In Mackinnon’s character there was no trait wanting to form the perfect soldier. To the highest intellectual endowments, he united, “a gentle manner, with a dauntless soul.” Married to a woman worthy of a brave man’s love, his passion for military glory had allowed him little space to enjoy that quiet happiness that generally waits on wedded life. His selected profession demanded the sacrifice—a command was offered—he accepted it, and left a happy home. At last his health declined—a change of air was recommended—he reluctantly consented to leave the Peninsula for a season—and, for the last time, revisited England.
Walking one evening in the garden, his lady led him to a spot where, with all a woman’s pride, she had planted a laurel to commemorate every action in which her beloved one had been victorious. Mackinnon, deeply affected, turned away, whispering, “Alas! love, the cypress will be the next!”
No leader was ever more deeply regretted. The brigade immediately under his command adored him; and those who survived the explosion, dug a grave inside the breach, and there hastily entombed the body of their gallant general. After the confusion ceased, the officers of the Coldstream Guards raised his honoured remains, and interred them at Espeja with military honours.
But this lamented chief found a mourner even in an enemy. During Mackinnon’s earlier residence in France, Napoleon, then a military student in Dauphine, formed an intimacy with the family of the deceased. Consequently, he became a regular visitor at their chateau, and it would appear, that in after-days of pride and power, he never forgot the hospitality offered to him, when he was but a nameless cadet. At the peace of Amiens he invited the family to visit France—and when he heard Mackinnon named among those who had fallen at Ciudad Rodrigo, it is said that Napoleon betrayed unwonted regret at the decease of a youthful friend, who seemed to hold a place in earlier affections, before war and conquest had “steeled his heart, and seared his brow.”
[158] “The letter in question was dated from Merida, at a period posterior to the relief of Badajoz, and the consequent retrogression of our divisions. It began by informing his Excellency the Prince of Neufchatel, that having succeeded, in conjunction with the Duke of Dalmatia, in raising the siege of Badajoz, the writer had since directed his undivided attention to the reorganization and re-establishment of discipline in the army of Portugal. The system of requisitions, and the irregularity of supply, had been carried, it was continued, to so great a height, that the army was become little better than a rabble of banditti; nor could any thing be attempted, with the slightest prospect of success, till the method should be entirely changed, and the troops provided and paid in such a manner as to render them both contented and manageable. To accomplish this the marshal was then devising plans; and he earnestly pressed for instructions and assistance from the Emperor in carrying them into execution.
“In addition to this despatch from Marmont, a letter from General Tresion, chief of the staff, was likewise intercepted; but it contained little calculated to interest, except an explicit declaration that the French troops were unable to cope with the English, and that their best chance of success lay in manœuvring.”—Lord Londonderry.
[159] “The first men that surmounted the difficulties the breach presented, were a sergeant and two privates of the 88th. The French, who still remained beside the gun, whose sweeping fire had hitherto been so fatal to those who led the storm, attacked these brave men furiously—a desperate hand-to-hand encounter succeeded. The Irishmen, undaunted by the superior number of their assailants, laid five or six of the gunners at their feet. The struggle was observed—and some soldiers of the 5th regiment scrambled up to the assistance of their gallant comrades—and the remnant of the French gunners perished by their bayonets.
* * * * *
“Lieutenant Mackie, who led the forlorn hope, had miraculously escaped without a wound—and pressing ‘over the dying and the dead,’ he reached the further bank of the retrenchment, and found himself in solitary possession of the street beyond the breach, while the battle still raged behind him.”[D]
The following anecdote is descriptive of those personal affairs that the mêlée attendant on the first entrance of a defended town so frequently produces. The actor, since dead, was a personal and an attached friend of the author.