[5] The troops always fought with their knapsacks on; and this is the only time I ever knew them left behind, except when storming breaches of fortresses, or escalading forts.
[6] The French army wore very high cocked hats; the English quite the reverse; the latter was called the Wellington hat.
[7] General Longa's corps were by far the most miserable of any I had ever seen in the Spanish service; but, considering they were doomed to inhabit a cheerless mass of rocks in such attire, I thought them worthy of description; some of the other Spanish corps were well dressed; but the whole of the army suffered more or less, owing to an indifferent supply of rations;—privations which they seemed to bear with unexampled patience.
[8] On the 31st of October, the French garrison at Pampeluna surrendered themselves prisoners of war for want of provisions, which circumstance now cleared the rear of our army, and enabled it to make offensive movements.
CHAPTER III.
Advance of the light division—Singular nocturnal orgies—Skirmishing preliminary to the battle of the Nivelle—Details of that battle—British head-quarters established at St. Jean de Luz—More skirmishing, and a slight reverse—Combative anecdotes—Advance of the British line of picquets.
On the evening of the 9th of November, the division received orders to move during the night, for the purpose of taking up its ground previously to the attack on the enemy's position in France, on the following morning. The whole of the ample store of ready-cut wood, (a portion of which had been split up by the officers to keep themselves in exercise,) was piled up, and a monstrous fire kindled, which soon burst into a tremendous blaze, throwing a bright glare on the distant objects moving between the trees of the forest. At the usual hour, the owl began to utter her notes, and continued her cries longer than heretofore; all which was construed into something ominous by Lieut. Baillie, a sinewy young Highlander, who, with an eagle's wings held on each shoulder, which he had shot with a single ball a few days before, recited those tragic lines sung by the witches in Macbeth, as we all joined hands and danced around the crackling faggots, and sang in chorus, which at intervals was intermingled with the screeches of the aforesaid owl. The flickering and livid glare of the flames, glancing on the scarlet uniforms, the red sparks flying over the forest, and the soldiers packing and beating their knapsacks, gave an unusual wildness to our midnight orgies.
Before striking our tent, we partook of a comfortable breakfast, after which we each secured a biscuit, of American manufacture: they were of a peculiar hardness (nearly an inch thick), so much so, that it required the stamp of an iron heel, or some hard substance, to break them. An officer jocularly remarked, while placing one of them under the breast of his jacket, that it might turn a ball,—which actually occurred.[9]