In their maiden fight with the French (25th August, 1689) the regiment evinced firmness and intrepidity, for they rolled the enemy up in a masterly style, killing some 2000 of the frog-eaters. King William was well satisfied with the conduct of his Fusiliers. This was the first field, but not the last, on which they well stamped their initials upon the French. On the field of Steenkirk (24th July, 1692) they again confronted the foe, and taught the French to respect our flag. On the field of Landen (19th July, 1693) they again displayed the stern valour of British soldiers. Their loss was heavy, but they proved that they were worth their title, and taught the French such a lesson that they did not forget it for some time to come. In the battles following they proved by their contempt of danger, when the honour of the nation was at stake, that they were determined to overcome all difficulties or perish in the attempt. And, reader, when a fine body of men have so made up their minds, it is better to build a bridge of gold for them to pass over than to try and stop them.
At the siege of Nemur, in 1695, the old corps fought with desperation. The French here got a taste, and a good taste too, of what they were destined to have plenty from this dashing corps, viz., the bayonet. We next find them at Vigo, in 1702, dressing the Spaniards down, and they did it well. In 1703 we find the old regiment afloat, acting with the fleet; but the enemy kept out of their way. Again, we find the Fusiliers defending the deadly breach at Lerida, in 1707, with admirable courage. Once more we find the gallant old regiment afloat, acting as marines. They were in the action with the French fleet on the 20th May, 1756, and proved that they could fight for the honour of old England on the raging billows as well as on land. We next find them, in 1775, defending Quebec, and repulsing the Americans with a terrible slaughter. We also find them on a number of battle fields against the Americans, ever prompt in performing their duty, throughout the unfortunate War of Independence.
The Fusiliers again were in collision with their old hereditary enemy, the French, in March, 1794, at Martinique, commanded by His Royal Highness the Duke of Kent. The old regiment went at the enemy in masterly style. His Royal Highness addressed the storming column as follows: “Grenadiers, this is St. Patrick’s Day. The English will do their duty in compliment to the Irish, and the Irish in compliment to the Saint. Forward, Grenadiers!” And away went the Fusiliers. And a number of poor Gauls paid the penalty for opposing such a dashing body of men. During the five years that His Royal Highness was in command of the Fusiliers, no fewer than eight non-commissioned officers were rewarded with commissions, as suitable acknowledgments for meritorious service. His Highness endeared his name to the grateful remembrances of both officers and men.
The Fusiliers were next employed at Copenhagen, in 1807. Napoleon’s plans had been frustrated by the destruction of his fleets at the Nile and Trafalgar, by the immortal Nelson, and the Corsican tyrant was determined, if possible, to obtain possession of the Danish fleet to help to carry out his plans. But our Government were not to be caught napping; a strong fleet and a nice little land force was despatched, and demanded the whole of the Danish fleet, by treaty or by force. The brave Danes fought for it, and lost all—“except their honour;” and the Fusiliers returned to England with the victorious fleet.
We will now trace the gallant old Fusiliers through one of the brightest pages in the history of our dear old isle—the Peninsular War. No heavier effort had been made by our army since the days of Marlborough. Our noble Jack Tars had carried all before them, and their gallant deeds resounded throughout the world. All were compelled to admire. But the time was now approaching when the matchless “thin red line” taught Europe to beware; for all the brave sons of Albion and Erin’s Isle were not yet afloat. The proud and haughty Imperial Guards had stood as conquerors on field after field, and had polluted every capital in Europe except ours. But the usurper met his match for the first time on a grand scale on the 27th and 28th July, 1809, on the bloody field of Talavera; and the so-called “invincible pets of a tiger” were, so to speak, lifted or pitchforked from the field by this dashing old corps. The old “second-to-none” boys took the conceit out of the haughty legions of Napoleon, and captured seven guns from them; and all the attempts of the enemy to re-take them were in vain. The bayonet was used with terrible effect, and the guns remained in the hands of the Fusiliers. Wellington, with the eye of an eagle, watched the desperate fighting, and thanked the Fusiliers on the field for their conduct.
The next field on which the Fusiliers made the acquaintance of the French was that of Busaco (27th September, 1810)—“Grim Busaco’s iron ridge,” as Napier, the military historian, terms it. Here the enemy were driven from crag to crag and rock to rock, and the “thin red line” followed them up. All the regiments engaged seemed to take delight in thrashing the invincibility out of the boasting enemy. The grim-faced old veterans had been victorious on the fields of Austerlitz, Jena, Wagram, and Eylan, and had never once been defeated; but they had now met their match, and more than their match, in the “contemptible” sons of Albion. The columns of attack came rushing forward with such impetuosity that it appeared impossible to stop them; but they were all driven back with fearful slaughter, and the Fusiliers had a good hand in the pie. Thus ended the vain boasting of the French that they would drive all the English leopards into the sea. So they would if weight of numbers could have done it; but that nasty piece of cold steel was in the way, and in the hands of men who might die, but who had a strong objection to a watery grave; and at the close of the desperate fight the Fusiliers were one of the regiments that stood triumphant on that grim rocky ridge. About this time the 23rd Royal Welsh Fusiliers joined the army from America, and the famous Fusilier Brigade was formed, which was destined to shake the bullies of the continent out of their boots, and play “Rule Britannia” on the field. The Fusiliers were engaged in a number of minor affairs about this time. Our conquering commander was determined, after the fall of Ciudad Rodrigo, to wrench Badajoz from the hands of the enemy, and the Fusiliers assembled under its walls. But Marshal Soult was not asleep, and a strong army under that crafty commander flew to the rescue of the brave General Phillipon, and Marshal Beresford was compelled to raise the siege, and retire to the heights of Albuera—a name that shortly afterwards resounded from one end of Europe to the other. Again we would repeat, the fame of the mere handful of Fusiliers echoed throughout the civilized world, and Europe stood amazed at their doings. Lo! the Fusiliers had in a desperate struggle routed a host—an entire army—of the proudest and haughtiest sons of Adam’s race from the blood-stained heights of Albuera. They rushed upon the enemy with vehement courage; bayonet crossed bayonet; sword clashed against sword. Backwards and forwards rolled the eddying fight. The din was terrible, the carnage awful. But in the end, although the Marshal of France did all he could to encourage and animate his countrymen, they had to yield to the Fusiliers. The conduct of the Fusilier Brigade on this field was the admiration of both friend and foe. “Gallantry,” says one of the bravest of the brave (Lord Hardinge) “is hardly a name for it. In this terrible charge, which swept the veterans of France from the field, the Fusiliers lost 638 men, 34 sergeants, and 32 officers. It was here Sir William Myers fell, and no man died that day with more glory, yet many died; and there was much glory.” Happy the nation which can find such true-hearted men to meet the foe. But the remainder stood triumphant on that fatal hill (see p. 434). The list of killed and wounded proclaim with dreadful eloquence the sanguinary character of the contest the Fusiliers had just decided. Decided what? A doubtful field? No; but won back a lost field, and once more fastened victory to our glorious old standard. The word “Fusilier” after this was almost enough for a Frenchman’s breakfast. We again find the old regiment advancing with rapid steps to assist their hard-pressed comrades, the 5th Fusiliers, on the field of El-Bodón (see p. 436). And on this occasion the determined appearance of the Fusilier Brigade was enough. They stopped the pursuit of the boasting steel-clad squadrons of France. Again, at Aldea de Pont, the dear old corps charged the enemy with such vehemence as to drive them from the field. And now we retrace our steps to Badajoz. After no end of hardships in the trenches, the hour of assault draws near. Everything that could be thought of was done to repel an assault. It was known that the enterprise was a desperate one; powder-barrels and live shells by hundreds were embedded in the earth just at the foot of the deadly breach, all ready for an explosion. A large chevaux-de-frise was placed across the breach, and at the bottom of the ditch long planks with spikes, bayonets, and sword-blades fastened into them, and pointing upwards, ready for our poor fellows to jump upon. The Fusiliers led the way at the deadly breach of Trinidad with heroic valour. The fires of hell seemed to have broken upon them to destroy the old regiment. With a tremendous cheer, however, they mounted the deadly breach, only to fall back into the ditch below. Others then rushed up, nothing daunted, to be hurled back upon their comrades. The enemy fought with desperation. More men pressed forward while the dying and wounded were struggling in the ditch. At other places the ladders were too short, while, to add to the horror of the scene, a mine was sprung. But the Fusiliers never quailed. At length an entrance was forced, and in a short time Badajoz was at the conqueror’s feet. But, alas! five thousand poor fellows lay in front of those deadly breaches. The loss to the Fusiliers was heavy—18 officers, 14 sergeants, and 200 men.
After a number of minor combats, in all of which they came off victorious, we trace the old corps to the field of Salamanca. The enemy were taught a short but sharp lesson on this field. The Fusiliers were in the thick of it, but they were determined to maintain the honour of the corps, and, with cheer after cheer, they rushed at the enemy with levelled steel. Here again their loss was heavy—12 officers, 8 sergeants, and 199 men; but the remainder stood as conquerors. Then, after a lot of marching and counter-marching, we again find the old regiment on the field of Vittoria. On this field they had the post of honour, and were the admiration of all except the foe. It was here that the French lost all, including their honour. It was a most decisive victory for the English.
We now trace the Fusiliers to the sanguinary battles of the Pyrenees, where, with rapid and headlong charges, and with shouts of victory, they stormed position after position which appeared almost impregnable, hurling the enemy down the mountain sides. The old regiment, side by side with the 20th, 23rd Welsh Fusiliers, and the 40th, fought valiantly. As the ranks of conquering bayonets rushed at them, the shock of cold steel was too much for Napoleon’s spoilt invincibles. Each column was met in mid-onset, and forced back with great slaughter. Four times the Fusiliers precipitated themselves on a host of fresh opponents, and in each case proved victorious. Here our Commander again thanked the men on the spot, and in his despatch to the Government expressed his admiration of the deeds of the gallant old Fusiliers; for his Grace openly affirmed that the Royal Fusiliers had surpassed all former good conduct, and that the valour of the Fusiliers had won his approbation. His Grace might well say, “With British soldiers I will go anywhere and do anything.” The loss of the old regiment was heavy, being 11 officers, 14 sergeants, and 188 men; but they inflicted a terrible loss upon the enemy. They had been forced from ten strong mountain positions, and all had been carried with the queen of weapons—the bayonet. The passage of the Bidassoa followed. Then the enemy’s army was driven from a strong position on the Neville. The gallant regiment now stood triumphant, firmly established on the “sacred soil” of France. Retribution had overtaken guilty, haughty, insulting France. The tyrant Napoleon had hurled the thunderbolts of war against the nations of Europe. The whole of the sovereigns of the continent had been on their knees before this tyrannical usurper, but he now saw them attack him with fury. The enemy took up a formidable position at Orthes, but no advantage of position could stop our victorious army. Marshal Soult (Napoleon’s pet General) here got a sound drubbing.
The old Fusiliers are again side by side with the Royal Welsh, well to the front, for our victorious General opened the ball with them. The enemy were beaten at all points, and routed from the field. After a number of minor engagements, in all of which they were victorious, we come to the closing scene—the field of Toulouse. But Dame Fortune would not smile upon the French eagle, for the enemy got another sound beating, and had to retire from the field, leaving it in the hands of the conquering sons of Albion. Thus the Fusiliers had carried our triumphant standard from victory to victory. We pass from one brilliant deed to another with almost breathless rapidity. The succession of victories had dazzled the whole of Europe, who stood amazed at the gallant deeds of the “astonishing infantry.” Peace was now declared, and the Fusiliers returned home, after an absence of nearly seven long years of toil and triumph. We need hardly say that they got a worthy reception, being greeted with hearty cheers from crowds of their fellow countrymen. They had frequently been acknowledged to be a most brilliant, heroic, and dashing body of men by those who were competent judges. Their conduct had often been the admiration of all, for where all were brave, they were acknowledged to be “the bravest of the brave.”
The Fusiliers’ stay at home was of short duration. Our big cousins across the Atlantic, thinking our hands were full, must “kick up a row” with us; so the Fusiliers were despatched to teach them better behaviour. After a number of engagements with our kinsmen, with but little honour on their part (and it is not at all pleasant to thrash one’s own flesh and blood), peace was patched up, and the Fusiliers returned home; for the disturber of the world was again in the field, and on the red field of Waterloo. The conqueror of nations, backed by an army of old and grim veterans, threw down the gauntlet at the feet of our conquering chief, Wellington, and the bright dream of the “hundred days” was rudely dissipated. But the old Fusiliers this time were not in it; they landed at Ostend on the day of the battle, and pushed on rapidly, but all was over with Napoleon before they reached the field. They marched on into France with the victorious army, and remained with the Army of Occupation until 1818. A long period of peace and tranquility followed. Europe had had enough of war. And the old Fusiliers, as the sequel of this book will show, nobly maintained, on the heights of Alma, and Inkermann, and throughout the siege of Sebastopol, the reputation acquired by their forefathers. Lord Raglan knew well what he was about when he selected the Royal Fusiliers, together with the Royal Welsh Fusiliers, to lead the way at the Alma. The two old regiments had often been shoulder to shoulder; and his lordship on this field was not disappointed, for they urged each other on to desperate deeds of valour. Up they went, forcing back a huge column of the enemy, until they gained the blood-stained heights, and then stood triumphant. And repeatedly during that trying campaign the Royal Fusiliers led the way. Since then the mutineers could not say that the Fusiliers were napping when wanted; and I am confident that their countrymen are well satisfied with their conduct in the Afghan campaigns of 1863 and the late go-in at Candahar; and that the honour of our dear old flag may still with safety be left in the hands of the Royal Fusiliers.