One old Donna in particular was rather severe in her observations on the dress of the British officers, and remarked that not one in fifty of them could speak French. Whether it was that she was piqued at my paying much attention to a lady who sat near her, or that she wished to display her wit at my expense, I being nearer to her than any other Englishman, I can’t say, but she turned round and asked if I spoke the French language. I replied that I understood it tolerably, but that I spoke it but indifferently. “I thought so,” was her reply; “I knew by that young fellow’s appearance he was a booby (sot),” said she, addressing one of her friends. This she spoke in the very worst French that ever came from the mouth of a Bastan peasant. I was determined to have my revenge. I mustered up all my resolution, made a rapid repasser of all I had ever learned of French grammar, and took the first opportunity that presented itself to attack her. In a word, I completely out-talked her, out-spoke her, and out-crowed her in the estimation of her friends; and she who had been so short a time before the “leader of the opposition,” was mum for the remainder of the evening.
Harmony was once more restored, and we were beginning to[to] forget the bickerings that party feeling had introduced amongst us, when a violent knocking at the door from the street threw the company into consternation and dismay. Every one looked confounded; some were for barring the door, others wished to escape; but this was easier said than done, for in front stood the police agents (for it was them and none other), and in the rear—if rear it could be called—was nothing but a pile of buildings, to the full as lofty as the house we inhabited. “What is to be done?” was a demand much easier made than answered; though in fact the proper and only reply to be made was, “Open the door, and see who the gentlemen are looking after.” Several persons, who had nothing to dread, loudly called out for this proceeding, but it was far from palatable to the majority of the company. It was idle, however, to talk, and, in fine, the massive door was heard to creak on its rusty hinges. At the same moment six ill-looking fellows entered the saloon, and having taken a hasty but scrutinising survey of the company, seized the son-in-law of my patron and rudely carried him away.
Saturio de Padilla was the name of this gentleman, and his only crime was that of holding the situation of Juiz de Fora, under the government of King Joseph. Nothing could be more unjust or impolitic than this arrest: it was, however, idle to reason so with the police agents; Saturio was taken off to the Fort of La China and thrown into a dungeon, without bed or any other comfort which a gentleman of his rank might have expected. At an early hour the following morning I was awoke by his father-in-law, the venerable Don Miguel de Inza; he begged of me to allow my servant to convey some bedding to him, which I not only consented to do, but, at the entreaties of his daughter, Donna Maria Ignatia de Inza (whose sister was married to Padilla, and who, by the way, was one of the most beautiful women in Madrid), went to the prison myself. All entreaties to allow us to see the prisoner were in vain, and had it not been for the kindness of Colonel Manners of the 74th, who was the Governor of the Fort, we should not have been allowed to send even a change of linen to this gentleman.
A week passed away, and no tidings were heard of Padilla; and his friends, fearing that he might be made away with, became extremely uneasy. Without mentioning my intention, I waited upon Colonel Manners, who was much interested in his behalf when I told him the circumstances; and, owing to his intercession, I had the happiness of seeing my friend, Don Saturio, at liberty the day but one following. I need scarcely say that this exploit of mine, for so my Spanish friends termed it, raised me considerably in the estimation of the ladies, and all of them, my old formidable antagonist not excepted, were lavish in their praises of my conduct. Nothing but balls, concerts, and parties to the theatre and the Prado were thought of, until the announcement in the newspapers, and the never-ceasing cries of affiche venders in the streets, that the bull-fights were to take place, put a stop to all thoughts on any other but this, to a Spaniard at least, momentous affair.
This national amusement is of so old a standing, and has been so often related in novels and romances, that a description of it may, in the present day, be thought ill-timed. The day’s fighting which I witnessed was considered specially good, and a tremendous day’s sport it was. Nine bulls were killed, seven horses shared the same fate, and one of the fighters was dreadfully injured. More than twenty people were hurt by the last bull, who leaped the barriers and got among the audience, but fortunately, and indeed miraculously, no person was killed. Thus the “casualties” of the day may be summed up as follows:—Killed, nine bulls, seven horses: total, sixteen; wounded, twenty-three men and women: grand total of killed and wounded, thirty-nine.
The bull-fights once over, the execution of the Priest Lopez forgotten, and the probability of our soon leaving Madrid taking place, were not things to be passed over lightly by the ladies of that city; and no matter what may be said or written of their being “a grave people,” I saw, during my sojourn amongst them, no symptoms of “gravity,” except when they thought we were about to leave their capital. It was palpably evident that something should be done to drive away the gloom that had in a great measure already begun to take a fast hold of our friends; and the officers of the Light Division, aided by some of the other regiments in the garrison, resolved to treat the inhabitants with a specimen of their dramatic powers. The play selected was the Revenge, and “Zanga” was well personated by Captain Kent of the Rifles; but whether it was that the other characters were ill cast, or that the tragedy was too dull for the Spaniards to relish, it is a positive fact that, long before the second act was ended, the audience were heartily tired of the play; and, notwithstanding the fine acting of Kent, the play would have never been allowed to proceed had not the performers been British officers, and the object the relief of the poor of the capital. The Mayor of Garrett followed, and this amusing farce was a set-off against the Revenge, and put the audience quite at ease; for from the moment “Zanga” (or El Preto, as they styled him) appeared, there was one universal buzz of disapprobation. It is not possible for me to say why they were so averse to the play; it might have been their dislike to the Moors; but be this as it may, I would advise my friends in the army never to try the same play before a Madrid audience—that is, which is a hundred to one, should they ever have the same opportunity we had. This was the first and last play ever attempted by us to be got up at Madrid.
The season was on the wane, summer was almost over, and it was well known that Lord Wellington meditated an attack on the town of Burgos; nevertheless all was tranquillity and gaiety with the troops at Madrid, and many of the sick and wounded from Salamanca reached us. Amongst the number was my friend and companion, Frederick Meade of the 88th. He had been badly wounded in the action of the 22nd, and with his arm in a sling, his wounds still unhealed, and his frame worn down by fatigue and exhaustion, his commanding officer was surprised to see him again so soon with his regiment; but various rumours were afloat as to the advance of the Madrid army upon Burgos, and Meade was not the kind of person likely to be absent from his corps when anything like active service was to be performed by it. Endowed with qualities which few young men in the army could boast of, he soon made his way into the very best society that the capital of Spain could be said to possess. A finished gentleman in the fullest acceptation of the word; young, handsome, speaking the Castilian language well, the French fluently, a first-rate musician, endowed by nature with a fine voice, which had been well cultivated, it is not surprising that he soon became a general favourite. In a word, wherever he went he was the magnet of attraction, and when we quitted Madrid it would have required a train of vehicles much more numerous than would have suited our order of march to convey those ladies who were, and would like to be more closely, attached to him. Poor fellow! he was greatly to blame, but it was not his fault; if the ladies of Madrid liked his face, or his voice, how could he help that? My man, Dan Carsons—and here I must say a word of apology to my friend Meade for coupling their names together—told me when we were on the eve of quitting Madrid, “that he (Carsons) didn’t know how the devil he could get away at-all-at-all, without taking three women, besides his wife Nelly with him.”
So far all went on gaily at Madrid; but Lord Wellington was deeply occupied with matters of a different nature, although he joined in the amusements that took place. The capture of Burgos was what he aimed at, and his stay at Madrid was but a cloak to cover his real intentions. On the 1st of September he quitted the capital, and took upon himself the direction of that part of the army which he had decided was to march upon Burgos. He crossed the Douro on the 6th, and arrived at Valladolid on the same day, and from thence he followed the enemy on their retreat to Burgos. On the 16th he was, with a portion of his army, before that fortress, which he soon invested and laid siege to. The result of that siege, its failure, and the circumstances which led to it, have nothing to do with my adventures; they are the property of Colonel Napier—the only writer that, I believe, can be held up as a standard to refer to on the Peninsular War.
I have to bring forward to the public eye, and the eye of posterity, too, the character of the Peninsular soldiers, whether they be shown up as men who were able to conquer the choicest legions of France, or as men who would sell the most essential part of their dress for a glass of brandy. No matter; they would have done both. Perfection is nowhere to be found; and if the British soldier equalled the Frenchman in habits of sobriety and caution, there could be no possible comparison between them; but the retreat from Madrid and Burgos, which I am about to relate, will give the reader a clearer insight into what I have just now written: and I will here say, without the least fear of contradiction, that the French soldier as far surpasses the British soldier in the essential qualities requisite for general operations, as the latter excels the Frenchman in a pitched battle. Let two armies of the two nations be placed in circumstances the same, in advance or retreat. The supply of provisions may be scanty or abundant—no matter which; both armies, for argument sake, we will say, are placed in the same position as to food. It may be asked what, then, is the great difference between the soldiers of two nations who have been opposed to each other for so many campaigns, and who ought to have profited by the better system followed by either? It is this: the British soldier is not so moderate in his appetites as his neighbour, and he wants the head, which the other possesses, to control him. Give to a British regiment ten days', nay five days' bread at a time, and, as may be necessary, five days' rations of spirits; at the end of the second day—not the fifth, to which period it ought to last—what quantity will be forthcoming? Not one half ounce of bread, or half pint of spirits—half pint did I say! not one thimbleful, nay, less than that, not one drop! Should the ration be limited to bread, and in all armies, even the most temperate, a large advance of spirits ought to be avoided, the danger would be the same in any British army, because the soldiers would barter their bread for spirits or wine, and would become quite as inefficient, as if they had been supplied with both by our commissaries. Added to this, what means had the soldiers of the Peninsular army to compete with the French in celerity of cooking? None. The latter carried their cooking utensils on their backs, while the camp-kettles for our troops were often leagues distant when the meat arrived. This was the state of our army when the retreat from Burgos on the one side, and Madrid on the other, commenced, and it will be seen in the following pages how that retreat was conducted, and how the subordinate officers of the army were blamed for not performing a duty which was impossible; and for this reason was it impossible, that the means did not rest with them. Our system was altogether faulty, and no exertions of the junior, or even senior, officers could remedy it. Lord Wellington at length discovered this, and in his next campaign profited by the example which the enemy showed him, and which ought to have been followed long before.
On the 20th of October, 1812, the siege of Burgos was raised, and the troops before it retired towards the Douro, while the portion of the army which occupied Madrid made arrangements to join them when the proper time should arrive. Accordingly, the fort of La China was mined, the battering train found there removed, and all the necessary arrangements for retreat were completed. On the 31st of October the army quitted Madrid, and bivouacked in the Royal Park near the palace.