During the day-time the scene was awfully grand—but far more so at night; and from the hill upon which I stood, it had the most terrible aspect. Fancy yourself over the potteries of Staffordshire in a balloon, when the face of the country is covered with fires; this may be likened in some degree, to the trenches and ramparts—dark and flame alternately mixed: then the roaring of the guns, more loud than a thousand thunders; and the shells crossing each other, in their route to destruction:—none could behold the scene without awe and horror!
The breach having been completed on the 30th, the storming party prepared to enter; and on the 31st at about ten o’clock in the morning, the forlorn hope, at the appointed time—which was the hour of low-water—advanced from the trenches. I could see them plainly: one followed the other rapidly into the stream, and boldly advanced—poor fellows! a thousand balls were showered on them, and they dropped as fast as they arrived at about the middle of the river—men followed men, into the gulph of death—yet several arrived at the opposite bank: on they went to the breach, followed by their comrades, and there were knocked down by grape and bullets from the walls: but by rapidly crowding over the heaped up dead, a mass of men succeeded in getting on the breach: there they were stopped by balls and bayonets. At this moment, a mine sprung outside the wall, and threw our advancing men into confusion, killing several; but under the cover of the smoke occasioned by it, many of the rear got up to the breach. Sir Thomas Graham now ordered the heavy artillery to aim over the heads of our men, so as to clear the ramparts of the opposing force, through the embrasures: this was admirably done: I could see the balls striking above them, and knocking stones and rubbish in upon the French, as well as sweeping them away.—Every shot made my heart thrill with delight; for the poor fellows, who were struggling to get into the breach, against such fearful odds, were dropping every instant; but this masterly experiment made immediate way for advance. There were several Spanish females on the hill where I was, and the tears rolled down their cheeks like rain, while this was going on; and many of the men who beheld it could not refrain from weeping. The constant exclamations from one to another, was, “Do you think they are likely to get in?—How long they are on the breach!—God help them!—Brave fellows!”—Not only the English present, but the Spanish, thus heartily felt for the gallant soldiers who were standing on the threshold of death awaiting destruction. At this moment, a column of Portuguese advanced boldly out over the sand, on the right of the town, and exactly under the battery in which I stood: they marched at ordinary time. As soon as they appeared, the grape was showered in amongst them, and strewed the yellow sands with the blue jackets; yet the column never broke, but intrepidly marched into the river up to the arm-pits, and gained the wall of the town; the water all around them, while passing, bubbling by shot as if from large hail—so it appeared to me from the distance. The Portuguese continued along the wall, and mounted the breach gallantly. All this time, the breach was receiving a most destructive flanking fire, from the projections of the walls on both sides—they kept up a continual shower of bullets from the embrasures; fortunately now a mine sprung on the ramparts by accident, and destroyed numbers of the French: a dense black cloud of smoke arose from it: our artillery was sweeping the ramparts, and at this juncture the surviving men on the breach cleared their way into the town—advancing columns followed fast—the batteries ceased—and the work of the British bayonet began. The hearts of all who beheld the attack were now at ease—the artillery men rested on their guns, and shook hands with each other—all was quiet outside the town, but wild uproar and destruction within. In about half an hour after this, we could see the French mounting the rock inside the citadel, to shut themselves up in the castle; then we felt convinced that the town was taken. The French continued to fire upon their pursuers all the way up the hill, and we could track them by the smoke of their guns.[8]
I went into the town through the breach, in the evening, and there witnessed the true horrors of war; the soldiers were, for the most part, half drunk—all were busy plundering and destroying: every thing of value was ransacked—furniture thrown out of the windows—shops rifled—packages of goods torn open and scattered about—the streets close to the breach, as well as the breach itself, covered with dead and wounded:—over these bodies, of necessity, I passed on my way. As few women were in the town, the horrors attending the sex under such circumstances were also few; and the attempt at ill-treating a female on the day subsequent to the capture of the town, was summarily punished by Lord Beresford on the spot. It was thus: although plunder was nearly subdued on the day after entering San Sebastian, yet stragglers were prowling about in spite of all efforts to prevent further mischief: a woman was looking out of a window on the first floor of a house, and I saw a drunken Portuguese soldier run into the passage directly below where the woman was. Lord Beresford happened to be walking a little before me in a plain blue coat and cocked hat, accompanied by another officer: his Lordship saw the Portuguese running into the house, and presently we heard the screams of a female—the woman had gone from the window. Lord Beresford instantly followed the Portuguese, and in a few minutes brought his senhorship down by the collar; then with the flat of his sword gave the fellow that sort of a drubbing which a powerful man, like his Lordship, is capable of inflicting. Under the circumstances I thought it well bestowed, and far better than trying him by court martial.
I understood that when the troops got into the town, the French retreated behind their barricades in the streets, made with barrels of sand and clay; from whence they fired at their pursuers, and when driven from one, fled to the next, until they gained the Castle-hill. It is thus the French generally fight against our troops—they take every advantage of screening themselves from shot, and but on very few occasions stand up man to man with the bayonet.
The town was dreadfully injured by shot, shell, and the destructive fury of our troops:[9] but by no means so dilapidated as Flushing was. A great number of the inhabitants had left San Sebastian previous to its blockade, and the few respectable families who remained, fled to the Castle along with the French.
For several days after the storming, soldiers and sailors were to be seen strutting about the roads outside the town in masquerade—some in silks and satins—others as pedlars selling their plunder to the people who came from Passages to see the wreck of San Sebastian: the roads were like a fair; and the humour of the Portuguese and our sailors glossed over the horrors of the time with strange mirth. In general the sailors were habited in old fashioned silk gowns and petticoats, put on over their tarry jackets; while on a battered sail-cloth hat, Jack sported a Spanish veil. The garrison in the Castle held out a week, but at the end of that time surrendered: the number marched out was, I believe, 1,800.
From the fall of San Sebastian, until the invasion of France in the month following, nothing particular took place, and the army reposed in the luxuriant valleys of Navarre. Here both officers and men enjoyed themselves in quiet: they had plenty of provision—plenty of forage for the horses—a profusion of fruit and excellent wine—the weather was delightful, and the country the most picturesque on earth. However, little more than a month passed over before the army crossed the Bidassoa, driving the enemy from their frontier, and our successful commander established his head quarters at St. Jean de Luz. I had been quartered at Tafalia from a week after the siege until the fall of Pamplona, and that being the only fortress to impede the operations of the army—from its being occupied by the enemy—it is not unlikely that its fall was the signal for the invasion of France.
On the surrender of Pamplona, the French garrison were permitted to march out, with closed knapsacks. They were escorted by the Spaniards through Tolosa to Passages for embarkation as prisoners of war; and, unhappily for many of them, they found the difference between Spanish and British foes on that miserable occasion.
It was cold weather when the garrison marched out: they were disarmed of course. The French governor and several of the superior officers were allowed to ride their own horses, and suffered nothing more severe than mere insults from their escort, the Spaniards. Far different was it with the men: every species of brutality was practised against them short of open massacre. The road from Pamplona to Tolosa is one of the widest and best in Spain, not very inferior to any in Great Britain: it takes a course through valleys along the sides of an immense mountain for a considerable way, and, frequently, over patches of fertile country—the whole abounding in foliage. Occasional villages present themselves at a few miles distant from each other, and now and then a farm house or two opens upon the traveller’s view in some wild spot.
I was on my route from Tafalia, in company with a brother officer; and then returning to the front. We slept one night in a village within a mile and a half of Pamplona, as one of our halting places; and next day in passing the town we saw a considerable body of Spanish troops—principally cavalry—drawn up; and, on enquiry, learnt that they were waiting to receive the French garrison, which were then about to march out as prisoners of war. In a few moments the French appeared and were placed in column to proceed thus on their route to Tolosa. We marched with them all that day, conversing with the governor—a gentlemanly and pleasant officer—who expressed his fears of ill treatment for his men, regretting that it was not by the English that they were escorted. It came on to snow severely about four o’clock in the afternoon, and promised a most miserable night to the poor prisoners, as they had a full league farther to go before they could get under cover; and they were far less able to bear fatigue than the Spaniards who escorted them; for they had been half starved in the garrison—provisions having been exhausted:—the governor declared that they had all been subsisting for twelve days previous to surrender, on four ounces of horse flesh per day to each man, and that the horses killed for that purpose were the private property of the officers.