It would be a work of supererogation to bring events before the reader which have been so often and so well told. Suffice it to say that upon the news of the abdication of the Emperor Napoleon having reached the headquarters of the Dukes of Dalmatia and Wellington, the armies of the different nations which formed portions of those troops were so arranged as to be ready to return to their respective countries or destinations. Those of Spain returned to Spain, and those of Portugal returned to Portugal. The British infantry embarked at Bordeaux, some for America, some for England; and the cavalry, marching through France, took shipping at Boulogne.
The separation of those troops from each other, after so long an intercourse, and an uninterrupted series of victories, was a trying moment. There were, no doubt, many at least about to return to their native country and to their friends; but they were also about to leave behind them, probably for ever, those countries in which they had passed the most eventful years of their lives, and to be separated from friends whose claim to the title could not be doubted—because such friendships as those I speak of were not formed by interested motives, and were consequently the more sincere and lasting. They left also behind them the bones of forty thousand of their companions who had fallen, either by disease or by the sword, in the tremendous but glorious contest they had been all engaged in—a contest which decided more than the fate of the Peninsula, for the very existence of England was the stake played for, or rather fought for, in this terrible game; the loss of one single point would not only have rendered the game desperate, but lost it altogether. The players on both sides were nearly equal in skill, and if Wellington could not boast of the same evenness and perfection of some of the materials he had in hand, as compared with his opponents, he most undeniably held a few trumps that always decided the game in his favour. Sixty thousand Anglo-Portuguese, under their great leader, accomplished more on the southern frontier of France than did HALF A MILLION of the allies on the side of Germany.
These are heart-stirring facts, and the recollection of them, even after so long a lapse of time, causes the pulse to quicken, and the heart to beat high; for it can never be too often repeated, or too well remembered, by those of the Peninsular army who are now living, that it was the imperishable deeds of that army that saved their country.
Their great leader now left them; but he did not do so without his marked expressions of what he thought of the past, and his promises for the future. His General Order contained the following words:—
“Although circumstances may alter the relations in which he has stood towards them for some years, so much to his satisfaction, he assures them he will never cease to feel the warmest interest in their welfare and honour, and that he will be at all times happy to be of any service to those to whose conduct, discipline, and gallantry their country is so much indebted.”
How these promises have been kept is too well known, and it is difficult to say whether that he ever made them, or never kept them, is to be regretted most. However, the Duke of Wellington, no doubt, does not put the same construction on his words, and on his acts, that others do; and it will be the task of the historian and posterity to deal with a matter which can be better judged of by unbiassed persons than by the parties interested. That the Duke of Wellington is one of the most remarkable, and perhaps the greatest man of the present age, few will deny; but that he has neglected the interests and feelings of his Peninsular army, as a body, is beyond all question; and were he in his grave to-morrow, hundreds of voices, that are now silent, would echo what I write.
All the necessary preparations being made, the armies of the three nations parted, and proceeded on the different routes pointed out for them to follow. The breaking up of this splendid army of veterans, that for six years slept on the field of battle they had invariably won, was a trying moment. Many a bronzed face, that had braved every danger unmoved, was now moistened with a tear; but the proud consciousness that so long as their country required their services, and that nothing, save death, had separated them, until at last they stood triumphant on the threshold of the invaders' country, stifled every other feeling. In fine, the commands of the great man that had so often assembled them at his beck, now separated them—and for ever.
Several of the most effective regiments were ordered to embark for Canada, and as the war between England and America was at its height, the battalions destined for American service were restricted to a certain number of soldiers' wives. The English, Irish, and Scotch were sent to England, and proper attention paid to their wants and comforts. They had also on board the transports that were to convey them to England their own countrymen and their own countrywomen, amongst whom were many personally known to them, who had served in the same brigade or division. But the poor faithful Spanish and Portuguese women, hundreds of whom had married or attached themselves to our soldiers, and who had accompanied them through all their fatigues and dangers, were from stern necessity obliged to be abandoned to their fate. This was also a trying moment; many of these poor creatures, the Portuguese in particular, had lived with our men for years, and had borne them children. They were fond and attached beings, and had been useful in many ways, and under many circumstances, not only to their husbands, but to the corps they belonged to generally. Some had amassed money (Heaven knows how!), but others were without a sixpence to support them on their long journey to their own country, and most of them were nearly naked. The prospect before them was hideous, and their lamentations were proportionate, for many, though they had a country to return to, had neither friends to welcome them nor a home to shelter them; for in this war of extermination, life, as well as property, was lost. The soldiers were seven months in arrear of pay, and the officers were as badly off; nevertheless subscriptions were raised, and a fund, small no doubt in proportion to their wants, enabled relief to be portioned amongst all. This partial and insufficient aid did not, nor could not, however, lessen the real bitterness of the scene, for many of those devoted beings—now outcasts, about to traverse hundreds of miles ere they reached their homes, if homes they found any—had followed their husbands through the hottest of the battlefield; had staunched their wounds with their tattered garments, or moistened their parched lips, when without such care death would have been certain; they had, when such aid was not required, devoted days and nights in rendering those attentions which only they who have witnessed them can justly appreciate. Yet these faithful and heroic women were now, after those trials, to be seen standing on the beach, while they witnessed with bursting hearts the filling of those sails, and the crowding of those ships, that were to separate them for ever from those to whom they had looked for protection and support.
In this list there was one female, a lady—I call her so, for her rank and prospects entitled her to the appellation I have given her—who was as much to be pitied as the rest, though her circumstances were widely different. She was a beautiful woman, only daughter of the wealthy Juiz de Fora of Campo Mayor. During the autumn of 1809, when a portion of the Peninsular army, after the battle of Talavera, was quartered in that town, this girl—for so she was then—fell in love with the Drum-Major of the 88th Regiment. His name was Thorp. As in most cases of the sort, both parties had made up their minds to the consequences. The girl was determined to elope with Thorp, and Thorp was equally resolved to carry her off; but this required measures as well as means. Touching the latter Thorp was amply supplied, for he was pay-sergeant of a company, and, moreover, received constant remittances from his father, who was a man of respectability in Lancashire. In a word, Thorp was a gentleman, and lived and died a hero! As to the lady, her tale is easily told. Her father, Señor José Alfonzo Cherito, Juiz de Fora of Campo Mayor, was a man possessing large estates, and having but one child, and that child a daughter, he naturally looked forward to a suitable match for her. Now, as poor Thorp could not boast of those qualities or attributes which the worthy Juiz de Fora had very naturally anticipated, when his daughter had made up her mind to espouse Thorp, his rage and disappointment may be easily imagined when he learned that she had left his quinta, taking all her jewels with her. The regiment was to march the following morning, and as all mode of conveyance in the shape of cars or mules, for the wounded or sick, was under the “surveillance” of the worthy magistrate, he apprehended no difficulty in tracing his runaway daughter—but he was mistaken. The cars were examined, the baggage-mules were overhauled, the commissariat mules, carrying ammunition, biscuit, and rum, were looked at, but amongst all these no trace of the fugitive could be found. What, then, was to be done? There was but one other chance of finding the girl, and this was a survey of the officers' horses, as the officers rode at the head or in rear of the column; but the Juiz de Fora, although a functionary of high note and high authority in his own calling, and amongst his own neighbours, did not much relish an inspection, though freely granted, which would place him amongst a thousand shining British bayonets. However, he did accept the invitation, and was allowed to make the inspection—but he discovered no trace of his daughter.
“Are you satisfied?” said the Colonel.