That very night General Craufurd sent for me, and said, “You have come from Sobral, have you not, to-day, and know the road?” I said, “Yesterday.” “Well, get your horse and take this letter to the Duke for me when it is ready.” I did not like the job, but said nothing about balls or pains, which were bad enough. He kept me waiting about an hour, and then said, “You need wait no longer; the letter won’t be ready for some time, and my orderly dragoon shall take it. Is the road difficult to find?” I said, “No; if he keeps the chaussée, he can’t miss it.” The poor dragoon fell in with the French patrol, and was taken prisoner. When the poor fellow’s fate was known, how Colonel Beckwith did laugh at my escape!
At Arruda we marched every day at daylight into position in the hills behind us, and by the ability of Craufurd they were made impregnable. The whole Division was at work. As Colonel Beckwith and I were standing in the camp one day, it came on to rain, and we saw a Rifleman rolling down a wine-cask, apparently empty, from a house near. He deliberately knocked in one of the heads; then—for it was on the side of a rapidly shelving hill—propped it up with stones, and crept in out of the rain. Colonel Beckwith says, “Oh, look at the lazy fellow; he has not half supported it. When he falls asleep, if he turns round, down it will come.” Our curiosity was excited, and our time anything but occupied, so we watched our friend, when in about twenty minutes the cask with the man inside came rolling down the hill. He must have rolled over twenty times at least before the rapidity disengaged him from his round-house, and even afterwards, such was the impetus, he rolled over several times. To refrain from laughing excessively was impossible, though we really thought the noble fellow must be hurt, when up he jumped, looked round, and said “I never had any affection for an empty wine-cask, and may the devil take me if ever I go near another—to be whirled round like a water-mill in this manner!” The fellow was in a violent John Bull passion, while we were nearly killed with laughing.
When Massena retired, an order came to the Light Division to move on De Litte, and to Lord Hill to do the same on our right at [Vallada?]. This dispatch I was doomed to carry. It was one of the utmost importance, and required a gallop. By Jove, I had ten miles to go just before dark, and when I got to Colborne’s position, who had a Brigade under Lord Hill, a mouse could not get through his works. (Colborne was afterwards my Brigadier in the Light Division, and is now Lord Seaton.) Such a job I never had. I could not go in front of the works—the French had not retired; so some works I leaped into, and led my noble English horse into others. At last I got to Lord Hill, and he marched immediately, night as it was. How I got back to my Division through the night I hardly know, but horse and rider were both done. The spectacle of hundreds of miserable wretches of French soldiers on the road in a state of starvation is not to be described.
We moved viâ Caccas to Vallé on the [Rio Mayor], where our Division were opposite Santarem. The next day [20 Nov.] the Duke came up and ordered our Division to attack Santarem, which was bristling on our right with abattis, three or four lines. We felt the difficulty of carrying such heights, but towards the afternoon we moved on. On the Duke’s staff there was a difference of opinion as to the number of the enemy, whether one corps d’armée or two. The Duke, who knew perfectly well there were two, and our move was only a reconnaissance, turned to Colonel Beckwith. “Beckwith, my Staff are disputing whether at Santarem there is one corps d’armée or two?” “I’ll be d——d if I know, my Lord, but you may depend on it, a great number were required to make those abattis in one night.” Lord Wellington laughed, and said, “You are right, Beckwith; there are two corps d’armée.”[18] The enemy soon showed themselves. The Duke, as was his wont, satisfied himself by ocular demonstration, and the Division returned to its bivouac. Whilst here, Colonel Beckwith was seized with a violent attack of ague.
Our outposts were perfectly quiet, although sentries, French and English, were at each end of the bridge over the Rio Mayor, and vedettes along each bank. There was most excellent coursing on the plains of Vallé, and James Stewart and I were frequently out. Here I gave him my celebrated Spanish greyhound, Moro, the best the world ever produced, with a pedigree like that of an Arab horse, bred at Zamora by the Conde de Monteron; but the noble dog’s story is too long to tell here. In one year Stewart gave me him back again to run a match against the Duke of Wellington’s dog. But the siege of Ciudad Rodrigo prevented our sports of that description. Colonel Beckwith going to Lisbon, and I being his A.D.C., it was voted a capital opportunity for me to go to have the ball cut out from under the tendon Achillis, in the very joint. I was very lame, and the pain often excruciating, so off I cut.
Soon after we reached Lisbon, I was ordered to Buenos Ayres to be near the surgeons. A board was held consisting of the celebrated Staff Surgeon Morell, who had attended me before, Higgins, and Brownrigg. They examined my leg. I was all for the operation. Morell and Higgins recommended me to remain with a stiff leg of my own as better than a wooden one, for the wounds in Lisbon of late had sloughed so, they were dubious of the result. Brownrigg said, “If it were my leg, out should come the ball.” On which I roared out, “Hurrah, Brownrigg, you are the doctor for me.” So Morell says, “Very well, if you are desirous, we will do it directly.” My pluck was somewhat cooled, but I cocked up my leg, and said, “There it is; slash away.” It was five minutes, most painful indeed, before it was extracted. The ball was jagged, and the tendonous fibres had so grown into it, it was half dissected and half torn out, with most excruciating torture for a moment, the forceps breaking which had hold of the ball. George Simmons was present, whose wound had broken out and obliged him to go to Lisbon.[19] The surgeon wanted some linen during the operation, so I said, “George, tear a shirt,” which my servant gave him. He turned it about, said, “No, it is a pity; it is a good shirt;” at which I did not —— him a few, for my leg was aching and smoking from a wound four or five inches long. Thank God Almighty and a light heart, no sloughing occurred, and before the wound was healed I was with the regiment. Colonel Beckwith’s ague was cured, and he had joined his Brigade before I could move, so when I returned to Vallé he was delighted to see his A.D.C.
CHAPTER VI.
CAMPAIGN OF 1811.
I found the army in hourly expectation to move, and the Captain of my Company—Leach—was gone sick to the rear, so I said to my Colonel, “I must be no longer A.D.C., sir. However grateful I am, my Company wants me.” “Ah, now you can walk a little, you leave me! Go and be d——d to you; but I love you for the desire.” Off I started, and the very next day we marched [6 Mar. 1811], Massena retreating out of Portugal, and many is the skirmish we had. My leg was so painful, the wound open, and I was so lame. When others could lie down I was on horseback, on a dear little Spanish horse given me by James Stewart, afterwards an animal of still greater renown.