Battle of Salamanca—My wounds break out afresh—I go into the Hospital at Salamanca—The Germans and their prisoners—A recognition—Michael Connelly—His death and burial—Josh Hetherington again—A new acquaintance—His accounts of the Guerillas, &c.—A keepsake for a sweetheart—The Guerilla—The army retrace their steps to Salamanca—Proceed to Rodrigo—Heavy wet—Spanish payment; acknowledgment—A dry coat—Lord Charles Spencer and his acorns—We continue our march—The babes in the wood—Hard skirmishing with the enemy’s advanced-guard—A woman in distress—Pepper—Hunger, cold, and fatigue—Finish of the Burgos retreat.

The night previous to the morn that ushered in the day of battle, viz., the 22nd of July, 1812, was the most stormy, I think, I ever witnessed. The thunder, lightning, and rain seemed striving which should excel, while their united effect was terrible. We lay, without covering, in an open field close to the river Tormes. It is needless to say, not a man that night had on a dry shred. It has, I believe, been previously remarked, by military and other writers, that rain has been the forerunner of almost all our general battles. From my own recollection, the truth of this assertion is singularly supported by facts.

The battle of Salamanca commenced about ten or twelve o’clock, upon our right, on a rising ground. Our position was first disturbed by some cannon-shot of the enemy that fell very near, but fortunately without doing any harm.

Although every moment expecting to be sent into the thick of it, we kept undisturbed possession of our ground, from whence we could see the column of the enemy on the heights engaged in attempting to repel the advance of our troops. When the “glad sounds of victory” reached us, a general feeling of pleasure pervaded our ranks, mixed perhaps with some regret that we had not taken a more active share in the battle. But all we could do we did, which was to pepper the French well in their hurried retreat from the field. In fact, it seemed to me as if the whole French army might have been cut off by a little promptitude.

We halted at Huerta. The following morning our division crossed the river Tormes in pursuit of the enemy. We came up with their rear strongly posted on the side of a hill on the left of the road. Here we beheld one of those few charges that so seldom succeed against well-trained infantry: this was the celebrated charge of Major-General Bock, who, at the head of his heavy German cavalry, broke the French squares, taking them prisoners almost to a man. It was the most gallant dash of cavalry that ever was witnessed.

This day I began to feel the ill effects of the wound I had received at Badajoz, which the fatigue of marching and the warmth of the weather had again caused to break out. On inspecting the sore, our surgeon immediately recommended me to go into hospital at Salamanca, for a few days of medical treatment and rest. Accordingly I set out for Salamanca with the guard appointed to escort the prisoners taken in the recent cavalry affair by our Germans. I never before saw such severe-looking sabre-cuts as many of them had received; several with both eyes cut out, and numbers had lost both ears. Their wounded, who were carried in waggons, were extremely numerous, and it was painful, even to an old soldier, to hear their groans and incessant cries for water. The escort consisted chiefly of the Germans that had taken them prisoners, and it was pleasing to behold these gallant fellows, in the true spirit of glory, paying the greatest attention to the wants of the wounded. Water, as I have remarked, from the loss of blood that had taken place among the wounded, was in particular request. One of the prisoners, who had his arm hanging, probably in endeavouring to defend his head from a sword-cut—for, indeed, there were very few gun-shot wounds among them—was in particular very frequent in his demands for “eau” (water), when none could be obtained. Perhaps imagining himself neglected, we were not a little surprised to hear him suddenly change his language, and call out in English, “For the love of Jesus, give me something to quench my thirst; I am a fellow-countryman of your own.” On entering into conversation with him I found he formerly belonged to the 9th Regiment of Foot, and had been taken prisoner with a number of others of his regiment, while on board a ship some time previous, since which occurrence he had been prevailed upon to enter the French service in preference to being kept in close confinement. At Salamanca a sentry was placed over him; what became of him I know not.

On arriving at Salamanca our wounded prisoners, some other invalids, and myself were immediately taken into hospital. There we were, French and English, laid up together; and there, I must say, I saw sufficient practice daily in the use of the surgeon’s knife to become perfectly familiar with every form attendant upon amputation. While lying in hospital, at all times a wretched place, from the groans of the numerous sufferers, I was here placed under the immediate attendance of Sergeant Michael Connelly, in charge of our ward, who being sufficiently recovered from a slight wound, was appointed sergeant to the hospital. He was one of the most singular characters I ever met with, and if an awkward person and uncouth face had gained him the preferment, his match certainly could not be found elsewhere. Mike was exceedingly attentive to the sick, and particularly anxious that the British soldier when dying, should hold out a pattern of firmness to the Frenchmen, who lay intermixed with us in the same wards.

“Hould your tongue, ye blathering devil,” he would say, in a low tone, “and don’t be after disgracing your country in the teeth of these ere furriners, by dying hard. Ye’ll have the company at your burial, won’t you? Ye’ll have the drums beating and the guns firing over ye, won’t you? Marciful God! what more do you want? ye are not at Elvas, to be thrown into a hole like a dog—ye’ll be buried in a shroud and coffin, won’t you? For God’s sake, die like a man before these ere Frenchers.”

Mike, however, had one great failing, he drank like a whale, and did not scruple to adopt as gifts or legacies, the wine rations of both the dying and the dead, until he drank himself out of the world, and as his patients remarked, after all, he died “like a beast.”

The news of Mike’s death spread like wildfire, and all his old friends and the convalescents crowded to do honour to his remains.

The funeral of the Duke himself could not have made a greater stir, for cavalier and foot soldier, from the drum-boy to the trumpeter, and all the women, children and camp-followers in the locality, flocked to follow his remains, the town became unusually alive, and the variegated throng, headed by the deceased sergeant, borne by four bearers, and the usual complement of soldiers with their arms reversed, slowly wound their way through the city of Salamanca. Many a jest made the streets ring with laughter, as the crowd followed the coffin, till they reached the burial-ground (near the French battery taken by us some time previously.) The bearers here proceeded to enter the gateway, when they were suddenly aroused by a slight cry from within the coffin, with a kind of scraping noise, like an effort to open it. They suddenly halted, paused, and listened. It was surely Mike scraping. On they moved again doubtfully. A second time the voice broke upon their ears. “Whist!” ejaculated the bearers, their caps moving almost off their heads. “Oh blood and ouns! where am I? Oh bad luck to yer souls, let me out, won’t you? oh, merciful Jasus, I’m smoothered.” In a twinkling out bolted the bearers from under the coffin, and a dozen bayonets in an instant were sunk under and lifted the lid. The crowd crushed dreadfully to take a look. But there lay Sergeant Michael Connelly, sure enough as stiff as a fugleman but something colder, and my old friend, that blackguard Josh Hetherington, the cockney ventriloquist, who had been one of the bearers, as “innocent” as you please, joining in the astonishment of the rest of us.

Josh winked at me and I at Josh. “Ned,” said he, “I’m blessed if I think he’s dead. Why don’t some of them chaps go for a doctor.” “To be sure,” cried the crowd, “send for the doctor.” Meanwhile a regular rush was made to press him to swallow some of his favourite liquor, but his teeth as obstinately opposed the draught, so that poor Mike was already pronounced “not himself,” when the doctor arrived.

While here, I got acquainted with a pleasant and intelligent man who belonged to the 13th Light Dragoons, and was fast recovering from a wound he had received in the shoulder. We used frequently to alleviate as much as we could the unpleasantness of our situation by a little conversation. His history both amused and interested me.

He had been taken prisoner by the French near Badajoz while serving in General Hill’s division, but managed shortly afterwards to make his escape between Vittoria and Pampeluna. The following morning he fell in with a party of General Mina’s Guerillas, who, as soon as they found him to be an Englishman, wished him to enlist in their band until he could regain his regiment. This offer he was glad to accept. After giving me a very amusing account of the manners of the Guerillas, their rich picturesque dresses and arms, and their wild military life in the mountains, he proceeded to detail several anecdotes of their cruelty and ferocity, among which I can well remember the following, from the impression it then left upon my mind, and the simple manner in which he related it:

Uniting suddenly several of his Guerilla bands in the neighbourhood of Vittoria, Mina, whose information of the movements of the French seemed unerring, one morning surprised and captured a number of waggons filled with stores. They had been sent from Madrid for the army at Vittoria, and were escorted by gendarmes, who were all either killed or taken. The prisoners, about twenty in number, were immediately marched into the mountains, but not before they had time to draw a dark augury of their own fate by seeing all their wounded comrades brutally stabbed to death on the ground where the skirmish had taken place. The prisoners, after having been stripped of nearly every article of wearing apparel, even to their boots, were confined in a space of ground encircled by pens or hurdles, and used for keeping cattle, round which were planted many sentries. In the evening the ferocious mountaineers, elated with their day’s success, being joined by a number of females, their sweethearts and wives made merry with drinking wine and dancing to the music of several guitars. During this merriment both men and women frequently taunted their wretched prisoners, recapitulated the wrongs the Spaniards had suffered at the hands of the French, until they gradually had excited their passions to a partial state of frenzy. In this state, the signal having been given by one of their number, they rushed in among their hapless prisoners, and commenced a general massacre, drowning the cries and supplications for mercy of their victims, as they gave each blow, by enumerating the different losses each had sustained in his family during the war. “Take that for my father you shot,”—“that for my son,”—“this for my brother,” &c., until the work of death was complete. The most inhuman, and perhaps most revolting trait in this general murder was some of the women having actively assisted in the slaughter.

A short time after I had heard the preceding sketch, I had an opportunity of observing that sanguinary feeling of revenge that so peculiarly characterized the Guerillas during the war. I rejoined my regiment at a little village about three leagues from Madrid, called Gataffe. In the farm-house, where the greater part of our company were quartered, was a very pretty Spanish girl who had a brother serving with the Guerillas. One hot summer evening, when several comrades and myself were sitting on a bench outside the door, joking with the girl, a swarthy, savage-looking Spaniard came up, and was welcomed with much joy by the girl and her parents. The new-comer was armed to the teeth with pistols, daggers, and a long gun, which, together with his crimson sash and free bearing, at once proclaimed him the Guerilla. At first we imagined him the girl’s brother, but soon perceived another, though equally dear tie, cemented their affection: he was her lover or suitor. While engaged in conversation with his sweetheart and her parents, we observed him take rather ostentatiously from his side a long heavy-looking silk purse, the contents of which he emptied into the lap of his mistress. The Spaniard’s eyes sparkled with pleasure; but, for the honour of a British soldier, a general disgust pervaded the minds of my comrades and myself, when we beheld a number of human ears and fingers, which glistened with the golden ornaments they still retained. He then told us, with an air of bravado, that he had cut them from off the bodies of the French whom he himself had slain in battle, each ear and finger having on a gold ring.

“Napoleon,” he observed, in his native dialect, with a grim smile—“Napoleon loves his soldiers, and so do the ravens;” as he pointed to several of those carrion birds perched on the walls of an old convent covered with ivy. “We find them plenty of food; they shall never want, so long as a Frenchman remains in Spain.” Such are the men who were considered the greatest patriots attached to the Spanish army during the war.

The chief business of the British at this time was laying siege to Burgos. The enemy having also assembled in great numbers betwixt it and Vittoria, Lord Wellington, thinking he was not able to oppose their force, ordered the whole of the divisions to retire on Salamanca. We of the light division received orders to the same effect.

On the 22nd of October we left Madrid: the contempt with which the inhabitants treated us for leaving them once more to the mercy of the French, cannot easily be forgotten.

For what the men said gave us little concern; but to be taxed and taunted for cowardice by the Spanish ladies was most galling. Even my handsome dark-eyed Clementeria, sister to the Guerilla lover, who seemed so much attached to me, and with whom I spent many a moonlight night serenading to the Spanish guitar, and who first taught me to use the castanets in the Spanish dance—even she, with all her pretended love, refused me a buss at our last moment of parting, though I used all my eloquence, welding the Spanish, French, and English together in pleading my cause. All had no effect on the hard-hearted Mosa. Her last words were: “Begone, you cowardly English, you have not the courage to fight the enemy of our country: those who have butchered my dear father and brother,” were her last words. After a harassing march through a mountainous country we joined the remainder of our army at Salamanca. There we took up our quarters for a few days in a convent, which exhibited such a loathsome picture of filth as to be almost unendurable. In consequence of our men having torn up a part of the balustrades for firing, a young officer of the third battalion fell down a height of fifty feet, and was killed on the spot.

On the second morning after our arrival we again proceeded towards Rodrigo. The rain fell in torrents, and from the heaviness of the roads, which were in many places a foot deep in mud, most of our men lost their shoes, and were obliged to march barefooted. Among this number I was unfortunately included. When we had reached our halting-ground for the night, our prospect was most desolate. Wet to the skin—without fire or shelter—and at the same time possessed of a ravenous appetite, with nothing to satisfy it, formed one of the disagreeables so often attendant upon our life in the Peninsula—to say nothing of incessant duty and fatigue. It was these sufferings, in fact, I am convinced, that oftentimes rendered our men so callous about death, at different periods during the war, as some men, from the privations they endured, wished to be shot, and exposed themselves in action purposely.

On our halt on the above night, the first thing I did was to take off my jacket and shirt, and after ringing about half a gallon of water out of them, I replaced them upon my back to dry as they might. Most of our men had employed themselves in cutting down boughs of trees to keep themselves out of the mud; but it was some hours before we could obtain that greatest of luxuries, under our present circumstances, a good fire. Still we had not a morsel to eat after the day’s fatigue—no rations having been issued—and our men suffered from all the pangs of cold and hunger. Fortune, however, during the evening favoured a few of us. Towards the middle of the night one or two of our men brought intelligence that several cars laden with spirits and biscuit for the Spanish army were stuck fast in the road, and could not proceed onwards. The temptation to our hungry maws could not be resisted; leaving our fires, and getting up to the cars, screened by the darkness of the night, we managed to get a portion both of biscuit and aguardiente; but the Spanish guard, discovering our fellows, commenced firing on them: this was quickly returned, and several, I believe, were shot; indeed, the firing continued all night, which alarmed the chief part of our army. Had the offenders been discovered, it would not have been difficult to have foretold their fate, as the Duke’s orders were particularly strict against plunder, (if such this might be called, for after all, the whole fell into the hands of the French next morning, as the carts were then able to be moved). For my own part, such were my feelings this night, that I believe I should have expired, but for the liquor I had drank.

With all their hunger, however, there existed among the men a sympathy for the officers, which, considering their distance, was rather remarkable; several of the most haughty of the latter gladly received little kindnesses from the soldiers; and if the noble lord be now living, he may chance to recollect an instance connected with it. Lord Charles Spencer, then a youth about eighteen years of age, suffered dreadfully from the hunger and fatigue of this retreat; trembling with cold and weakness, he stood perched upon some branches, that had been cut down for fuel, the tears silently starting from his eyes through the pain he experienced, while thus sharing in the common lot, anxiously watching a few acorns, which to stay the pangs of hunger he had placed in the embers to roast. I dare say his Lordship had never known till then the joys of poverty—a good appetite! Nor will he, I expect, forget how willingly the rough soldiers flew to offer him biscuits, which their own sufferings could not withhold from one so tenderly and delicately reared; but his Lordship was very much liked amongst us, and, no doubt, it did many a veteran’s heart good to hear his thanks, and see the eagerness with which he devoured the offering. These are times when Lords find that they are men—and men, that they are comrades.

Before daylight we pursued our route, the rain continuing to fall in torrents, while the state of our regiment was pitiable. To add to our comfort, the enemy were close upon our heels: this night we spent something like the last—wet, cold, and hungry. On the following morning we were obliged to continue our retreat rather precipitately, as the shots of the French, who were in great force, came rattling in among us. During the morning the enemy’s cavalry succeeded in getting through a wood, and managed to cut off the baggage of the seventh division, then in front of ours. Among some captives the enemy made on this occasion were several children in panniers carried by donkeys. One Irishwoman, in particular, I remember seeing, whose grief seemed inconsolable for the loss she had sustained in that of her child. In a few days, however, the French, desiring to be as little encumbered as ourselves with children, sent them back with a flag of truce. This was followed by a most interesting scene, as the different mothers rushed forward to clasp their darlings in their arms.

This day we were hard pressed by the enemy’s advanced-guard, and two of our companies, the one in which I served being one, were ordered to cover the retreat of our division. The French, confident in their numbers, pressed us vigorously, and it was with difficulty we could check their advance. While hotly engaged skirmishing, I was about taking possession of a tree, when I beheld a poor woman at the foot of it, who, being unable to keep up with the regiment, had sank down exhausted. Poor soul! she seized my hands, and begged of me to assist her; at the same moment the enemy’s balls came rapping into the tree that only partially screened us. I was obliged, however, to leave her, as there seemed every prospect of most of us being cut off; the “assembly” sounded, and away we dashed, “devil take the hindmost,” in upon the battalion. Here our illustrious chief, who was generally to be found where danger was most apparent, seeing us come puffing and blowing up to our column, called out to us, in a cheering voice: “Be cool, my lads; don’t be in a hurry!” But, in faith, with all possible respect for his Lordship, we were not in greater haste than the occasion demanded, as the French were upon us, and we were obliged to dash down the sides of the hill, where we halted for a moment, and his Lordship also, and then ford a river. While engaged in crossing the stream, that was much swollen by the late rains, a round-shot from the enemy, who were now peppering away at us, took off the head of a Sergeant Fotheringham, of our battalion, and smashed the thigh of another man. On gaining the other side of the stream we turned to give a salute in return, but owing to the wet our rifles were unserviceable.

We remained that night stationary on the banks of the river, exposed to all the delights of cold, hunger, and fatigue. These feelings were not improved by a course of shelling that the enemy did us the honour to indulge in at our expense. But, as I have remarked, the sufferings of our men were such at this period that many of them considered death a happy relief. The morning at length dawned upon our half-famished persons, but brought no alleviation to our miseries. The rain still continued to come down in torrents. Pursuing our route, we arrived at Ciudad Rodrigo, and took shelter under its walls, where we found some sheds used as stables for the Spanish cavalry. The moment I entered, the first thing that caught my eye was some Indian corn-leaves, which I considered a lucky chance, and instantly throwing myself on them, wet as I was, soon fell into a sound sleep, the only rest I had had since we left Salamanca. However, in the morning when I awoke I found myself in a glow of heat, and covered with perspiration, and on attempting to rise found myself as if paralyzed, and could not move. Calling some of the men to assist, they were astonished at the steam that emitted from under me like smoke. I then found my bed had been hot horse-dung, slightly covered by the Indian corn-leaves. The doctor being sent for, ordered me instantly to be carried into the town, where with hot baths and a salivation in a few weeks I was able to join my regiment.