaise, we were informed that there was a postchaise, but that some miles of the road were as yet unfinished, and consequently not carriageable. Upon this we dropped down to the village bearing the name of the bay. Here having learned that the road was perfectly good, we landed our baggage and went ashore; but now to our great dismay we found that this village had no postchaise. In this dilemma we decided to place our baggage on pack-saddles and to travel as in Spain. The operation of packing had commenced, when looking into the courtyard I discovered a hearse. Upon enquiry the waiter said: “Please, your honour, it is an ould lady who died here lately, and her friends thought they would bury her proudly; so they sent to Cork for the hearse and it is going back to-day to Bandon.” I sent for the driver and immediately concluded a bargain; he engaged to carry us to Bandon in the hearse; and thence we were to have two postchaises to take us to Cork for a sum agreed upon. The pack-saddling was relinquished; and the whole party, consisting of Captain Taylor, 28th, with a broken thigh, Captain Girlston, 31st, a broken arm, Captains Bryan and Cone, 39th, sick leaves, and Captain Blakeney, 36th, a broken leg, entered the hearse. Our first stage was Dunmanway, where we made a tremendous meal; the innkeeper complimented us by saying that he never saw travellers in a hearse make so hearty a breakfast. Our appearance must have been extraordinary; for as we moved along in the carriage of death, but not with its usual pace, the country folk, abandoning their legitimate avocations, ran after us for miles.
On our arrival at Bandon thousands of the inhabitants followed and impeded our way. I recollect that a regiment of militia quartered there ran like others to see the novel show, when hundreds of the runabout crowd cried out to them: “Get ye out of the way! What have ye to do with the honours of war? Look there!” and they pointed to our crutches, which stuck out from the open hearse in all directions, like escutcheons emblasoning the vehicle of death. At length we got safe to our inn, attended as numerously as if the hero of the Peninsula himself had been present. Here I called upon a lady who lived close to our inn—a Mrs. Clarke. She had two sons in the army, with both of whom I was intimately acquainted, particularly the eldest; he was a brother officer of mine in the 28th Regiment and was afterwards removed to the 5th Regiment, in which he lost a leg. To him we are indebted for that valuable publication, The United Service Journal. The other I knew in the 77th Regiment; he also had been severely wounded in the leg, so that the lady had seen both her sons on crutches. When she saw the rough crutches which I carried, or rather which carried me, she offered me a pair more highly finished, belonging to one of her sons; but since mine were made of the halberts of two sergeants who lost their lives charging into the redoubt under which I fell, I declined the lady’s very polite offer.
A ROAD, BUT NO POSTCHAISE.