Vittoria as it then was—A bad wind that blows nobody any good—Rifles rather comfortable at first—Severe weather—Morning scenes and cries in Vittoria—The flogging system—Men not starved—A comparison of facts—Hospitals get crammed with sick—Singular economy—The old Colonel’s two sons—The Chapelgorris decimated by order of Espartero—The Rifles march to Matuca—The whole Legion assemble at Matuca—Cordova engaged—A Carlist village—A confession—A night retreat—Colonel’s anxiety—Arlaban—Change of looks both in the men and the inhabitants—March to Trevina—Sharp winter of 1835.

The morning after our arrival, I took the earliest opportunity to look about the town, and I passed through the gates on the great road, leading to Pampeluna. On coming to the spot where I fell in with the carriage of Joseph Bonaparte, I found that a convent had been built over it, which was now converted into a hospital for the Spanish soldiers.

The city and its suburbs, however, were much improved, which was accounted for in the immense quantity of money and valuables left by the French, in their hurried flight before the British troops. Indeed, as the old Colonel assured me, the conquerors in that battle were the making of Vittoria and had greatly enriched the inhabitants.

The Rifles were quartered in a convent, and enjoyed for a short time more comforts than they had known since their arrival in Spain; as every three men were allowed a straw mattress and one blanket, and I made it a practice, as long as I could, to see each man provided every morning with a pint of warm chocolate, at a charge of three-half-pence per day, and also with soups made with rice, flour, &c. This soon became general throughout the regiment.

The weather set in very severely, and the morning sun not unusually brought on a thaw, after a night which had perhaps left the plains ankle-deep in snow. Our drill ground also lay some distance from the city, and it frequently happened that after serving the men with new shoes at the morning parade, preparatory to their going to drill, they as often returned with them torn to pieces by the stiff mud.

But the most disgusting annoyance I ever met with, was on going to inspect the company in the colonnades of the convent; as the whole of our brigade consisting of the Rifles, the 3rd Westminster Grenadiers and the 6th Scotch were quartered here; every morning therefore at inspection my ears were saluted with the cries of the unfortunate soldiers, receiving from one to four dozen lashes, for misdemeanors committed the evening previous. Indeed it was a duty imposed upon the Captain of the day, to see these punishments inflicted; but the Colonel agreeing with me that this might be performed by the orderly subalterns, I escaped the unpleasant office.

General Evans, however, possibly might not really have been aware of the real state of the men, and I should be sorry to say that he did not care. He was very much of the “recluse” at all times, and therefore insurmountable difficulties lay in the way of a man’s getting a hearing from him; consequently there was no hope for the poor fellows, save what might have been expected from the mercy of the Provost, or the whims of his judges, who may be said to have administered as many sentences as would have whipped every man in the Legion twice over, with the exception of hanging, which, in many instances, would have been preferable; never were punishments carried to such an extent, nor authority so unlimited or arrogated by any men, as that usurped by the chief part of the officers of the British Auxiliaries.

Meanwhile, however, the reports circulated in England that the men were starved for want of rations were unfounded, as the resources of the neighbourhood, and the fact of our being under the employ of the Spanish Government, opened even a better medium for supply than what formerly had been allotted to the British army under the Duke of Wellington.

Here the hospitals were soon crammed with sick; but the most cruel part of this was, a man was no sooner conveyed to hospital, than the chief part of his clothing was taken from him, and given to men able to perform their duty; so that, if he happened to recover, he rejoined his regiment almost naked. From this cause he generally got a relapse, returned to hospital, and nothing more was heard of him. To give the reader some slight idea of the number of men who died through want and negligence, I will subjoin the names of Sergeants alone belonging to my own company (observing that I had the charge of what is termed the staff company). They are as follows: Sergeant-Major Powley, Colour-Sergeant Smith, Pay-Sergeant Madicott, Sergeants Bushel, Watson, and Hornsby, and Armoury-Sergeant Bleakey.

I remember one day, while sitting smoking a cigar at my quarters at Vittoria, the Colonel’s wife rushed into the room, and throwing her arms around my neck in tears and in the most heart-rending tone, cried, “Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!” and almost fainted. At this moment her husband, the old Colonel, entered, with looks and attitude baffling all description; he approached near me, while his wife still hung on my neck. He stood silent and motionless; at one moment despair depicted in his face, the next his eyes glistened with apparent transports of joy, although the tears rolled rapidly down his cheeks. I was transfixed to my chair (while the old lady still remained crying on my shoulder), wondering what could be the cause of this strange visit. But, with the reader’s permission, I will unravel the mystery. Some time previously, the Chapelgorris—in which regiment the Colonel’s two sons had volunteered—had taken a Carlist village, named La Bastide, and in driving the enemy out, a priest, who was flying with the Carlists, was shot. On the Chapelgorris returning to the village, they plundered the church, and drank wine out of the chalice. This was made known to the government of Madrid; and it was falsely added, that the priest had been murdered in the church, with a view to spoliation. Espartero, the commander of this division, was accordingly written to, and censured for having suffered such an outrage.

The means he adopted to justify himself was cold, deliberate butchery. Although at the time this supposed sacrilege was committed, Espartero called them his noble, brave Chapelgorris, on this day—the 12th of December—the bravest of Spanish soldiers, whose pride it was to fight by the side of the English, were doomed to have their laurels plucked from their brows, and that enthusiastic and loyal spirit broken for ever. The whole of the Chapelgorris were marched a few miles on the Miranda road; and, without the slightest notice of what was intended, they were ordered to ascend a rising ground. Here they found a large body of infantry and cavalry, which had preceded them from Vittoria, all drawn up. When they had ascended the hill, they were ordered to pile arms, and marched to some distance. The cavalry then rode between the Chapelgorris and their arms, when, for the first time, the poor fellows had some idea of what was intended. Espartero, who commanded in person at this scene, then ordered lots to be cast, and every tenth man was set apart from the rest. These ten were shot in the presence of their unarmed comrades. The Colonel’s two sons were ever known to stand side by side in the ranks, but on this morning one of their comrades had taken his position between the two brothers, and this poor fellow, being the tenth man, fell by the ruthless and murderous command of Espartero. When my old host, the Colonel, and his wife, heard of this providential escape of their sons, their joy occasioned the sudden entrance and extravagant conduct of the poor old Colonel and his lady, who came to impart the tidings to me, but were too overpowered by their feelings to give them utterance. “But the most horrid part of this butchery was,” said the old veteran, who by this time was a little collected, “that the men were not despatched at one volley, but individually, four men firing at each victim, who was placed beside his dead comrades, until the tragic scene was finished.”

In the beginning of January, 1836, we left Vittoria, and marched to a small town on the main road to Salvaterra, called Matuca, about six miles distant. Here we remained several weeks, chiefly occupied in barricading our houses with loopholes, &c., and occasionally going out on the hills, opposite the castle of Guevara, a strongly fortified place, occupied by the Carlists.

The whole of the Legion having assembled at Matuca, we moved towards the heights of Arlaban, where, as Cordova was warmly engaged on our left; we expected an encounter also, but after manoeuvring for the day, we encamped on a bleak hill without firing a shot. The following evening we entered a village just quitted by the Carlists, where we remained for the night, using every precaution by barricading the doors and windows of all the houses we occupied. Meanwhile, from its being a Carlist village, our men thought it right to make free with whatever fell in their way.

In the house in which I had taken up my billet, the owner was a remarkably pretty woman, with two children; some of our men picking up a Carlist muster-roll, she confessed to me that her husband was a Captain in Don Carlos’s army, and had left her only a few nights before. The house was well stored with wine, and with every necessary comfort; myself, and my two subalterns, fared most sumptuously, our hostess spreading the table with every delicacy the place afforded. She was a very intelligent woman, and spoke the French language fluently; she placed herself under our protection to avoid the importunities of the men, but everything else these last “gentlemen” could lay their hands upon they did.

We returned to the hills on which we were stationed the day before: but we still heard firing on our left, and remained here till twelve o’clock at night. After the men had collected wood, and lighted large fires, and laid down beside them for the night (it was severely cold, with frost and snow, and a number of men without even watch-coats), to our surprise, about midnight, the “word” was silently passed to “fall in” as quickly as possible, and make the best of our way from the camp-ground, as the Carlists were in great force around us.

We quietly moved about a mile lower down, across a small river, where, as it was impossible to light fires, we remained, ankle-deep in snow, till the morning. This was one of the most distressing nights I ever experienced during my whole life. In the morning I felt alarmed for the safety of the Lieutenant of my company; who, being a favourite of the Colonel’s, was in the habit of remaining with him. On inquiry, the Colonel told me he had not seen him, and clasping his hands together, he exclaimed, “Good God! he must be taken and assassinated by the Carlists.” Fearing the truth of his supposition, I instantly started for the camp-ground we had left, with some of my company (such as were not frost-bitten by the inclemency of the night), and on my arriving near the camp, to my pleasing astonishment, I beheld Lieutenant Tottenham, my lost officer, with one or two others, who had not been disturbed by our silent retreat, but remained comfortably sleeping by the large fires the men had lighted, and most reluctantly left.

All the honour gained by this Arlaban expedition, was about a dozen men, who happened to straggle from the regiments, most brutally butchered (by the Carlists); on one man in particular, whom Colonel de Rottenburg and myself had stripped, we counted no less than twenty-six stabs through his body; and about half a dozen of my own company also were severely frost-bitten: indeed from our having no other conveyance, some of these men were obliged to be carried on the backs of their comrades, to save them from falling into the hands of the Carlists. Thus ended the celebrated Arlaban expedition. Certainly it is, Cordova did not cause all this by his imputed treachery and bad faith.

We returned once more to Matuca, our old quarters. I could see the inhabitants did not regard us with the same eye as before we started; but it was unjust to look scornfully on our poor fellows, who would have fought if they had had proper men to command them.

In the beginning of February the chief part of the Legion left Matuca, and, marching to the right, took up their position in a mountain town called Trevina, about four leagues from Vittoria. This town is surrounded by bleak and barren mountains, which the Carlists a short time previous had quitted. The crowded state in which we were in here, caused the men to die by sections. Besides two large hospitals, which were filled, the sick were at last compelled to be sent to Vittoria, guarded by strong detachments, as there were not sufficient places for their reception, and, to crown our misfortunes, during the greater part of our stay here, there was snow a foot deep. The men, although nearly barefoot, were constantly employed barricading the houses and streets in every part of the town, which a short time afterwards we left to the mercy of the enemy.

The winter of 1835 was one of the severest known in Spain for the last half century, as if the elements also contended against the unfortunate Legion. Here we were shorter, both in money and rations, than at any other place since our arrival in the country. We remained about three weeks, and then retraced our steps to Vittoria; the men completely harassed by fortifying the place, that after all turned out to be of no use to us.