I proceeded with the fourth division, and arrived after two marches, at the high banks of the Esla: there it was that I beheld the concentrated army—at least the greatest part of it. Some of the troops had passed the river and “opened the ball” with the enemy on the opposite bank: their rear guard had a brisk engagement with our advanced cavalry, and the 10th Hussars had the honour to draw the first blood of the campaign—they “astonished” the French Dragoons not a little. After this brush the enemy continued their retreat rapidly, in the direction of Burgos.
The crossing of the Esla by the army, as I beheld it, was one of the most impressive, magnificent, and beautiful sights that was ever presented: I will describe it briefly, from my memory, upon which it is indelibly delineated.
The river Esla, at the point where the army crossed, is in breadth equal to the Thames at Richmond or Windsor; high banks—or rather hills—rise abruptly on either side, for the most part covered with short trees and underwood: the approaches to the river are by even pathways winding down each side of it. When standing on that bank where first I saw the river, the water appeared to be about three hundred yards below me, and its course bending so as to exclude a farther view of it than the segment of a circle of about a mile in length. On my left, where the river began to appear, and where the hill on which I stood pushed itself forward and terminated in an overhanging rock, the ponton was placed—immense boats at regular distances, and well planked, so as to form a passage of about twenty feet in breadth, railed on each side compactly: so admirable a bridge it was, that one would suppose it to have been a permanent rather than a temporary erection, which could be at a moment removed and carried wherever the army went. Over this passed the troops, with the exception of some cavalry who forded at another part, and five of whom (Germans) were swept away by the current in crossing. An idea may be formed of the vast quantity of soldiers, muleteers, women, horses, mules, artillery stores, equipage, and baggage, which covered the hills near the ponton, when I say, that I was from ten o’clock in the morning until five in the afternoon, before it came to my turn to pass the water; and all this time the bridge was filled with columns of men. We who waited for our turn, sat on the hill under the trees, eating cold beef and biscuit, chatting, and admiring the splendid scene. The day was as bright as the sun; a general hilarity spread over every countenance; the Spanish and Portuguese muleteers cracked their loud jokes with the soldiers—laughed and sung—ate their rations, and toasted their friends in grog. To add still more interest to the scene, many elegant English ladies—wives of the officers—were to be seen upon the rock which overhung the river, with their gay parasols and waving feathers, while immediately below was the bridge with its moving mass—horse—foot—artillery—baggage—and followers:—a little above this, and still beneath the ladies, were groups of bullocks swimming across the river, and with difficulty gaining the opposite bank, owing to the power of the current; while others were climbing the opposite hills, refreshed and relieved from the dust of their day’s travel, by the cool water from which they had just emerged. The distant and lessening line of troops as it winded upwards to the plain above, and broke into several divisions to take up ground for the night, added an admirable perspective background to the picture. Then arose the hum of the crowd—the loud command—the laugh—the mingling of different languages—the lowing of oxen—the neighing of horses, and the braying of the less noble animals—the clear sky—the bright sun—the crystal river, overhung and darkened in the distance by bold rocks, on which the wondering goatherd lay as his goats carelessly browsed—it was a scene never to be forgotten. Every soldier saw at a glance the collective strength of the great military machine of which he formed a part—all beneath his eye, as it were in a theatre: this heightened the glow of pride within him, and elevated his spirit with the buoyancy of glorious hope—all was cheerfulness, and the army looked more like conquerors, than men about to enter into a bloody and doubtful contest. I spent seven hours in admiring, and then crossed in my turn the ponton; took up my quarters for the night, with my horses, under a shed; and slept as soundly as the Prince who was cast into a seven years’ sleep by a fairy.
The morning was only opening her eyes, when the drum beat and we turned out: the fires of the night were expiring; around many of which groups of soldiers were assembled, packing up their knapsacks and fixing their accoutrements. The moving to and fro of military figures, all over the level ground, before me—the tingling of the mules’ bells—the drums at various distances—the early birds chirping—the horses champing their barley—the men biting their biscuit—the increasing hum and the coming daylight—by degrees, dissipated the heaviness which naturally succeeded to a short field sleep, and the cheerfulness of the preceding day was restored throughout.—The column was in motion; and the field, where thousands crowded, was, in a few minutes, as naked and silent as a desert.
At this ground we had expected a desperate fight; but with the exception of a brush with our Hussars, the enemy showed no wish to trouble us. The soldiers now became still more elevated with a confidence in success; and the wishful cry which every where along the march had resounded in their ears, from the inhabitants, “Vamus a Francia!”—“(Away to France!)” was considered as about to be realized; yet most of the army expected that we should first have a desperate struggle at the Ebro.
We marched by Aguilar to Palencia; our light cavalry by Zamora and Toro: the right and centre columns of the army, with Lord Wellington, passed through Salamanca to Valladolid—the whole directing their march to Burgos. At Palencia I first saw the ponton boats in their carriages: they were drawn by oxen; each boat had a carriage to itself, and each carriage was drawn by from twelve to sixteen. The boats were reversed—or bottom uppermost—and seated on them were the pontoneers, dressed in naval uniform; these were men specially employed to launch the boats, form the bridge, and, in short, to conduct that service through all its branches. I had but a faint idea of the extreme ponderosity of warlike machinery until I beheld these boats upon their carriages: the battering rams of the Romans were go-carts compared with the ponton train on the march: the Spaniards, as they passed, threw up their eyes in an ecstasy of admiration at the sight of them, and cheered loudly while they were in view. Over those boats were to pass to France, which they feared and hated, the invading and delivering armies—over them the cannon that was to thunder their victory:—this thought was enough to make them cheer, and their “vivas!” were well answered by the troops that followed.
I remained at Palencia until the evening of the day on which the pontons passed through it; and there I accidentally met with a young officer, whose subsequent greatness I little thought then depended so on the success of our campaign, as it afterwards turned out. This officer was Captain De Grammont, then of the 10th Hussars, but now his Grace the Duc de Guiche. He is a part of the royal family of France, aid-de-camp to the Duke d’Angoulême, and high in favour at the Tuilleries. When I saw him at Palencia, he appeared one of the finest models of a young Hussar chief I ever beheld: he wore his beard, which curled upon his chin; his regimentals were sufficiently field-rubbed to have lost that very bright gloss which distinguished them on the parade at home; and there was a melancholy cast about his countenance and manner, which, from being mixed with the most affable address, made a strong impression upon me—particularly when I learnt his true situation. He was engaged against his countrymen—but for his country’s rights; and he had only a day or two before met them in the charge. It was his troop that spilled the first French blood of that campaign, and it was his subaltern who gave the first wound. He described the charge to me: it was thus:—The French having crossed the Esla, a strong guard covered their retreat, and the 10th Hussars attacked their rear, which was defended by light dragoons. In advancing to the charge, the Subaltern of Captain De Grammont, Cornet Fitzgerald—a lad of only sixteen years of age—happened to have been somewhat in advance of the troop, owing to the mettle of his horse: the Cornet’s servant rode beside him in the ranks, and determined to protect his master. The French dragoons came on gallantly; their swords were nearly as long again as those of our Hussars; and a ferocious looking Sergeant was coming at full gallop—right in front of the Cornet: in vain was the young officer called on to pull in his horse—on he went, his servant closing up to him in order to avert the steel of the opponent: a moment more and the long straight sword of the French dragoon would have been cased in the youth’s breast; for the servant’s horse could not head his master’s. The Captain expected to see him fall; but just as the point of the weapon approached, the cornet grasped his pistol—fired—and down the dragoon tumbled from his saddle! This was but an instant before the remainder of the hussars were mixed with their opponents; and in a few minutes more, they were pursuing them as fugitives, killing, wounding, and taking many of them. I remembered having seen this heroic youth at Lisbon, when the regiment landed there: he was a mere stripling, with light hair, and rosy cheeks—anything but the man destined to kill the first Frenchman on the campaign; and I still more admired him when I heard that he was a son of the celebrated Lord Edward Fitzgerald, and cousin to the present Duke of Leinster. I met Captain De Grammont afterwards, at the close of the campaign, and he assured me joyfully, that he had had the pleasure, the day before, of looking from the Pyrenees, while on piquet, at the lawful estates of his family; and only a very few months after this, I had the gratification of seeing him enter the town of Bordeaux as a Duke, and on the staff of his lawful Prince, the Duke d’Angoulême. This officer, although born in France, is in language and manners a perfect English gentleman, from having been since his infancy in England. He received his commission in the 10th Hussars when very young, and remained in the regiment until the restoration of the Bourbons. Should we yet go to war with France, I should be sorry to see the gallant soldier arrayed against us, and I am sure it would be no pleasurable office to himself.
We moved on the left of Burgos, which city the French, contrary to our expectation, had not shut up, but quickly abandoned at the approach of the British. I slept in the house of an intelligent peasant, about two miles from the fortress, and of course the war was the subject of our chat. I found the man very communicative: he had the fullest hope of our success, and gave it as his opinion, that the French would not stand at the Ebro. He talked of the time when the British were before on his ground; and showed me in his fields some of their bones—bleached white and dry: he informed me that a great number of our army perished there. This man, from his apparent acquaintance with the events of the war in Spain, I have no doubt had taken an active part in it—perhaps on the French side; for if it had been on the other, he most probably would not have made it a secret in our conversation; however, many of the Spaniards sided with the strongest party, and now that the British held the sway, this peasant was their warmest well-wisher.
We proceeded through Villa Diego towards the Ebro, and came in sight of that river from the plain—or high table land—over which I had been travelling ever since I had left Portugal. The advanced troops had passed the river that morning without opposition, for the French had continued their retreat. The view of the valley—or rather amphitheatre—at the bottom of which the Ebro runs, astonished me by its beauty: for several days I had been accustomed to little variation of scenery—all level country; and now the bosom of luxuriant and romantic nature suddenly presented itself to my sight, as if it were done by magic. Half a dozen steps brought me from a view of mere sky and corn plains, to a scene of the most splendidly varied character—a deep valley, or rather hollow, of about ten miles in circumference, surrounded by woody mountains, except at that part directly facing me. This part opened, and there the eye might travel over blue hills, until the more distant could not be distinguished from the light clouds of the horizon. In this circular valley, every variation of rural beauty was to be seen—cultivated fields—luxuriant foliage—bubbling streams—winding paths—villas, and farm-houses. At the bottom ran the Ebro,—in this place a river of no great breadth; and here the main body of the liberating army had crossed a few hours before me.
The line of march now lay along a small branch of a river, which watered the foot of high and bold rocks, shelved and wooded in the most picturesque manner; trees, rooted over trees, hung out in grotesque attitudes, or dipped downwards, as if seeking the black and clear water beneath—thick moss, streaming underwood, wild flowers, and massy trunks, mingled to beautify the first day’s march after we crossed the Ebro:—this repaid me amply for the toil of the preceding days.