I recollect, on this expedition, two dandy young guardsmen came on board for a passage, and, being too late for dinner in the ward-room, a nice beefsteak and bottle of port wine was given them at a side table. After contemplating it a little while, with a supercilious turn of the mouth and nose, one of them made the sage remark, that “he thought they might be able to rough it pretty well with such fare every day in a campaign; but, really, common port wine, beefsteaks, and potatoes, was not fit food for guardsmen.” I’ll answer for it long before their regiment returned from Egypt they were very glad to get much worse fare, and if either of them lived to serve with the noble Wellington in the Peninsula, their pride of stomach must have had many a fall.
The results of the unfortunate expedition to Ferrol are too well known to need further record; the gallant army, to a man, regretted that their evil genius placed them under the command of such a general, and we, of the navy, lamented our ill-luck that prevented us from taking the beautiful Spanish fleet that lay at anchor in the harbour.
It was reported—and, I believe, with truth—that at the very time our troops were being re-embarked, the Spanish governor had even sent out an officer with the keys of the fortress in his hands, and an offer of terms to surrender; but he, seeing how matters stood, returned back to his general, rejoicing, and informed him that the British army was in full retreat, and part were already on board. The Spaniards had laid a strong boom across the harbour, flanked by two very powerful batteries—one on each side of the entrance.
Sir James Pulteney promised to take the one on the left, or larboard hand, while the boats, filled with sailors and marines, were to storm the other at the same time.
Seven sail of the line were prepared for action, with springs on their cables, and a spare one out of the gun-room stern port, bent to the sheet anchor, ready for bringing up head and stern; in short, everything was in a forward state for the attack, and the London (98 guns) was to break the boom, and the rest of the ships to follow in line of battle.
All hearts beat with joyful expectation, when, to our utmost surprise and indignation, a signal was made from the shore that the commander-in-chief of the land forces had given up the idea of attack, and boats were to be sent immediately to embark the troops.
The gallant Sir Edward Pellew, who commanded the Impétueux (74), was ready to burst with rage when he found the object of the expedition given up, at a time when it was almost within our grasp, and without making one serious effort to obtain it. It was reported in the squadron that he embarked an ass, and used to go up to it, and take off his hat, and say, “How do you do, Sir James? I hope nothing troubled you in your sleep last night in the way of unpleasant dreams, or that the nightmare did not disturb your rest.”
After this sad affair we sailed for Vigo Bay, where our appearance with so large a force put the inhabitants in bodily fear. When we were standing into the bay a large French ship (privateer) was observed to haul under the citadel. At night the boats of the squadron, commanded by the daring Lieutenant Burke, were sent to bring her out, which they most gallantly accomplished, after a severe and desperate struggle. She was called La Guêpe, of 18 long nine-pounders, with 244 men, sails bent, and perfectly ready for sea, and was going to look after our homeward-bound West Indiamen, and intended to have sailed the evening of the day of our arrival.
She had her boarding nettings up, and everything ready for a stout resistance. On the approach of the boats the privateer and the forts opened a heavy fire of round and grape, but they, nothing daunted, gave three hearty cheers, dashed on, and, after a most gallant defence, she was boarded and brought out. Lieutenant Burke was severely wounded by a pike through both thighs, and the French captain, who most heroically fought his ship to the last moment, died of his wounds an hour after she was taken. He asked (poor fellow!) if he had done all he could to defend his ship; being answered in the affirmative, and justly complimented on his gallant conduct, he gave a faint smile, and expired.