Mondego—The Coimbra—Figueras—The maggots—Lisbon—Battle of Busaco—Retreat to Torres Vedras—Lord Wellington’s generalship—Belem—Jack ashore and Jonathan also—Yankey and Lankey—Billy M’Nabb—The Highland kite and Lowland tail—Josh. Hetherington—Sperum Poco—Portuguese piety—Aruda—Doing what the enemy left undone—Tom Crawley again—In state—A hot berth—Our enemies laugh at Tom in his glory.

From Fraxedas we pursued our way to Mondego, and from thence we passed in boats down the river through Coimbra, to the sea-port of Figueras. Sick and ill as I was, I well recollect the exquisite scenery that met our gaze on the banks of that beautiful river, as we floated over its surface to our destination.

The heat of the weather was intense and dreadfully affected our wounds. The scarcity of doctors too, and the fear of falling into the hands of the enemy, spurred every one forward, and so took up the moments that the surgeons had not time sufficient nor opportunity to look after us. The consequence was, that this neglect caused maggots to be engendered in the sores, and the bandages, when withdrawn, brought away on them lumps of putrid flesh and maggots. Many died on board, and numbers were reduced in consequence to the necessity of amputation. By care and syringing sweet oil into my wounds, I however had managed to get rid of them.

At Figueras we embarked on board some transports that there waited our arrival, and we sailed for Lisbon, where, in a short time, we landed, and borne on stretchers by some men of the Ordinanza or Portuguese Militia, were conveyed to the hospital.

From regular and kind treatment there, I soon recovered; and the British army retired towards Lisbon.

It may perhaps be necessary, before I continue my personal narrative, to observe, that Lord Wellington, finding his numbers greatly unequal to the enemy was obliged to retreat. This, it is well known, he directed in a very skilful manner, having long before anticipated the probability of such an event by the erection of the lines of Torres Vedras. During the retreat, his Lordship ordered the people of the country to accompany the troops, and to destroy all those things which they could not carry with them. By this precaution, Massena’s army, on the track of the British and Portuguese, through want of food and necessaries, were reduced to the greatest privations, of which the Marshal bitterly complained in his despatches of that period.

Perhaps few events in the Peninsular war reflect more credit upon Lord Wellington, as a commander, than the admirable manner in which he had thus drawn an overwhelming force of the French into actual famine, in front of works that afforded security and plenty to his own comparatively small force.

In a few weeks after our arrival at Lisbon, I became sufficiently recovered to leave the hospital and was accordingly transferred to Belem, a place much noted amongst us for every species of skulk, but better known to my fellow soldiers as the “Belem rangers.” The chief part of the 58th and 87th regiments, the latter I believe from the severe loss they had sustained at Talavera, were doing duty there.

Belem itself is about two miles from Lisbon, but contiguous to it, or, as the suburbs of London are to the city. I was here, as it were, quite at my ease; and usually spent my time rambling about the quays. The port was thronged with shipping, bringing troops and stores from England, and if I recollect rightly, the ‘Hibernia,’ the ‘Caledonia,’ and the ‘Britannia,’ and other ships of war lay in the bay; at all events, we constantly intermixed with the sailors, and were mostly coupled with them; some recognising old friends—town-mates; and others, nearer and dearer ties, and forming new links and acquaintances; this the peculiarity of our situations naturally tended to strengthen, fighting as we were in the same cause, though on different elements. One day, however, I remember being present at a regular row in a wine-house, between an American and a Lancashire man. They both belonged to the same ship, and from what I could understand, were very quarrelsome fellows, and the most unfair fighters on board.

The Yankee was from Kentucky, and had a precious knack of “gouging” as they termed it, or, screwing his finger into the side locks of his opponent, and so with his thumb poking his eyes out. One or two on board had been “jockied” in this way. The Lancashire man, alias “Tummas,” alias “Lankey,” who had nearly lost one eye by a splinter at Trafalgar, seemed unwilling to risk the loss of the other in any encounter with him.

“But,” said he, “I tell you what, you bl—d cowardly sea sarpent, if it warnt that I fear’d your fingering this ’ere solitary blinker o’ mine, I’d dust your Yankee jacket for you.”

The “gouger,” however, despite the confession, though ready for a scrimmage, had some inward dread also, and seemed to dislike altogether the hazard of being bit, slobbered, and perhaps kicked to a jelly. The Englishman’s friends, nevertheless, came to a council of war; and it was agreed at last, that though ashore, they should thump it out “ship fashion.”

“For you know,” said a short, fat, big-whiskered, little sailor, who, I believe, was the boatswain, “I’m d—d if they can kick, scratch, gouge or bite, when they hangs by their starn sheets.”

It was settled, therefore, that they should have it out on a barrel.

A butt big enough to hold the rations of a whole division, was soon procured of the Patrone, and the little man bolted to the boats for some large nails and a hammer.

The barrel meantime, was rolled out to the centre of the quay, and to keep it steady, settled longways between two heaps of stones. Meanwhile the two combatants could scarcely be kept from each other, till the “little-whiskers” returned.

“Clear the gangways!” at last roared a voice from the crowd, and the boatswain bounced, almost breathless, to the barrel. In a few minutes, Yankee and Lankey were seated, and the little man first nailing one by a small bit of the bottom of his canvas trowsers to the barrel edge, and the other by the same contingency to the other, brought them fronting and about two feet apart. The two then proceeded to balance their fists, like rope-dancers’ poles, and fixing their eyes on each other, awaited the signal to begin.

“Now, gemmen,” bellowed the boatswain, “clear the decks; and you, Tummas, for the honour of your messmates let’s have no shamming afore these ere Portugals and biled lobsters. Now, softly, my lads: when you sees me put my quid into my jaws—” the two men looked at each other; “heave in your broadsides.”

The words were scarcely out, when in flopped the quid, and the combatants commenced hammering away at each other at what both, perhaps, thought hurricane rate.

In the course of a few rounds Tummas fell, but caught by his breech, remaining hanging over the barrel edge; up however, he was re-seated, and at it they went again until Yankee fell also, and hung in the same manner.

“Excellent!” roared the boatswain, “excellent prewentative, or my old aunt warnt a wirgin!”

Yankee was soon himself, and they closed again, round after round, until the two champions hung powerless at the same moment.

“Drawn fight!” bellowed the little man again; “both tough ones;” and he proceeded to separate with an enormous clasp knife the fixtures at their trowsers: all this while the crowd about them were convulsed with laughter, which was further increased by a hole in each of the combatant’s trowsers, which the boatswain had carefully cut large enough almost to admit the barrel. The two sailors, however, having recovered themselves, and with a growl tucked back the blue check, steered away to the wine-house.

Among the officers of our battalion that had been wounded at Almeida, was one Captain Mitchell, who having received a ball through the arm, was transferred with us to Lisbon: when sufficiently recovered, he one morning came to the convalescent barrack to muster those who were willing and able to rejoin their regiments. Amongst others selected, was a man named Billy M’Nabb, of our corps, a most notorious skulker and a methodist. He had scarcely ever done duty with his company, but had remained sneaking about the hospital as an orderly; and occasionally preaching and praying to the drunken soldiers in the streets of Lisbon. Captain Mitchell, however, had made up his mind that M’Nabb should see the enemy before he returned to England, and as a “persuasive,” when Billy most violently resisted the summons, ordered him to be tied to the bullock-cart, amid the jeers of the soldiers, and conveyed back to his regiment. But it was only for a short period, as Billy got tired of the “sight,” and took the earliest opportunity to decamp, for he suddenly disappeared from among us, and but for my having seen him since preaching in the streets of London, should have been inclined to think he never returned home at all.

The morning that the convalescents fell in to start for the main-army, we were joined by a batch of recruits, chiefly intended for the 68th and 85th regiments. They were a squad of plump, rosy-cheeked, smart-looking fellows, and like ourselves, each of them had been provided with five days’ rations in advance; consisting of salt pork, biscuits, and rum, the first of which they cooked ready for the march.

Their officer in command was an astonishing man, nearly seven feet high. I shall never forget him: by his high-cheeked bones and dark complexion, I took him at first to be a foreigner; but as soon as he spoke, his broad accent declared him to be a North Briton, as far north as could be. He seemed well acquainted with every theory, or that part of a campaign which is generally digested at home; and as a sample of this, he ordered his men, in accordance with the regulations of Dundas, the then Commander-in-chief, to halt and rest ten minutes or a quarter of an hour at the end of every three miles.

“Coom, men,” he would say, pulling out his gold watch, “ye ken, I suppose, yer three miles is up, set ye down and eat a pound, the mair ye tak into yer stomachs the less ye’ll carry on yer backs.” This over, the watch would be again in requisition, and it would be, “Coom men, yer quarter of an hour is nearly up, ye maun aye be ganging again;” and the men, of course, would fall in. By thus halting every three miles, and eating a pound each time, before we reached Mafra, at the end of the second day’s march, the men had “pounded” the whole of their five days’ rations, and some of them began to growl most confoundedly from the want of provisions. Wishing to know the cause, he sent for the sergeant, and desired him to inquire, when the latter informed him.

“Hoot mon, ye dinna say that, do ye? Tell them all to fall in. I fear I maun chop a wee logic with them.”

“Oh ye hungry hounds,” he exclaimed, when the men appeared before him. “Ye dinna ken the grand army yet; not content now, ye maun aye whistle then, for ye waunna get in ten days then what your hungry maws have now devoor’d in twa!” saying which, he placed himself at their head, to direct their movements when on the march. I used to liken him to a kite, while the files, of short men after him, reminded me of the tail. His shoulders were so broad and yet so skinny and square, and his height so convenient, that without stirring a peg from the front section, he would wave his sword and look over their heads down the ranks and see every manoeuvre.

Amongst the convalescents, but very recently from Cockneyshire, was a man named Josias Hetherington. This fellow was one of the queerest I ever met with, and I verily believe had seen service before, but amongst gipsies, prigs, gaol-birds, and travelling showmen. There was not a move but what he was up to, and in addition to these, he was an excellent ventriloquist, and terrified the inhabitants as we went along, whenever an occasion offered.

I think it was on the third day’s march, we had stopped for the night in a small village, and as it happened, Josh. and I got billeted in the same house together. Outside our quarters in front of the house, was a small square (every town, village and pig-stye in Portugal has one,) in the middle of which and while we were cooking our rations the inhabitants had commenced a fandango. This also is usual on Sundays in Portugal. Attracted by the whistle and a small drum beaten by a short, dumpy, ugly looking lump of a Portuguese, Josh. and I would occasionally run down to join, and leave our pots beside the Patrone’s wood fire as close as we could to the red embers. But invariably, when we came in to take a peep at the boiling progress, we found our utensils moved aside and the contents as cold as charity. Josh. looked at me, and I at Josh., the same as to say, “Who the blazes moves our meat about so?” Josh. however hearing footsteps on the stairs, popped me and himself after into a kind of pantry. I partially closed the door, and there we stood watching.

In a few minutes in came the Patrone or lady of the house, and looking about her a little, bounced to our little utensils, and was proceeding to purloin the meat, muttering something to herself at the same moment. But she had scarcely put a hand to it, when a voice as if from the pot plainly told her to “Sperum poco,” (wait a little.) The old woman frisked up, looked doubtful, crossed herself, and with the courage this afforded, again attacked the pot. But the same words only quick and smart as a rifle shot, sent her reeling and screeching to the corner of the kitchen. “Oh Santa Maria! oh Jesu, oh la deos! Pedro aye el demonio ei in panello, (the devil’s in the pot,) Santa Maria ora—ora—ora—ora pro nobis!” and the good soul went off in a Portuguese fit.

Josh. and I, scarcely able to contain our mirth, rushed out of the house instantly and joined in the crowd, which her screams were collecting about the door-way. The old Patrone, when she recovered, was off in a twinkling to the Priest and the Alcalde, but it was all in vain, the billet could not be changed, for the whole village equally feared the devil, and we held quiet possession till the next morning, and might have carried away the house for what the old Patrone cared, for she left her domicile and never returned till we had marched out of the place.

The following day, 12th of October, 1810, I rejoined my regiment encamped near a small village on the lines of Torres Vedras, called Aruda, where I found my old Captain, who despite his severe loss, had scraped together a snug company, partly from men who had made their escape from the French after the affair at Almeida, but chiefly from a batch of recruits that joined our first battalion with the third of our regiment that came from England while I was in hospital. Aruda was a pretty little place enough until we mounted our picquets, when the men dreadfully defaced it, perhaps from a belief that the French might enter—a pleasure they never had.

The inhabitants whose fears had been enhanced by its exposed situation had nearly all evacuated the place, taking with them only the most portable and valuable of their effects, and leaving the houses, as it were, furnished and tenantless. The change was the more extraordinary from the circumstance of its pleasant site having for many years made it a country resort for the rich citizens of Lisbon.

For a few days after our arrival, it presented a picture of most wanton desolation. Furniture of a most splendid description in many instances was laid open to the spoliation of the soldiery. Elegant looking-glasses wrenched from the mantle-pieces were wantonly broken to obtain bits to shave by, and their encasures, with chairs, tables, &c., &c., used as common fire-wood for the picquets; an Israelite would have gloated over the gilded embers, and have deemed perhaps one of them as under the value of what our united fire-places might have been reduced to. These proceedings, however, unravel the secret of spending “half-a-crown out of sixpence a day,” and the philosophical reader will perhaps admit of the plea, that if we had not, the French would have done it for us, an event which we expected, though it fortunately never was realized.

Tom Crawley was particularly pre-eminent in this havoc; his enormous strength and length fitting him especially for the pulling down and “breaking up” department.

Our company was one night on picquet at Aruda; we had, as usual, made a blazing fire close to the stable of a large house, which in the morning we had noticed, contained a very handsome carriage (the only one by-the-bye that I had ever seen in Portugal). Rather late in the evening we missed Tom—who, by the way, had a great love of exploring the houses of the village, and whom we imagined to be employed in his favourite amusement, “looking for wine.” After having consumed sundry chairs to keep alive our fire, we found it necessary to obtain fresh fuel, and while consulting where it was to come from, one man, with an oath, proposed to burn the Portuguese coach. The novelty of the thing among our thoughtless fellows was received with acclamations, and as our officers were absent in a house close by, several started up on their legs for the purpose. The stable-doors were immediately opened, and the coach wheeled backwards into the large blazing fire. “This will make a jolly roast!” exclaimed several of the men, as the paint and paneling began to crack under the influence of the heat. Our scamps were laughing and enjoying what they called a capital joke, but just as the flames were beginning to curl up around the devoted vehicle, a roar like that of a bull came from its interior, and threw us for a moment into consternation: immediately afterwards one of the glasses was dashed out, and Tom Crawley’s big head was thrust through the window, amid shouts of laughter from the men, as he cried out—“Oh bad luck to your sowls! are you going to burn me alive?” At the same moment, urged powerfully by the heat of his berth, he made the most violent efforts to open the door, which from the handle being heated, was a difficult and painful operation. We had some trouble ere we could extricate the poor fellow, and then not before he was severely scorched. It afterwards appeared he had gone half tipsy into the carriage, and was taking a snooze, when he was so warmly awoke. After this occurrence, Crawley used to boast of going to sleep with one eye open.

At this period the French soldiers and ourselves began to establish a very amicable feeling, apart from duty in the field. It was a common thing for us to meet each other daily at the houses between our lines, when perhaps both parties would be in search of wine and food. In one of the houses so situated, I remember once finding Crawley in a drunken state in company with a couple of French soldiers. I was mortified by the merriment his appearance had excited, and could with difficulty get him away, as he stripped, and offered to fight the whole three of us for laughing at him.