During the 27th and 28th, the contest produced nothing decisive, except that Soult could not gain his point, and the whole line of hills were at one time or other the scene of active operation—cannon, musketry, and bayonet, were all at work. On the 28th, the French made a desperate attack on the 6th division, which had been sent by the Duke of Wellington to occupy the heights on the left, across a valley near Orican: the moment this division appeared, the enemy advanced on it, but was received in fine style—they got into a cul de sac; for the fourth division on their left was so placed on hills as to effect a most destructive fire on their flank, while they gave them their vollies from a ridge upon their right, as well as in front, so that at this point the French met with unequivocal defeat.
The third day closed in darkness, and the work of death ceased for a time. The men were now so familiar with the carnage around that they cared nothing about it: many laid themselves down beside dead comrades and enemies mingled: all slept soundly on the mountain heath that night—not even bestowing a thought upon whether they were to fight next day or not; and when the bugle sounded and the drum beat next morning, jumped up as fresh as if they had been at a review; then, after eating their cold beef and biscuit, and swallowing a mouthful of rum, were ready in their ranks to renew the scenes of the preceding days—nay, anxious for the fight.
This was the day for glory. The Duke attacked Soult on the right and left at once, which proving successful, he dashed at the centre. This was now a change from defence to attack, and the enemy in a few hours were driven from all their strong points, and retreated. Yet they fought desperately: at one village alone—the first on the main road from Pamplona to the pass of Maia—the British were driven back four times; but took and held it on the fifth: the road here was covered with dead of both sides, and well proved the valour with which both fought, in that masterly victory which opened the barrier of France to the allies—led the Portuguese and Spaniards to the glory of shouting “Retribution” in their persecutor’s country—and once more passed the ranks of heroes over the consecrated ground of Roncesvalles.
The whole of the road over which we pursued the retreating and broken army, was covered with the wreck of its baggage and artillery—hundreds of dead mules were lying about, having been killed with fatigue, or hurled off the precipices along which the road sometimes passed—waggons, guns, carriages, tumbrils, casks, medicine chests, and dead men, were the objects that every where, like Rosamond’s clue, marked the track of the devoted victims:—a sickening sight, which, while engaged in the heat of pursuit, was viewed without emotion; but when calm reflection took her seat in the soldier’s mind, was not to be contemplated by him without unenviable feelings.
On this march nothing remarkable occurred in the part of the army where I was stationed. The siege of San Sebastian was begun by Sir Thomas Graham, while the front of our main force occupied the border line of France on the Bidassoa. The two contending armies remained in sight of each other—Soult fortifying the frontier of his threatened country, and Wellington refreshing his victorious troops until after the fall of San Sebastian. All this time the Duke’s head-quarters were at Lesacco, in the mountains, a town about four leagues south of Passages; and these four leagues, I may say, with a little allowance—was up one side of a mountain and down the other,—a wretched town; and perhaps never before had it to boast of the domicile of so many heroes—such glittering nobility. Here, for the greatest part of a rainy and raw winter, the indefatigable Commander of the Forces fixed his quarters; and here I have seen him working with an energy which often threatened his life. He rode so much one week, that he was confined for several succeeding days to his bed; and I have seen his fifteen valuable English chargers led out by the groom to exercise, with scarcely any flesh on their bones—so active and vigilant was their noble rider, and so much were his horses used. Every day during the siege of San Sebastian, I saw the Duke, unattended by his staff, riding by my window, in a narrow street of Renteria, on his way to the besieged fortress, accompanied by an old artillery or engineer officer,—I believe Sir R. Fletcher,[6]—and dressed in a plain grey frock, white cravat, and cocked hat—evidently intent on the matters of the siege; this was upwards of thirty miles a day for a ride, between breakfast and dinner; but he has often rode double that distance, over the worst of roads and in the worst of weather.
The siege of San Sebastian was the next important operation of the Allied Army. This was entrusted to Sir Thomas Graham, under the eye of the Duke of Wellington. From being quartered at Renteria, for three weeks previous to the capture of that fortress, I had an opportunity of witnessing the whole affair; and scarcely a day passed without my visiting the works before it: but from the commencement of the siege up to the battering down of the walls, nothing took place to require a particular notice, beyond the description I have given of the siege of Flushing, in another part of this work: generally speaking, the operations were similarly conducted. The storming of the town, however, was a scene in the campaign of which I write, which ought not to be passed over unnoticed. As I beheld, so will I describe it; and so mighty an achievement as the capture of this town was, I would be happy to hear described by every individual who was engaged in it; for each would tell what he had seen; which, although all generally the same, would be different in particulars, and therefore, like Mosaic work, form a picture of the highest value. We have had several descriptions of the storming of San Sebastian, amongst which that given by the author of “The Subaltern,” (a deservedly popular work) is by far the best, and, with but few exceptions, correctly true—at least those exceptions are at variance with what I recollect of the affair. The author of “The Subaltern” describes what he saw, as a stormer of the town; I can only speak as a spectator: both our remarks, therefore, may be taken as separate parts of the same picture.
San Sebastian is situated at the foot of a high rock, upon the top of which is a fortified castle; the town surrounds this rock, and is backed by the open sea. A river runs in front of the town, into which the sea flows; but at low water it is fordable; and its banks of yellow sand appear to our right—imagining us fronting the town. On first beholding San Sebastian, one supposes it is situated on a little island; but on closer approach, it is seen connected by a neck of land, which at high water is very narrow; and on this neck, which is an island at high water, is a fort mounting three or four guns:—but the best way to proceed in the description, I think, is to place my reader in the position which I took up myself at the battering and storming of the town.
To our right, on a high bold hill, which overtops several others near it, and whose side, next the town, is nearly perpendicular, was a mortar battery:—here must the reader stand. About half a mile in his front and a little to his left, stands San Sebastian around its high rock and castle—its walls watered by the Gurumea stream, and relieved in the distance by the wide blue waters of the Bay of Biscay. To the left of the town he will see several picturesque hills, lessening away into the horizon, while to his right he will behold the Bay of Biscay washing the feet of the Pyrenees. Immediately under him, a little to the left, are situated the British batteries and trenches, on a tolerably level ground, and flanked on the other side by several hills, upon the most forward of which stood the chief of the siege, Sir Thomas Graham;[7]—these, for the most part, covered with apple-trees. Behind all this is a beautifully picturesque and hilly country—the Lake of Leso may be seen, like a patch of shining glass, in the midst of foliage and fertile fields—an occasional farm-house shows itself in the valleys and on the brows of the hills—while the background is formed by the gigantic mountains of the Pyreenees. I can only compare the position which I have now pointed out to my readers, to the highest seat of an amphitheatre, at the bottom of which lies the exhibition for his eye:—the batteries,—the river,—the town,—the encamped army,—all were below; and over the whole I could gaze as on the Thames from the towers of Windsor,—the yellow verging sands of Dublin Bay from Killiny Hill,—or Edinboro’ from the Calton.
On the night of the 26th, the fort between the town and our lines was carried by assault, and its defenders taken prisoners. This was done by a detachment of infantry, assisted by a few marines and sailors: little work was made about this affair, and the garrison, it is supposed, were not aware of it until daylight. On the morning of the 27th, the signal was made to open the fire upon the town; and I can only remember it by having been awakened out of a sound sleep, at three miles’ distance from San Sebastian, by the tremendous roar of the cannon. The batteries continued to play upon the town almost incessantly, for nearly four days and nights,—the cannon at the front wall, for the purpose of effecting a breach—the mortars at the ramparts and the houses. The French returned the fire from both the Castle and walls with great rapidity—their shells were thrown in every direction; but this vigorous return was soon over; for, on the second day of the cannonade, their guns on the walls were silenced; so they contented themselves with throwing a few shells and an occasional shot from the Castle upon the troops in our trenches, whose well-directed muskets were annoying the enemy whenever they appeared on the walls.
Observing the balls striking the wall at one point, first led the beholders to suppose that no impression could possibly be made on the massive and compact structure; for the perceptible effect was that a little dust arose from the spot where each shot struck; and then the ball dropped down, leaving no appearance whatever of an impression: but continued firing first loosened a stone, then moved it, and ultimately displaced it: when this was accomplished, it required very little more to widen the breach to a sufficient extent for storming.