When I returned to Colborne, who was in the Chateau, I found him lying asleep before a fire just as he had got off his horse. I did not awake him, nor had I anything to eat. Sleep at night readily supplies the place of food, and hunger at night on that account is not nearly so acute and painful as in the morning, when your day’s work is before you. Down I lay, without one thought in the world, from exhaustion. I had a long dream, its purport that the enemy had attacked my father’s house (the front of which opened to the street, the back into a beautiful garden, by what we children called “The Black Door”). My father had my mother in his arms; I saw them as plainly as ever I did in my life, he carrying her through the Black Door, at the moment calling out, “Now, some one shut the door; she is safe and rescued.” At the instant I sprang on my feet, and in our usual military words in cases of alarm, roared out in a voice of thunder, “Stand to your arms.” Colborne was on his feet like a shot, the light of the fire showed me the room and my delusion, and I said, “Oh, sir, I beg your pardon; I have been dreaming.” He said, in his noble way, “Never mind, it is near daylight, and it shows that, asleep or awake, you are intent on your duty.” He lay down, and was asleep in a moment. I never felt so oppressed in my life, so vividly was depicted to my mind the scene described, and I took out of my pocket a little roster of duties and picquets bound in calf-skin, and noted down the hour and particulars of my dream. In a few days I received a letter from my afflicted father,[47] telling me my mother died on Sunday morning, Dec. 12, at one o’clock, at the very moment I cried out, “Stand to your arms.” Such is the fact. When I lay down, I was tired and exhausted, as before expressed. I had not a thought in the world of home or anything, nor was I prepared for the probability of the event. I presume to make no remarks on such intimations from God alone, but the whole day I was heavy and oppressed, nor did I ever shake off the vivid impression until the receipt of the letter put me in possession of the loss I had sustained.
SIR HARRY SMITH’S BIRTHPLACE, WHITTLESEY.
(The “Black Door” is seen to the right.)
From a photograph by A. Gray, Whittlesey, 1900.
[Opposite p. 156.
Her dying moments were perfectly composed; to the last she blessed her two sons engaged in the wars of their country, and died saying, “Would I could have seen them after their dangers and good conduct!” Among all our relations and friends we receive kindness and attention and unbounded love, but the love of a mother is distinct in character; youth in distress turns to the mother for sympathy and pardon; in joy it desires to impart its feeling to the mother, who participates in it with the warmth of a mother’s heart. The mother is the friend, the counsellor, the pardoner of offences, and, happen what may, the mother ever clings to her offspring. When I first parted from my mother to join my Regiment, the French Army was assembled at Boulogne, and every day was full of news that the French were coming. We dined early that day, I and my father, who was kindly to accompany me to Brabourne Lees, in Kent. At dinner I held up manfully. Then I ran to the stable to part with a beautiful little horse I had reared almost from a foal—he was thoroughbred, and carried me hunting in such a style that no one could beat me. I threw my arms round Jack’s neck, and had a good cry. I saw my poor mother observed what I had been doing, and a smile of approbation curled upon her placid lip. The awful moment now approached: the buggy was at the door. I parted with my dear brothers and sisters (five boys and five girls) tolerably well, my poor mother glad to observe in me a force of character which she hoped in greater and more eventful scenes I might evince. It came next to her turn. She seized me in her arms, and wept awfully. Suddenly, with an effort I shall never forget, her tears were dried, she held me at arm’s length, and, gazing at me most intently, said, “I have two favours to ask of you: one is that you never enter a public billiard-room; the next—our country is at war—if ever you meet your enemy, remember you are born a true Englishman. Now, God bless and preserve you, which I hope He will, and listen to the constant, the fervent prayers, I will offer up for your welfare.” I exclaimed, “Dear mother, I promise!” God knows the first request I have honestly fulfilled, the latter I hope I have—at least, my superiors and comrades ever gave me credit for a bold and courageous bearing. I returned to her beloved embrace after South America, and got a commission for my brother Tom, and again to her nearly naked and a skeleton after the retreat to Coruña. I was covered with vermin, and had no clothes but those on my back. To her alone did I impart what, although I felt no disgrace, I did not want to be known. She dressed me, and put me in a hot bath, and we preserved our secret mutually inviolate. I soon again left her for Talavera, restored to health by her care, never to see her again, but our intercourse by letters was constant. The last she received from me was after we had carried the heights of Vera in such a brilliant manner, and it told her that for my conduct I was promised the brevet rank of Major. May every soldier obey the fifth commandment as I did! I never was in a situation of appalling death, mortality, and danger, but my mother’s words rang in my ears, “Remember you were born an Englishman.” My dear wife participated and sympathized in all my grief, for I admit it was excessive, saying ever, “I have lost father and mother, and my brother died in my arms of his wounds. Your home and relatives you have still left, while I live alone for you,—my all, my home, my kindred.”
The morning after my dream [12 Dec.] I was very early at our advanced posts, and I saw some French soldiers coming on in a very unusual manner to attack us, while the mass of their force were dismissed in bivouac. The 1st Caçadores had the advance. I never saw the French so daring since the retreat to Coruña, and they were most excellent shots, and actually astonished our Caçadores. Colborne, hearing a smart firing, rode up, and stopped in the road opposite one of the barricades of our picquets. I said, “I don’t know what the devil we have got in our front to-day. Don’t stand there, you will be shot in a moment!” He laughed, but would not move. In a second a ball went through his cap just above his noble head. He moved then and laughed. “Look at the fellows,” he says, “how viciously they come on; it is evident it is no general attack, for the troops in their bivouac are not under arms. They want this post.” “Which,” says I, “they will have in ten minutes, unless I bring up the 2nd Battalion Rifle Brigade,” for our Caçadores were evidently not equal to their task. Colborne says, “Fetch them!” In a very short time our Riflemen came up. By this time the enemy had driven in everything beyond the barricade, and were prepared to assault it. Our 95th fellows had a few men wounded as they were coming up the road, before they could be extended, which made them as savage as the enemy, who were capering about the fields in our front as if drunk. Our fellows turned to, and soon brought them to repent any pranks or exposure. We took a few prisoners, and ascertained the Regiment was the 32nd Voltigeurs, a crack corps of Suchet’s army which had joined the night before, when we heard all the noise going on in the bivouac. These gentlemen had ever previously been venturous and laughed at the tales of British prowess; that morning’s lesson, however, seemed to have made converts of them, for I never after observed any extra feats of dancing; but Colborne and all of us were perfectly astonished when the fact was known, and our 2nd Battalion 95th Regiment were rather elated in having thus shown themselves such able instructors.
We were very much on the alert all day, and a few shots were exchanged. At night our picquets were strengthened, for we were not aware if our friends, the new Voltigeurs, intended a fresh prank. After these three days’ fighting and vigilance, the enemy withdrew close to Bayonne, their and our advanced posts being nearly as before. Notwithstanding the loss of our goose, we had a capital Christmas dinner, at which, of course, we had the Commissary of the Brigade, and induced him to find us champagne, which many commissaries were able to do.