Masséna, renouncing all hope of gaining any advantage by a fresh attack upon our position, recrossed the river Agueda with his army, and left the governor of Almeida to shift for himself. On the 8th and 9th we heard several explosions in that direction, but although we guessed that the governor was destroying some of the magazines previous to his surrender, it never for a moment occurred to us that he meditated what he afterwards executed with too much success. On the morning of the 11th we heard, with the greatest astonishment, that the garrison, after having successfully passed through our lines that encompassed the place, had escaped, with trifling loss, by the pass of San-Felices, and succeeded in reaching the French lines on the Agueda. This was certainly the most extraordinary event that took place during the campaign, and the regiments that formed the blockade afforded amusement for several days to our men; the soldiers used to say that the regiment nearest the town was asleep, and that the others were watching them.
The command of the army of Portugal was now transferred to Marshal Marmont, Duke of Ragusa. Masséna returned to France in ill-health and ill-humour, in consequence of the bad success of his combinations since his elevation to the command of this army, which, it was confidently stated, was to drive the English from the Peninsula. With the qualifications of our new antagonist we were unacquainted, except that having been for a considerable time aide-de-camp to the Emperor Napoleon, we looked upon him as something out of the common way—a kind of rara avis. However, we found him out before we parted with him.
For six days we had not seen our baggage, and were in consequence without a change of linen. We lay among dirty straw for those six days.
I had no nightcap, and my socks scarcely deserved the name. But this was not all; those who had beards—at this epoch I had not—suffered them to grow to a hideous length, and their faces were so altered as to be scarcely recognisable even by themselves. They might be compared to old Madame Rendau, who, not having consulted her glass since her husband’s death, on seeing her own face in the mirror of another lady, exclaimed, “Who is this?” We all agreed that it would be delightful to bathe ourselves in the river, and half a dozen of us walked out to the banks of the Dos Casas. Having washed ourselves, we had a hankering for clean linen, and as none of us could be brought to the opinion of the Irishman, who said it was a charming thing when he turned his shirt, we proceeded to wash ours, and as this was the first appearance of any of us in the character of a blanchisseur, we all acquitted ourselves badly, but I worst of all. In an unguarded moment I flung my unfortunate shirt a little farther than the others did, and, not being quite as light as the day it came out of the fold, it sank to the bottom, and I never saw it afterwards. I soon discovered the cause of my mishap; a small whirlpool (which at the moment appeared in my eyes little inferior to Charybdis) carried it into its vortex, and left me shivering and shaking like a solitary heron watching for a fish by the bank of a river. This accident, however, happened at rather a lucky time; our men had ransacked the French knapsacks with tolerable effect, and as soon as my mishap was known to the men of the company, I was not long wanting the means to supply my loss. At another time this might not have been a matter of easy accomplishment, because it is well known in the army that the men in my regiment were never remarkable for carrying too great a kit.
The soldiers, as was their custom, made a display of the different articles they had picked up: some had watches, others rings, and almost all money. There cannot be a stronger contrast between the soldiers of any two nations than between those of France and England: the former, cautious, temperate, and frugal, ever with something valuable about him; the latter the most unthinking, least cautious, and intemperate animal in existence, with seldom a farthing in his pocket, although his pay is three times greater than the others. A French soldier was quite a prize to one of our fellows, and the produce of the plunder gained served him for drink for a week, and sometimes for a fortnight!
I knew a soldier once make a capture of thirteen hundred dollars, which having squandered, this same man, in less than a year afterwards, was tried for his life for a highway robbery, and he would have been hanged had not a Portuguese woman proved an alibi in his favour. The booty taken by him (for I am convinced the woman swore falsely to save his life) amounted to six vintems, or about eightpence sterling! Under similar circumstances a French soldier would have hoarded up his treasure, and, on his return home, dressed like a gentleman, and gone to all the dancing-houses in his neighbourhood.
CHAPTER VIII
Guerilla warfare; its true character—The 3rd Division marches for the Alemtejo—Frenchmen and Irishmen on a march—English regiments—Colonel Wallace—Severe drilling—Maurice Quill and Doctor O‘Reily—Taking a rise.
We occupied our old quarters at Nava d'Aver, and were well received by the inhabitants, who preferred taking a quiet view of the combats of the 3rd and 5th to taking a part in both or either; their plan of operations was of a far different sort, and although unattended with any danger to themselves, was fraught with the most disastrous consequences to their foes, which is, no matter what may be urged against it, the very essence of the art of war.
It may, perhaps, be asked what their method was? or why I, a mere subaltern, should take upon myself the censorship of the art of war? My answer to the former shall be plain and I hope conclusive. To the latter, that having served during part of the year 1809, the entire of 1810–11–12, and part of 1813, in the 3rd Division (commonly designated the “fighting division”) of the Peninsular army, and the division never having, during the period alluded to, squibbed off as much as one cartridge without my being in every place, I had opportunities of gaining, and I think I did gain, a little insight into military tactics. If, however, the view I have taken of the subject upon which I am speaking be an erroneous one, I fear my readers will come to the conclusion that I have lost some time which might have been better employed—or, to speak more plainly, that I have mistaken my profession. Marshal Saxe used to say that a mule which had made twenty campaigns under Cæsar would still be but a mule.