As he had dreaded, Soult’s rear-guard was overtaken near Lizasso—was attacked—defeated—and saved only by a fog which opportunely covered a hurried retreat. At Elizondo a large convoy with its guard was captured; but the crowning misfortune was impending, when, ignorant of Lord Wellington’s proximity, Soult halted in the valley of San Estevan. Behind the ridges which overlook the town four allied divisions were halted—the seventh held the mountain of Dona Maria—the light, with a Spanish division, were in hasty march to seize the passes at Vera and Echallar.—Byng had reached Maya, and Hill was moving on Almandon. Every arrangement to enclose the retreating army was complete, and never, in military calculations, was the destruction of an enemy more certain, than that which awaited Soult. Unconscious of his danger, the French marshal gave no indications of alarm. With him, there was no appearances to excite suspicion,—no watch-fire indicated the presence of an enemy—no scouting-party was seen upon the heights. Two hours more, and the fate of the Emperor’s lieutenant would have been sealed, when one of those trifling incidents occurred, which in war will render the most studied and scientific efforts unwailing, and extricate from perilous results, those who have dared too much, but to whom despair is happily a stranger. Possibly, in the varied fortunes of a life “crowded with events,” never did accident tax the Great Captain’s philosophy more severely.
Unseen himself, Wellington with an eagle’s glance watched from a height the progress of his combinations. The quarry in the valley rested in false security, even when the falcon on the rock was pluming his feathers and preparing for a fatal stoop. A few French horsemen carelessly patroled the hollow, and although a hundred eyes were turned upon them, they saw nothing which could betray the presence of an enemy or excite alarm. At that moment three plunderers crossed their path. They were seized, carried off; presently the alarm was beaten, and in a few minutes the French columns were under arms and in full retreat: and “Thus,” to quote Napier’s words, “the disobedience of these plundering knaves, unworthy of the name of soldiers, deprived our consummate commander of the most splendid success, and saved another from the most terrible disaster.”
Although its total déroute was narrowly werted, no army suffered for a time more severely than the retiring columns of the French. Cumbered with baggage, embarrassed with the transport of the wounded, confined to a strait and difficult mountain-road, no wonder that the whole mass of fighting and disabled men were occasionally in terrible confusion. The light troops of the fourth division appeared upon their right flank, and, moving by a parallel line, maintained a teasing fusilade. The bridge leading to that of Yanzi was strongly occupied by a battalion of Spanish sharp-shooters. D’Erlon, profiting by the inaction of Longa and Bareenas, forced the pass; but Reille was not so fortunate. The light division, by an unequalled exertion, crossed forty miles of mountain-country by one incessant march; and they had already crowned the summit of the precipice which overhangs the pass to Yanzi at the perilous moment when Reille’s exhausted column was struggling through the “deep defile.” Never was a worn-out enemy placed in a more terrible position. On one side, a deep river with rugged banks; on the other, an inaccessible precipice, topped by an enemy secure from everything but the uncertain effect of vertical fire. The scene which ensued was frightful. Disabled men were thrown down, deserted, and ridden over. The feeble return to the British musquetry produced no reaction. The bridge of Yanzi could not be forced; and night came opportunely, permitting the harassed column to escape by the road of Echallar, leaving, however, the wounded and the baggage to the victors.
The last struggle was at hand. Soult, with an indomitable courage which even in defeat established his military superiority, by powerful and personal exertions, rallied his broken troops, and once more formed in order of battle on the Puerto of Echallar, with Clausel’s diminished corps in advance on a contiguous height. But that stand gave but a breathing-time. Two British divisions were already pushed on to re-occupy Roncesvalles and Alduides—Byng was at Fadax, Hill on the Col de Maya—and the light, fourth, and seventh divisions in hand, and ready to fall on.
The affairs which followed were very singular, and mark the moral effect which success and disaster exercise upon the best soldiers in their turn. The light division was pointed on Santa Barbara to turn the right of the enemy, the fourth were desired to make a front attack by Echallar, and the seventh moved from Sumbilla to operate against Soult’s left. Outmarching the supporting columns, Harness brigade, boldly assailed the strong ridges occupied by Clausel’s division: and, with a daring courage worthy of the good fortune which crowned it, actually drove from its mountain-position a corps of four-fold numbers to his own. It is true that Clausel’s troops had been beaten, overmarched, and dispirited. Already they had been thrice bloodily defeated; but that six thousand tried and gallant soldiers should be forced from a rugged height by a brigade not exceeding sixteen hundred bayonets, is an anomaly in war which seems difficult to resolve to common causes.
The last affair was that of Ivantelly. On that strong mountain the French rear-guard had taken its stand, and although evening had set in, the soldiers fasted two days, and a mist obscured the heights, the light troops mounted the rugged front and drove the enemy from that, the last ridge, which, in the course of nine days’ operations, had been assailed or defended.
In the course of those sanguinary and continued combats, known by the general designation of the Battles of the Pyrenees, the Allies lost seven thousand hors de combat. The French casualties were infinitely greater; and a moderate estimate, framed from the most impartial statements, raises it to the fatal amount of fifteen thousand men.
It was with feelings of unqualified delight I listened to Cammaran’s doleful admission that Soult was over the Bidassao, and the battering guns, which, under an alarm, had been embarked at Passages, had been again re-landed, and the siege was to commence again. Sufficient proof of this intention was quickly manifested, for the trenches were repaired, San Bartolomeo armed anew, and the convent of Antigua furnished with heavy guns to sweep the beach and bay, if necessary.
Whatever might have been the feelings of the governor and his garrison when the tidings of Soult’s failure were confirmed, still, like gallant soldiers, they showed no lack of confidence in themselves, but redoubled, their exertions to increase all the means within their power of defence, and repel the second assault as effectually as they had repulsed the former one. On the anniversary of the Emperor’s birth, the inhabitants of the city and the troops who invested it, were apprised of the event by frequent salvos of artillery; and when night came, the castle exhibited a splendid illumination, surmounted by a brilliant legend, “Vive Napoleon le grand!” visible distinctly at the distance of a league.
On the 19th, the long-expected siege-train arrived from England, and on the 22nd, fifteen heavy guns were placed in battery. On the 23rd another train was landed. On the 25th all the batteries were armed and reported ready to commence their fire; and on the 26th fifty-seven pieces opened with a thundering crash, and in one unabated roar played on the devoted city, until darkness rendered the practice uncertain and ended this deafening cannonade.