The exultation of the French garrison at the reported victories which had crowned the efforts of Soult for the relief of Pampeluna was but a short-lived triumph—for an attempt vauntingly commenced, and certainly very gallantly carried out, had been signally defeated.
Picton, followed closely by Soult, had retreated through the valley of the Zuberi before day-break. On nearing Pampeluna, the English general found that the fourth division had already passed Villalba; the garrison of Pampeluna had sallied and spiked a battery—the blockading Spaniards were in terrible confusion—and every thing bore the appearance of disaster. With a stern hardihood, which formed the best point in Picton’s military character, he determined at once to turn and offer battle to the pursuers—and accordingly, formed in battle order upon the ridges of Miguel, Escova, and Christoval; thus masking the fortress he came to relieve from Soult’s view as he issued from the valley of the Zuberi.
The French marshal felt little doubt that the object of his previous efforts was now about to be realized. Within two leagues of Pampeluna he followed a retiring army, and in another hour would be in communication with that fortress. What, then, was his surprise, when on emerging from the valley, he found the third division and Morillo’s Spaniards in position on the bold and rocky chain rising in front of Huarte, and Cole more immediately advanced, in possession of the heights near Zabaldica which command the Huarte road? Hastily he adopted and executed a bold movement to form a line of battle; but, while that was in progress, another and a greater actor appeared suddenly upon the stage; and when he came, the tide of Soult’s fortune turned, and defeat followed in his footsteps.
On quitting the Bastan on the 27th, Lord Wellington learned at Ostiz, that Picton had retired on Pampeluna, and, riding at speed to Sauroren, he perceived Clausel’s divisions in full march, and with an eagle-glance discovered from the direction taken by the French columns, that the allied movement through the Lanz must certainly be intercepted. There was not a moment to be lost; an order was despatched that the troops should move bodily by the right towards Oricain, a village nearly in the rear of the mountain position taken up by Sir Lowry Cole.
In issuing this hurried order, one of war’s romantic incidents occurred. The despatch was written on the parapet of the bridge; and as the staff-officer who carried it, rode out of one extremity of the village, the French cavalry galloped in at the other; while the allied commander dashed quickly up the hill, and joined the allied troops who held it. His appearance was sudden, unexpected, and electrical. A Portuguese battalion raised an exulting cheer—the name of Wellington! passed from regiment to regiment, accompanied by a thundering huzza; while, by a strange coincidence, Soult was at the moment so immediately in front, that the rival commanders were pointed out distinctly to each other. The evening passed without any striking effort. Soult examined the allied position under the fire of his light troops—a thunder-storm ended the skirmish, and both sides determined on a trial of skill and strength to-morrow.
The 28th, a day ever memorable in peninsular history, found both sides prepared for action. Soult, intending to crush the left of the fourth division, and ignorant of the march of the sixth, made dispositions to enable him to attack Cole’s left and front together, while Reille, at the same time, should carry the height held by the Spaniards and the British 40th. The former effort turned out a fatal experiment; and the blow intended to crush the allied brigade before it could be assisted met with a tremendous counter-stroke. “Striving to encompass the left of the allies, the French were themselves encompassed.” Suddenly a Portuguese brigade appeared upon their right; the sixth division showed itself as unexpectedly in front; the fourth turned fiercely on their left; and, scourged at the same time by a front and flanking fire, the French columns were driven back, men falling fast on both sides; for the French fought desperately, but in vain.
The struggle for the mountain produced still bloodier combats. A hermita crowned the height, and the chapel was held by a regiment of Portuguese Caçadores. Against it a column issued from Sauroren, and, heedless of a sweeping fire that fell upon it with deadly violence, as in close order it steadily pushed up the hill, the ridge was crowned, and the Caçadores obliged to abandon the hermita. But Ross’s brigade were at hand, and with a headlong charge the heights were cleared, and the chapel recovered with the bayonet. A second time the French rallied, advanced, and were repulsed—but other columns were coming into action. The right flank of Ross’s brigade became exposed—for a Portuguese battalion gave way—a heavy column of the enemy pressed on, and the British regiments retired for a time, but was only to return more fiercely to the attack. “Charge succeeded charge, and each side yielded and recovered by turns.” At that moment, Byng’s brigade rapidly advanced; while two noble regiments of Anson’s—the 27th and 48th—rushed from the centre, bore down everything before them, and the French were literally pushed down the heights by close and murderous fighting, which Wellington termed “bludgeon work.” On the hill occupied the 40th and Spaniards, Reille’s attack had failed for, although the regiment of El Pravia gwe way, flanked by a Portuguese battalion, the 40th held its ground immovably. Four times the French topped the height—four times they were pushed down by the bayonet; each charge heralded by a cheer, and each repulse bloodier than the preceding one; until, at last, strength and spirit equally exhausted, they refused to follow their officers and gave up the trial in despair.
The 29th passed quietly—both sides required rest—and to each some time was necessary to get their dispersed brigades again together. Not a shot was interchanged that day; but never did a more ominous tranquillity forerun the hurricane of war. It was now evident that all idea of re-entering Spain must be abandoned. The front displayed by Lord Wellington was not to be forced; and the French cavalry and artillery—only encumbrances in a mountain-country—were ordered to fall back and retire to the Bidassao. While waiting for D’Erlon to come up, Soult received intelligence which induced him to change his original plans, and he determined to throw himself between the allies and the valley of the Bastan, thus securing a close communication with the French frontier, and falling back on his reserves, while, by a bold and well-combined movement, he might fortunately effect one great object of his advance into the passes of the Pyrenees,—the relief of San Sebastian.
Although unhappily non-combatant, still the operations of the contending armies which, day after day were severely engaged, or placed in the immediate presence of each other, to us were of absorbing interest. The first reports that reached the fortress were sadly disheartening; but on the fourth morning, a striking alteration was visible on the countenance of our friend Cammaran, when he called to announce “tidings from the host.” His mercurial temperament, yesterday in the very ascendant of fever heat, had sank almost to zero, and it was very amusing to observe the ingenuity with which, while admitting stubborn facts, he still endeavoured to apply palliatives to his disappointment—
“Ah—sacre! what a country to operate in! Legs were of no use among those accursed Pyrenees,—men should have wings. What splendid combinations were those of the Emperor’s lieutenant! Only for broken roads, ruined bridges, infernal gullies, and inaccessible mountains, the Duc’s movement would have been a march of victory. He would have been at Vittoria on the 16th.”