The same afternoon we made a long and rapid march on Mont de Marsan, where a Division of Cavalry and Marshal Beresford and his head-quarters preceded us. We did not reach Mont de Marsan until some hours after dark. We were ordered to take up quarters for the night, but so full of Cavalry and head-quarters was the place, and all scattered over the town, not collected, as we Light Division used to be by streets and regiments as if on parade, we had great difficulty in getting in anywhere.
The night was showery, with sleet drifting, frosty and excessively cold. My poor wife was almost perished. We at last got her into a comfortable little house, where the poor Frenchwoman, a widow, lighted a fire, and in about half an hour produced some bouillon in a very handsome Sèvres slop-basin, saying this had been a present to her many years ago on the day of her marriage, and that it had never been used since her husband’s death. She, therefore, wished my wife to know how happy she was to wait on the nation who was freeing France of an usurper. The widow was a true “Royaliste,” and we were both most grateful to the poor woman. The next day we were ordered back to St. Sever, on the high-road to Toulouse, and parted with our widow with all mutual concern and gratitude, our baggage being left to follow. We had a very showery, frosty, and miserable long march over an execrable road, after which we and Barnard got into a little cottage on the roadside. At daylight the following morning we were expecting to move, but, having received no order, we turned to to breakfast, my wife relating to Barnard the kindness she had received the previous night and the history of the basin. To our horror in came my servant, Joe Kitchen, with the identical slop-basin full of milk. The tears rolled down my wife’s cheeks. Barnard got in a storming passion. I said, “How dare you, sir, do anything of the sort?” (he was an excellent servant.) “Lord, sir,” he says, “why, the French soldiers would have carried off the widow, an’ she had been young, and I thought it would be so nice for the goat’s milk in the morning; she was very angry, though, ’cos I took it.”
Barnard got on his horse, and rode to head-quarters. About ten o’clock he came back and said the Duke told him the army would not march until to-morrow. My wife immediately sent for the trusty groom, old West, and said, “Bring my horse and yours too, and a feed of corn in your haversack.” She said to me, “I am going to see an officer who was wounded the day before yesterday, and if I am not back until late, do not be alarmed.” Young as she was, I never controlled her desire on such occasions, having perfect confidence in her superior sense and seeing her frequently visit our wounded or sick. I went to my Brigade, having various duties, just before she started. It became dark, she had not returned, but Barnard would wait dinner for her, saying, “She will be in directly.” She did arrive soon, very cold and splashed from hard riding on a very dirty, deep, and wet road. She laughed and said, “Well, why did you wait dinner? Order it; I shall soon have my habit off.” Barnard and I exclaimed with one voice, “Where have you been?” “Oh,” she says, “do not be angry, I am not taken prisoner, as you see. I have been to Mont de Marsan, to take back the poor widow’s basin.” I never saw a warm-hearted fellow so delighted as Barnard. “Well done, Juana, you are a heroine. The Maid of Saragossa is nothing to you.” She said the widow cried exceedingly with joy, but insisted on her now keeping the basin for the milk, which my wife would on no account do. She had ridden that day thirty miles and had every reason to expect to meet a French patrol. I said, “Were you not afraid of being taken prisoner?” “No, I and West kept a good look-out, and no French dragoon could catch me on my Spanish horse, Tiny.” She was tired from the excessive cold, but the merit of her act sustained her as much as it inspired us with admiration. The story soon got wind, and the next day every officer in the Division loaded her with praise. It was a kind and noble act which few men, much less a delicate girl of sixteen, would have done under all the circumstances. Our worthy friend, Bob Digby, of the 52nd Regiment, Barnard’s A.D.C., overhearing my wife’s orders to West, after she had started, most kindly followed and joined my wife on the road, for, as he said, he was alarmed lest she should fall in with a patrol.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CAMPAIGN OF 1814: AT GÉE, NEAR AIRE—BATTLE OF TARBES—BATTLE OF TOULOUSE—END OF THE WAR.
On our advance [9 March, etc.], we were for some days at a village called Gée, near Aire, where the 2nd Division, under Sir W. Stewart, had a brilliant little affair.
But I must first interpose an anecdote. One of his A.D.C.’s, his nephew, Lord Charles Spencer, a Lieutenant of the 95th Regiment, was mounted on a very valuable horse which he had paid more for than he could afford, contrary to the advice of Sir William. In driving the French through the town, Lord Charles’s horse was shot on the bank of a large pond, into which he himself was thrown head foremost. (The fire at this moment was very heavy, and in a street more balls take effect than in the open.) Sir William very quietly says, “Ha, there goes my poor nephew and all his fortune,” alluding to the price he paid for his horse.
I have often heard Colonel Colborne (Lord Seaton) affirm that if he were asked to name the bravest man he had ever seen (and no one was a better judge), he should name Sir William Stewart. Although he gave me my commission, I never saw him under fire. If he exceeded in bravery my dear friend, Sir Edward Pakenham, he was gallant indeed. Pakenham’s bravery was of that animated, intrepid cast that he applied his mind vigorously at the moment to the position of his own troops as well as to that of the enemy, and by judicious foresight ensured success, but he never avoided a fight of any sort.