Again. “I have known several instances of right feeling evinced by the enemy, worthy of gentlemen who are above turning into individual strife the quarrels of the two countries. While the light division was at Gallegos, some greyhounds belonging to an officer strayed into the enemies’ lines, and an opportunity was found, by means of the first flag of truce, to request their being returned. The answer was favourable, stating that they should be sent in on the first opportunity. A day or two after the enemy made a reconnoissance, and when their skirmishers were thrown out, the greyhounds were seen in couples in the rear, and on the first carbine being fired, they were let slip (the dogs of war?), and came curveting through the whistling balls to their old masters.”—Recollections by a Subaltern.
There seemed to have existed between these noble armies an honourable confidence, that was often tried and never violated.
A descriptive passage of the advance across the Pyrenees runs thus:—“We perceived, not twenty yards off, a wounded voltigeur extended on the ground, and a young comrade supporting him. The Frenchman never attempted to retreat, but smiled when we came up, as if he had been expecting us. ‘Good morning,’ he said; ‘I have been waiting for you, gentlemen. My poor friend’s leg is broken by a shot, and I could not leave him till you arrived, lest some of these Portuguese brigands should murder him.—Pierre,’ he continued, as he addressed his companion, ‘here are the brave English, and you will be taken care of. I will leave you a flask of water, and you will soon be succoured by our noble enemy. Gentlemen, will you honour me by emptying this canteen. You will find it excellent, for I took it from a portly friar two days ago.’ There was no need to repeat the invitation. I set the example, the canteen passed from mouth to mouth, and the monk’s brandy vanished. The conscript—for he had not joined above a month—replenished the flask with water from a spring just by. He placed it in his comrade’s hand, bade him an affectionate farewell, bowed gracefully to us, threw his musket over his shoulder, and trotted off to join his regiment, which he pointed out upon a distant height. He seemed never for a moment to contemplate the possibility of our sending him in durance to the rear; and there were about him such kindness and confidence, that on our part no one ever dreamed of detaining him.”—The Bivouac.
Again. “From the 3rd until the 12th of July the two armies remained in presence of each other, encamped on the sides of a river, which at times is a formidable sheet of water, but which was then little more than an insignificant stream. Nevertheless, although both armies kept their guards on their respective sides of the water, and that the movements of each were cautiously watched, not one life was lost, nor one shot fired by either army.
“Indeed, so different from hostility was the conduct of both nations, that the French and British lived upon the most amicable terms. If we wanted wood for the construction of huts, our men were allowed to pass without molestation to the French side of the river to cut it. Each day the soldiers of both armies used to bathe together in the same stream, and an exchange of rations, such as biscuit and rum, between the French and our men, was by no means uncommon.”—Reminiscences of a Subaltern.
The reverses which attend even successful warfare occasionally require its rigours to be softened. The French and English felt this—and those who had the misfortune to be prisoners or wounded, received the greatest care circumstances would allow, and had baggage or money conveyed to them from their friends with strict fidelity. The tables of the commanding officers were open to their captives—their wounds were carefully dressed—and in some cases their escape connived at. A parole of honour insured the fullest liberty to the giver; but when it was not required or was refused, the prisoners were subjected to the least possible restraint consistent with security, and treated with gentlemanly attention.
“During three days that some British officers were at Castel Legos as prisoners of war, with a very slender guard, indeed almost nominal, they were treated by General Villatte with the utmost kindness. He sent dinner to them from his own table, with abundance of wine. His aide-de-camp and brother-in-law, Captain Cholet, visited them twice each day, to see that they wanted for nothing; and two, and sometimes three, surgeons visited them (by order) twice a day to dress their wounds. In fine, the greatest possible kindness and attention were shewn to them; and even their escape, on the night of the 31st of August, was easily effected, if not connived at, as the French retired without insisting on the officers being taken away, although carts had been provided.”
But a noble instance of an enemy’s humanity remains to be recorded—and with a similar instance of humane feeling displayed to a friend and not an enemy, we shall close these anecdotes.
“When the assault on St. Sebastian failed, and our troops retreated to the trenches, the enemy advanced beyond his defences, or clustered on the ramparts, shouting defiance, and threatening a descent in pursuit. To check this movement, an animated fire of round and grape was opened from our battery, the thickest of which fell on a particular part of the breach where lay a solitary grenadier of the Royals, shot through both legs, and unable to extricate himself from his awfully perilous situation. His fate appeared inevitable; when a French officer stepped forward, walked coolly through the hottest of our fire, lifted his wounded enemy in his arms, and bore him off, himself unhurt.”
The subsequent history of Colonel St. Angelo, as the gallant Frenchman was named, is curious, and instances the vicissitudes of fortune to which a soldier is exposed. On the fall of the fortress he was sent a prisoner to England, but, as his humanity well deserved, he was instantly liberated and sent home. On his arrival in Paris, Napoleon, having been apprised of his gallant conduct, promoted him to a regiment on service in the Peninsula. Thither he repaired—joined his new regiment, and in an attack on our posts was a second time made prisoner. Thus, as a prisoner he had visited England—had resided in Paris—been presented to the Emperor—promoted to a regiment—and made a prisoner again—and all within the space of six weeks from the taking of St. Sebastian!