The Fortunes of Hector O'Halloran, and His Man, Mark Antony O'Toole

by W. H. Maxwell

On the night of the 10th, operations actively commenced. On the morning of the 17th, a strong outwork called San Bartolomeo, with the adjacent suburb of San Martin, were carried by assault—and on the 20th, the whole of the batteries commenced breaching at once, without having first ruined the defences—a departure from established practice which afterwards occasioned a galling failure, attended with a hewy loss of gallant men.

It was the evening of the 23d, when I and my foster brother topped a rising ground, which commanded a more immediate view of the beleaguered city, and the investing army which encompassed it. For fifteen miles the booming of hewy artillery gave us full assurance, that, if our intent was “up to the breach!” we were still in excellent time. The thunder of the British batteries seemed to redouble as we neared the fortress—and while the fire of the besieged was slack and feeble, compared with that of the assailants; the roar from the Chofre batteries was continuous—and the practice so beautiful and correct, that a new breach on the right of the main one, had been formed by that day’s fire, and the wall for thirty yards exhibited a perfect ruin.

It was a sight which, suddenly presented to an eye inexperienced in the “circumstance of war,” would never fade from memory. The sun was nearly setting—but there was no lack of light to induce the besiegers to silence the fire of their guns. The mortar battery, erected the preceding day to destroy the defences, and ruin a stockade which insulated the high curtain on the land front, had set the houses in the immediate vicinity of the great breach in flames; and, as they spread rapidly, the safety of the town from that wild element appeared as much endangered, as from the impending outburst of human violence. Although in immediate expectation of the assault, this calamity did not abate the confidence of the gallant old man who commanded; but for a day, and under an erroneous belief that the burning houses would isolate the breach if carried, the fearful trial was postponed. All was ready to deliver the assault—the storming parties were in the trenches—but on the morning, the fire still raged with such unconquered violence, that it was dreaded it would prove as formidable to the assailants, as it had been found embarrassing to the assailed—and consequently the storm was delayed, a circumstance, it was said, that abated the ardour of the troops, and tended much to produce the unfortunate failure which occurred next morning.

That awful pause—the day of the 24th, was not like the calm which precedes the tempest. The batteries on the Chofre sand-hills opened again, and a whirlwind of heavy shot enlarged the ruins at the breaches, and, as it was hoped, injured the defences materially. The fire of the garrison was nearly silenced—and while the means of aggression were evidently reduced, they laboured diligently to render those of resistance formidable and efficient. A cavalier that commanded the curtain was armed with field pieces—and every point, whether of the castle or the hill, which looked upon the breach or its approaches, was furnished with heavier artillery. The fausse brave beneath which the storming parties must advance, was lined with shells and other destructive missiles, to be rolled down upon the assailants as they advanced along its base—while every house within musket range was loop-holed, and the breach carefully retrenched; but even had it been crowned successfully, still a sheer descent of fifteen feet remained before the assailants could reach a street composed entirely of burning houses.

In war, there are wonderful accidents which lead frequently to failure or defeat—and from fortuitous circumstances, great results arise. In carrying a parallel across the Isthmus to reach the land defences, the working party broke through the water-course of a ruined aqueduct. An engineer boldly crept into the dark and narrow drain—explored it carefully—and at the end of two hundred and thirty yards, found himself separated from the counterscarp only by a door, and directly in face of the right demi-bastion of the horn-work. Here fortune had befriended the besiegers, and supplied them with an admirable mine. The engineers formed a globe of compression at the extremity, and loaded it with an enormous charge of powder—and though this dangerous operation was effected under the feet of the French sentries, none took alarm, and the work was silently and effectually completed.

The plan of attack was to assault the greater and lesser breaches together, when the spring of the mine, formed in the head of the aqueduct, should give the signal. It was expected that the explosion there would fill the ditch of the horn-work with rubbish—and in the confusion and surprise, the Portuguese might possibly escalade at that point, and effect a lodgement in the place. The Royals were directed against the great breach, supported by the ninth regiment—and the thirty-eighth were ordered to carry the smaller one. An elite detachment, formed of the three light companies of these regiments, attended by an engineer and ladder party, were designed to have escaladed the high curtain, while the breaches were assaulted, and clear the enemy from it with the bayonet; and to this party, Mark Antony and I attached ourselves.

Soon after midnight, the storming parties with the columns of attack entered the trenches—and within three hundred yards of the breaches, waited impatiently for sun-rise, when it had been arranged that the assault was to be given.

There is no use in concealing it—that interval of two hours was the most anxious passage of my history. I felt that, as it on the hazard of a die, life or death depended. Darkness and silence prevailed—the latter only broken by the thunder of the breaching batteries, which were kept in full play upon the breaches and defences. Many an anxious inquiry was made to know “how time went,”—many an eager look was cast eastward to watch for early dawn—but hundreds were fated never to witness the rising of another sun. While it was still dark, the globe of compression formed in the head of the aqueduct was fired. The storming parties rushed forward from the trenches—and the work of death began.

The explosion of the mine was unfortunately not heard at the Chofre batteries, and the guns, instead of ceasing, continued in full play upon the place. Hence, the assailants as they advanced, were scourged by a double fire, and suffered more from the grape of their own batteries than the enemy’s cannonade. The narrow slip of ground by which the stormers approached the breaches, contracted between the river on one side, and the retaining wall of the horn-work on the other, was embarrassed with rocks and pools of water, and consequently, the movement of the column became disorderly. Under a withering fire, the breach was gained—up flew the leading officers—a few gallant soldiers followed—but the supports moved slowly—the troops came straggling to the breach—and instead of mounting to the assistance of the gallant few who had already crowned the ruins, the greater portion of the assailants stopped at the bottom, and interchanged musketry with the French who lined the ramparts, and kept up a deadly fusilade on the disordered mass below. The towers of Los Hornos and Mesquitas opened a hewy flanking fire; and from the St. Elmo and the Mirador, grape fell in torrents upon the broken column—the Castle threw shells with great precision—grenades were flung from the ramparts—a stream of fire issued from the loop-holed houses—while flames raging behind the breach, seemed to forbid approach, even had offensive means been unemployed.

Still though the men fell by fifties, their officers endeavoured to rally them and crown the breach anew; but every moment the chances of success became more desperate. The regiments got intermixed, and that terrible confusion of troops mobbed in a narrow space between the breach and the Urumea, became irretrievable. At that moment the remnant of our light companies pushed through the disordered column, and Campbell, its chivalrous leader, followed by a daring few, gained the summit. Mid-way up, my foster-brother fell—while I, with a dozen or two, a second time reached the rampart. We held it but a moment. Under the storm of musketry all went down; and there were but two or three standing, when a bullet stretched me beside those with whom “life had ended.”