The 5th Division, commanded by General Leith, was in movement towards the contested point, and reached it in time either to take the fugitives in flank or to drive back any fresh body destined to support their defeated comrades. It made great efforts to join Picton when he was attacked, but the advance was so rapid, the defeat so signal, and the distance—two miles across a rugged mountain—so great, that Leith and his gallant division could only effect in part what they intended. The arrival of this force was, however, fully appreciated; for although the brigade of Lightburne, belonging to Picton’s division, had not fired a shot or been at all molested, and although the 74th Regiment was nearly at liberty, still, had another attack with fresh troops been made, Leith might have stood in Picton’s shoes on the extreme right, while the latter could in a short time concentrate all his battalions, and either fight beside Leith or turn with vigour against any effort that might be made against his centre or left. But it would seem that no reserve was in hand—at all events none was thrown into the fight; and Masséna gave up without a second trial that in which he lost many men and much glory!
While Picton, Mackinnon, Wallace and Champlemond, and Leith’s division, were occupied as I have described, the Light Division, under the gallant Robert Craufurd, maintained a severe struggle against a large proportion of Ney’s corps. Those French troops were driven down the hill with great loss, and the general of brigade, Simon, who headed and led the attack, was taken prisoner by the 52nd Regiment, and between two and three hundred unwounded men shared the fate of their general. The leading brigade of Leith’s division put to flight some of the enemy who kept a hold of a rocky point on Picton’s right, and had Picton been aware of their being there he might have cut off their retreat, while Leith attacked them in front and flank; but their numbers were scanty, and they might not have been aware of the fate of their companions, otherwise they would in all probability have got out of Leith’s clutches before his arrival, for their remaining in the rocks could be of no possible avail, and their force was too wreak to hazard any serious attack on Picton’s right. Indeed, they were routed by a battalion or two of Leith’s division; and the entire British loss at this point did not count above forty or fifty. And thus ended a battle of which so many accounts have been given: all at variance with each other—and none more so than what I have just written.
It has been said that Picton directed the attack of the 45th under Major Gwynne, the 88th under Wallace, and the 8th Portuguese under Douglas. Not one syllable of this is true. The conception of this attack, its brilliant execution, which ended in the total overthrow of Reynier’s column, all belong to Colonel Alexander Wallace of the 88th Regiment. At the time it was made Generals Picton and Mackinnon had their hands full at the pass of Saint Antonio, and were, in effect, as distant from Wallace as if they had been on the Rock of Lisbon; neither was General Lightburne to be seen. The nearest officer of rank to Wallace was Lord Wellington, who saw all that was passing and never interfered pro or con, which is a tolerably strong proof that his lordship thought no alteration for the better could be made; and Wallace had scarcely reformed his line, a little in front and below the contested ground, when Lord Wellington, accompanied by Marshal Beresford and a number of other officers, galloped up, and passing round the left of our line, rode up to Wallace, and seizing him warmly by the hand, said—
“Wallace, I never witnessed a more gallant charge than that made just now by your regiment!”
Wallace took off his hat—but his heart was too full to speak. It was a proud moment for him; his fondest hopes had been realised, and the trouble he had taken to bring the 88th to the splendid state of perfection in which that corps then was, had been repaid in the space of a few minutes by his gallant soldiers, many of whom shed tears of joy. Marshal Beresford addressed several of the soldiers by name who had served under him when he commanded the regiment; and Picton, who at this time came up, expressed his satisfaction. Lord Wellington then took leave of us; and Beresford, shaking the officers by the hand, rode away with his lordship, accompanied by the officers about him. We were once more left to ourselves; the arms were piled, the wounded of all nations collected and carried to the rear, and in a short time the dead were left without a stitch of clothes to cover their bodies. All firing had ceased, except a few shots low down the hill on our right; and shortly after the picquets were placed in front, a double allowance of spirits was served out to Wallace’s men.
We had now leisure to walk about and talk to each other on the events of the morning, and look at the French soldiers in our front. They appeared as leisurely employed cooking their rations as if nothing serious had occurred to them, which caused much amusement to our men, some of whom remarked that they left a few behind them that had got a “bellyful” already. The rocks which had been forced by the three companies of the 88th presented a curious and melancholy sight; one side of their base strewed with our brave fellows, almost all of them shot through the head, while in many of the niches were to be seen dead Frenchmen, in the position they had fought; while on the other side, and on the projecting crags, lay numbers who, in an effort to escape the fury of our men, were dashed to pieces in their fall!
Day at length began to close, and night found the two armies occupying the ground they held on the preceding evening; our army, as then, in utter darkness, that of the enemy more brilliant than the preceding night, which brought to our recollection the remark of a celebrated general when he saw bonfires through France after a signal defeat which the troops of that nation had sustained. “Gad!” said the general, “those Frenchmen are like flint-stones—the more you beat them the more fire they make!”
Captain Seton, Ensign Owgan, and myself, with one hundred of the Connaught Rangers, formed the picquet in advance of that regiment, and immediately facing the outposts of the enemy in our front. The sentries of each, as is customary in civilised armies, although within half-shot range of each other, never fired except upon occasions of necessity. Towards midnight Seton, a good and steady officer, went in front, for the third time, to see that the sentinels which he himself had posted were on the alert. He found all right; but upon his return to the main body he missed his way, and happening in the dark to get too close to a French sharpshooter, he was immediately challenged, but not thinking it prudent to make any noise, in the shape of reply or otherwise, he held his peace. Not so with the Frenchman, who uttered a loud cry to alarm his companions, and discharged the contents of his musket at Seton; the ball passed through his hat, but did no other injury, and he might have rejoiced at his escape had the matter ended here; but the cry of the sentinel and the discharge of his musket alarmed the others, and one general volley from the line of outposts of both armies warned Seton that his best and safest evolution would be to sprawl flat on his face amongst the heath with which the hill was copiously garnished. He did so, and as soon as the tumult had in a great degree abated, he got up on his hands and knees and essayed to gain the ground which no doubt he regretted he had ever quit. He was nearing the picquet fast, when the rustling in the heath, increased by the awkward position in which he moved, put us on the qui vive. Owgan, who was a dead shot with a rifle, and who on this day carried one, called out, in a low but clear tone, “I see you, and if you don’t answer you’ll be a dead man in a second”; and he cocked his rifle, showing he meant to make good his promise.
Whether it was that Seton knew the temperament of the last speaker, or was flurried by the recollection of what he was near receiving from his obstinate taciturnity with the French soldier, is uncertain. But in this instance he completely changed his plan of tactics, and replied in a low and scarcely audible tone, “Owgan! don’t fire—it’s me.” So soon as he recovered his natural and more comfortable position—for he was still “all-fours”—we congratulated him on his lucky escape, and I placed my canteen of brandy to his mouth; it did not require much pressing to prevail upon him to take a hearty swig, which indeed he stood much in need of.
The night passed over without further adventure or annoyance, and in the morning the picquets on both sides were relieved. The dead were buried without much ceremony, and the soldiers occupied themselves cleaning their arms, arranging their accoutrements, and cooking their rations. The enemy showed no great disposition to renew his attack, and a few of us obtained leave to go down to the village of Busaco, in order to visit some of our officers, who were so badly wounded as to forbid their being removed further to the rear. Amongst the number was the gallant Major Silver of the 88th. He had been shot through the body, and though he did not think himself in danger, as he suffered no pain, it was manifest to the medical men he could not live many hours. He gave orders to his servant to leave him for a short time, and attend to his horses; the man did so, but on his return in about a quarter of an hour he found poor Silver lying on his right side as if he was asleep—but he was dead! Silver was one of the best soldiers in the army, and was thanked by Colonel Donkin, who commanded the brigade at the battle of Talavera, for his distinguished bravery in that action. He was laid in a deep grave in the uniform he had fought and died in.