Wellington's Men: Some Soldier Autobiographies

by Unknown

On October 6 the 42nd had its first near glimpse of mountain fighting, though the regiment took no actual part in the combat:—

"On October 6 we advanced towards the heights of Urdach, and descended a few paces on the brow of that part of the mountain which overlooks the valley of that name and the distant course of the Nivelle. A thick cloud hovered beneath us, and hid the country from our view. The loud report of guns in the valley shook the hills and echoed throughout the dark woody ravines below, while the quick rounds of musketry prepared us to expect an order to descend to the scene of action. The division stood in columns of brigade, or in lines along the mountain paths, as the position could be taken up.

"We remained upwards of two hours enveloped in the misty clouds, every man full of anxiety to view the contest below. At last our wishes were gratified; the curtain arose, and the interesting scene burst all at once on our view. A far-discerning eye might see the skirmishers of both armies approaching close to each other, each man with well-directed aim looking along the deadly tube that sent the intended messenger of death to the opposing adversary. Vineyards, orchards, straggling bushy fences, and streamlets with steep banks intersected the country, and afforded occasional cover to both sides, as well as a rest to the marksman's musket in taking a deliberate aim. The ascent of the cloud, which had hovered beneath us and over the combatants, afforded them a view of our columns and lines ready to descend, a prospect no less discouraging to the enemy than animating to our friends."

Anton's first personal experience in the stirring business of war was at the passage of the Nivelle. The river, it will be remembered, was approached by a night march. Anton's account is interesting, though marred by a laborious attempt at fine writing:—

"The moon shone in the cloudless vault of heaven as we descended the narrow paths of the mountains; behind us were our camp-fires and blazing huts, while the ill-clothed and worse-disciplined troops of Spain were hurrying up the mountain path to occupy the ground we had left. To our right appeared the enemy's watch-fires, blazing brightly on the distant brow of one of the diverging ridges that jut out from the main body of the Pyrenees, their pickets little dreaming that we were worming our way through the intricate windings so near their posts, in order to rouse them to work in the morning. On our left a deep, woody ravine, with its roaring stream, skirted our path; before us the narrow ridge jutted out between two of those ravines, in a peninsula form, until its extremity overlooked the valley where we had witnessed the contest on October 6. The path led us down by many a circuitous and steep descent to the vale of Urdach, which we reached by daybreak.

"We were now approaching the Nivelle, and all its woody margins were lined with light troops, our battalions forming in columns about two furlongs from the bank of the river: not a musket was yet fired. The guns were already posted on all the commanding eminences on the left of the river. The generals had given their orders regarding the attack about to be made, the movements likely to follow, and their aides-de-camp were flying from corps to corps with the preparatory directions. No voice was heard, save that of command, until the foot of the advanced skirmisher was dipped in the stream; the bullet arrests him in his advance, and, as if at the command of some necromancer, thick and obscuring clouds rise from bank to bank, from eminence to eminence, as the loud thunder of war bursts from ten thousand muskets.

"The river is passed, and the soldiers of France retire or fall before their stern invaders. We pass through a wood and come to the bottom of a steep hill (the heights of Ainhoe), the face of which presents long ridges of formidable breastworks, behind which the enemy keeps up a heavy fire of musketry, and fears no danger in the security of his cover. On the summit overlooking these works is a battery which commands that part of the river within its range.

"The 11th Regiment was now ordered to ascend and storm those breastworks, and never did a regiment perform a task so dangerous, so obstructed, and apparently impracticable, with better success or in better order. Its line was preserved without a break, not only in climbing the hill but in springing over the breastworks, bayoneting those that waited its approach, even until it cleared the battery on the western summit, where, justly proud of its conquest, it made the hills echo to its loud huzzahs.

"Meantime our regiment advanced more to the right, where, on a gentle slope of the hill, stood the huts (the recent camp or quarters) of the enemy. Some of those huts caught fire, and, owing to the combustible material of which they were constructed, the whole were nearly enveloped in one blaze. The position which the enemy had occupied in the morning was now in our possession, and the sixth division crowned the heights of Ainhoe.

"The regiment's loss this day did not exceed twenty-seven killed and wounded; among the latter were Captain Mungo M'Pherson and Lieutenant Kenneth M'Dougall.

"This was the first engagement I was in, and I considered myself no longer a recruit. I had now smelled the enemy's powder, as the old soldiers boastingly exclaimed; I had heard his bullets whistling past my ears, seen them dropping harmless at my feet, and burrowing in the ground. I had observed, during this contest, the men whom I knew to be the greatest boasters in the company, men who never ceased enlarging on the exploits they had accomplished, the actions they had witnessed, or the hardships they had endured, when they had such a one as myself to listen to their stories; I observed some of those boasters very closely, and I could not help remarking that the men who spoke less acted better.

"It is, perhaps, needless to observe that it is scarcely in the power of an individual foot-soldier to perform any enterprising feat in the field of action, unless he be on some detached duty in front, such as is frequently the case with the skirmishers. If he is with the battalion he must keep in his ranks; it is on the united movement of the whole body that general success depends; and he that rushes forward is equally blamable with him who lags behind, though certainly the former may do so with less chance of censure, and no dread of shame. A man may drop behind in the field but this is a dreadful risk to his reputation, and even attended with immediate personal danger, while within the range of shot and shells; and woe to the man that does it, whether through fatigue, sudden sickness, or fear—let him seek death, and welcome it from the hand of a foe, rather than give room for any surmise respecting his courage; for when others are boasting of what they have seen, suffered, or performed, he must remain in silent mortification.

"I have seen it frequently remarked, in the periodicals of the time, that the loss in killed and wounded was greater than was actually acknowledged on our side; that we overrated the enemy's loss, and underrated our own; but this is not the case. The loss of the enemy, of course, is a guess rather than a certainty, until we become possessed of their official returns; but that of our own is never underrated. Indeed, a soldier feels a greater pride in boasting of his wounds than in trying to conceal them; mere scratches are often magnified into wounds, and stated as such in the returns.

"I never yet, among the many I have seen wounded, knew but one individual who kept his wound from being placed on the list; his name was Stewart. We were evacuating a redoubt on the heights of Toulouse, when a bullet struck him behind, pierced through his cartridge-box, cut his clothes, and hit him smartly on the breech. 'I shall give that to the rascal again,' he said, as he recovered himself and picked up the bullet. 'I shall be ashamed,' he added, 'to let it be known that I was struck behind.' Had this bullet struck him on the breast or limbs, there would have been one more on our list of that day's casualties."

Late in November the army went into cantonments; but on the night of December 8, the troops were in motion again. Says Anton:—

"On the night of December 8, our division was under arms in columns of brigades until nearly daybreak, the artificers being employed in placing a bridge of pontoons over the river, below the town. As soon as this was finished, the troops began to pass along, while the drummers, left behind, beat the reveille at the usual places. This circumstance induced the enemy to conclude that we still occupied our quarters, although we were forming our columns silently in their neighbourhood, concealed amidst a dense mist. As soon as objects were discernible, a signal gun announced our time of advance. A wooden bridge still remained over the river at Ustritz, but so far broken down by the enemy as to be impassable; the discharge of this gun, however, so alarmed the French conscript sentries posted at the end of the bridge, on the right bank, that they retired in great haste towards the picket to which they belonged, and our artificers lost no time in making the necessary repairs for the passage of the troops and stores.

"The greater part of this day's action consisted in skirmishing, in which the light infantry companies sustained the principal brunt. Towards the close of the day, the enemy retired upon a farmhouse situated on a commanding eminence, having some of the adjoining fields enclosed by low dry-stone walls and quickset hedges, behind which they appeared in considerable force, supported by some artillery. In dislodging these troops, Captain George Stewart and Lieutenant James Stewart, both of the light company, were killed on the spot, and Lieutenant Brander was severely wounded."

A sudden burst of tempestuous weather arrested the movements of the troops, and the men returned to their camps. Directly the rains ceased, however, Soult was once more in movement. Swiftly marching to his right, he threw the whole strength of his army on the British left, holding the Jean de Luz road. Failing here, he faced about, pushed on at speed to his left, and leaped on the British right. In the toilsome marches and bloody combats of these operations, the 42nd had a full share. Here is a picture by Anton of the fighting near Bayonne:—

"On the sixth division's attaining the heights overlooking Bayonne, its movements were immediately directed to its right, so as to support more effectually the left of the second; and Sir Denis Pack ordered the 42nd to advance to the main road, by which a brigade of the enemy was retiring. Our colonel was as anxious to execute the order as the men were proud to have been selected to perform it, but he led us into such a brake of furze, thorns, and brambles that it would have been impossible to have taken our bare-thighed regiment through its impenetrable meshes. The general, observing our painful but ineffectual struggling, withdrew us from that spot, and pointed to another place by which we should have advanced, and which would have been practicable; but by this time the enemy had passed our mark, and were descending towards the valley of the Adour, where, joined by another brigade, they made a determined stand against the 92nd Highlanders, that were coming round on the other flank.

"The ground at that place was intersected with deep drains, loose stone walls, and thorn bushes. Here a contest ensued, which cannot be described with justice to both parties; perhaps the like seldom or never occurred during the war. The enemy, although on their retreat, were within a short distance of their own fortified position of Bayonne, and in view of their own army and people, from whom praise or censure was to be expected; they were also in the animating discharge of an urgent duty, namely, that of opposing the invaders of their beloved country. Yet, notwithstanding all these stimulants, the gallant 92nd bore down every opposition. The guns ceased to play upon this spot, so closely were both parties intermixed. Muskets were broken, bayonets bent, and stones were thrown with deadly vengeance. Victory crowned our native band, but it was dearly bought. Fourteen officers, eight sergeants, and 163 rank and file lay killed and wounded on the spot, and thrice that number of the enemy were scattered in heaps around them.

"The sun sank over the blue waves of the Bay of Biscay, and darkness rested on the fields, before the fire of the skirmishers ceased. Both armies, wearied of the struggle, rested on the ground during the night, the pickets occupying the dilapidated remains of the houses in front; to these the wounded men crawled for shelter, or were carried thither if near the spot.

"The unfortunate men who had fallen in remote places were suffered to remain under the inclement sky, until morning brought them relief, or death ended their sufferings. The rain poured down heavily during the night, and those who had crawled for shelter to the dry ditches along the roads or fields breathed their last beneath the gathering floods."

The bitter, incessant rain now drove the army into permanent winter quarters, and the British troops shivered in their bleak camps from December 14, 1813, to February 21, 1814. On the latter date camps were broken up, and the campaign of 1814 began. Anton's account of the first great fight of that campaign—Orthez—is naturally concerned only in the doings of his own regiment:—