The Victories of Wellington and the British Armies

by W. H. Maxwell

This was a critical moment—and in a more dangerous position a British general never found himself. A broad and rapid river separated the allies from the enemy, and no means of passing it could be discovered. Soult might retire unmolested into Gallicia if he pleased, or attack Beresford singly, overpower him by superior force, and enter Beira. Danger often stimulates bravery to startling but successful enterprises; and in this emergency Wellesley decided on as bold an effort as modern warfare parallels,—the crossing of the Douro.

It was, indeed, a daring and a perilous attempt; a strong force was on the other bank; the shores were steep and rocky, and the stream three hundred yards across. Every means had been taken by Soult to make the passage impracticable. His generals of brigade were in observation on the banks; every point of passage was defended; while the marshal satisfied himself that the bridge was utterly destroyed, as he watched from midnight till daybreak the burning pontoons as they went floating down the current. The only practicable plan that seemed left for Sir Arthur to adopt was to employ the shipping, and land his troops at the débouchement of the Douro; and, in that belief, the French general retired to his head-quarters, from which he could observe the sea—and, as he expected, watch the disembarkation.

Wellesley, aware how dangerously Marshal Beresford was situated, had determined at every hazard to cross the river, and arrangements were instantly made. General Murray was despatched to Avintes to try the ford, and if boats could be found, to send them down the stream,—the Guards, under General Sherbrooke, were detached to attempt the ferry below the town;—while, from the convent of Santo Agostinho, the British commander directed the main operations in person. A spot was marked on the opposite shore as a favourable place for landing. It was an unfinished building near the bank, and there, the troops first passed over were directed to establish themselves until assistance reached them. To cover this landing-place some guns were quietly got into battery in the convent garden. Every preparation was made—and a fortunate accident obtained the means of passage.

A small skiff was discovered hidden in some high rushes, that had concealed it from the French. A few peasants and a Portuguese colonel crossed over, and found some three or four crazy barges, half buried in the mud. These prizes were instantly secured. Three companies of the Buffs jumped in, accompanied by General Paget. The opposite bank was gained,—the dismantled building garrisoned,—and the barges were returning for a fresh detachment, before the French seemed aware of the attempt, and—as it turned out—when it was too late to repel it.

The enemy came down in force, but the Buffs held the building they occupied against overwhelming odds. General Paget was wounded—but fresh companies were ferried over, and General Hill took charge of the troops. The French came on in columns, but the batteries from the Serra convent annoyed them with a plunging fire, while the troops from the building kept up a well-directed fusilade. Murray, who had found little difficulty, and succeeded in passing his division by the ford, now appeared moving rapidly on the left flank of the French—while Sherbrooke, having obtained some boats, was ferrying the Guards over below the town. Finding himself likely to be turned on either side, Soult hastily retreated by the Amarante road, boldly followed by the British cavalry, who charged repeatedly with most brilliant success. Evening ended the pursuit—the brigades occupied the city in every place—they were cheered by loud vivas, and most affectionately received by the inhabitants.

The crossing of the Douro was, in military estimation, as bold and well-arranged an operation as any that marked Wellesley’s Peninsular career. The passage of a river in the face of an enemy with every assistance from pontoons and ferryage, is considered a hazardous undertaking; but, circumstanced as the British commander was, the thing was generally set down as impracticable, and Soult was unprepared for the attempt. When the news was brought that the enemy was crossing at Villa Nova, the marshal ridiculed the notion, and remained in his quarters until two in the afternoon. He was then obliged precipitately to quit the city; and so suddenly were Wellesley’s measures executed, that the dinner prepared for the duke of Dalmatia, was served up to the British general and his staff. War is, certes, a game of chances;—and little did the French marshal suppose, when at noon he regulated the carte presented by his maître d’hôtel, that he was then civilly arranging an excellent repast for his opponent. Yet such was the case. Wellesley succeeded Soult—and within a few hours the same roof covered the victor and the vanquished.

Nothing could exceed the irregularity of the French retreat. Before they could be persuaded that the passage of the Douro was seriously designed, the British were charging through the suburbs; and instead of retiring with an orderly formation on the advance of the enemy, the French rear-guard got mobbed together on the road, and allowed an opportunity to the cavalry of their pursuers to act with an audacity and success that the weakness of their squadrons could never have warranted, had not a considerable panic been previously occasioned, by the precipitation with which Soult’s divisions were hurried from the city. Night came most opportunely, and ended the pursuit,—enabling the French marshal to unite himself with Loison, from whom he received the unwelcome intelligence that the bridge of Amarante was destroyed. Soult’s situation was almost desperate; his only line of retreat was by a mountain track; and, by taking it, he was obliged to cross the pass of Ruivans, a long narrow bridge, without a parapet on either side, spanning a frightful precipice. Should this be occupied,—and no doubt Beresford was marching thither,—nothing could save his army. With excellent judgment, he abandoned his artillery and baggage, pushed rapidly forward, and, having forced the Portuguese pickets which here and there occupied the mountain passes, he out-marched Silviera by several hours, and halted his rear-guard at Salamonde, to cover the bridges of Saltador and Porto Nova, while his columns were defiling.

Here, however, he was overtaken and brought to action, on the 16th, by Sir Arthur. Although the position was strong, and the brigade of Guards were the only infantry come up, the British general instantly made his dispositions for attack. The left was turned by the rifle corps—the Guards advancing boldly in front. After delivering a volley at the head of the column when it shewed itself, the French precipitately fled—and, hurrying through the village in their rear, succeeded, under cover of the darkness, in escaping. Some delay in clearing a defile, allowed the horse artillery to come up—and their rapid fire did considerable execution before the crowd of fugitives could get beyond its range.

The next morning’s dawn renewed the pursuit; and every turn of the road, cumbered with broken vehicles and deserted baggage, shewed how severely the French army had been pressed. The bridge was nearly impassable from dead men and slain horses laid there in heaps by the grape and canister of the British guns. Arms, accoutrements, ham-strung mules, guns, tumbrils, knapsacks filled with silver plate, tapestry, and other valuable plunder, were strewn indiscriminately along the line. To add to this scene of waste and suffering, the villages the advancing army entered were either in a blaze, or already reduced to ashes; for between the French troops and peasantry a deadly war of extermination was being carried on—and on both sides, deeds of cruelty were every day perpetrated, that can hardly be credited or described. Indeed, the French retreat through the Gallician mountains was only paralleled by the British on Corunna; with this exception, that many a straggler from the British columns was saved by the humanity of the Spaniards, while the unhappy Frenchman who lagged but a few hundred yards behind the rear-guard, was butchered by the infuriated peasantry, bent on the work of slaughter and burning for vengeance on an enemy, who, in his day of conquest and dominion, had taught the lesson of cruelty now practised so unrelentingly on himself.

Soult turning from Montalegre towards Orense, and a French corps from Estremadura having moved on Alcantara, induced Sir Arthur Wellesley to discontinue the pursuit. The French marshal crossed the frontier on the 18th with barely nineteen thousand men—his guns, stores, and baggage abandoned to the conquerors. Ten weeks, perfect in every arm, that army had passed through Orense on its march to Oporto, mustering twenty-six thousand veteran soldiers. A short period had wrought a fearful change—and even the débris of that once splendid corps was only extricated from total destruction by the admirable tact and unbending hardiesse of their brave and gifted leader.