So far we had reason for self-gratulation—and as far as kindness from the host, and constant attentions on the part of Cammaran would go, we had no reason to complain of our captivity. But other circumstances allayed the satisfaction we should otherwise have felt—for every day the prospect of deliverance became more distant, and matters assumed a gloomier aspect.
Lord Wellington, on hearing of the miscarriage at San Sebastian, came down from the covering army to ascertain the causes of the failure, and, as it was reported, to adopt immediate means to remedy the disaster, and make himself master of the place. But, alas! our hopes that the speedy capture of the city would restore us to liberty again, ended on the morning of the 27th. Overnight, the batteries had been disarmed and the guns removed to Passages—the siege was turned into a blockade—and taking advantage of the confusion, the garrison sallied from the horn-work, surprised the soldiers in the trenches, and carried back more than two hundred prisoners. Rumour also was busy on the wing. It was said that Soult had already taken the offensive—that the allied forces in advance, had been attacked, defeated, and driven back—and an order, directing Sir Thomas Graham to march on the Bidassoa with all his disposable troops, confirmed the unwelcome news.
The intelligence that Napoleon’s lieutenant had actually commenced operations to relieve Pampeluna and San Sebastian, and afterwards celebrate his maker’s birth-day in Vittoria, was perfectly correct. On the same morning and hour, while we had made our sanguinary and unsuccessful attempt upon the fortress, Soult commenced his daring operations, by driving in the pickets and scaling the pass of Altobisco.
Although desperately outnumbered, the allies held their mountain position most obstinately—and for hours the combat raged with unabated fury, among wild and Alpine heights five thousand feet above the level of the sea. This protracted defence allowed time for others of the allied brigades to come, while a dense fog prevented the French marshal from executing the general attack he intended to have made with overwhelming numbers. Cole held his position with comparatively little loss—and when night came, finding his right turned at Orbaiceta, he cleverly retreated during the darkness, carrying ten thousand men safely through mountain passes, which rendered a regressive movement in the face of thirty thousand French bayonets a delicate and dangerous attempt. The position of Roncesvalles was consequently abandoned—and the first great effort from which Soult had expected far different results, left him with the allied brigades still like lions in the passes, and seven leagues of Alpine country interposed between him and Pampeluna, the grand object of his operations.
On the morning of the 26th, the French marshal resumed the offensive. A day of occasional combats and severe marching, while the English generals slowly and steadily fell back, produced no greater results than those attendant upon yesterday. Night came—and Soult, with altered convictions as to the probability of eventual success, waited for morning to try his fortunes in the field anew.
The third trial was certainly more propitious. The Aretesque and Maya passes were attacked in great force, and, aided by a partial surprise, the French were enabled to drive the pickets back upon their supports,—and eventually, but after the most desperate fighting, the allied position was won. Four Portuguese guns were captured—and the French, elevated by this success, pressed the reduced battalions, who still retired, but slowly and sullenly, blocking up each ridge or pass they defended with the bodies of the dead and dying. At six o’clock, completely worn out with fatigue, their numbers reduced to a third, their ammunition almost expended, the rocky heights of Atchiola were about to be abandoned—but at the moment, a brigade of the seventh division came opportunely up—the battle was sternly renewed, and the French forced to retire from the disputed mountain, and occupy the pass of Maya which they had won so dearly. In these sanguinary and protracted combats, Soult, with an expenditure of fifteen hundred men, gained a few miles of mountain and four disabled guns—a miserable trophy for such a waste of blood.
Nothing could surpass the triumph of the garrison when the intelligence of the marshal’s advance was confirmed—and the affairs of these three days mountain warfare were grossly mistated. Roncesvalles and Linzoain were described as brilliant actions—glorious to the arms of France; while Maya was exaggerated into a crowning victory.
But the hours of Soult’s temporary success were numbered. On his return from San Sebastian, Wellington heard of the French attack on the evening of the 27th, and hurrying forward to San Estevan, which he reached the morning of the 28th—there ascertained the true position of affairs. His plans were formed with his accustomed rapidity and decision—and he determined to concentrate in front of Pampeluna, and retreat by the valley of the Lanz.
In the meantime, the fortress profiting by the cessation of the investment, received ample supplies of stores and ammunition by sea from France, and in return transmitted back the sick and wounded, thus getting relieved of the most troublesome incumbrance with which a beleaguered city is incommoded. New defences were planned and executed—former damages repaired—the works were generally strengthened—the magazines stored with powder and provisions—and San Sebastian was, in this interval, rendered stronger than when the besiegers first broke ground.
All these events to me held out a melancholy prospect. It was already intimated that on the first favourable opportunity the prisoners would be forwarded to France—and in that case, captivity and the war would be coeval. A yearning after home momentarily increased. Isidora was ever present—and I cursed the hour that, for the bauble, fame, I had quitted the land of liberty and love. Mark Antony bore thraldom even more impatiently than I. He cursed France, Spain, and Portugal in a breath—read a letter from the rat-catcher once a day—and another, I fancy from the lady of his love, “every minute i’ th’ hour.”