Occupation of the Lines of Torres Vedras—An army in motley—An Irish interpreter—Death of the Marquis de la Romana—Retreat of MassÉna’s army from Portugal—Indulgence of Lord Wellington—The amenities of a subaltern’s existence.

The astonishment of the French general was great when he beheld the reception prepared for him; and his friend the Duke d'Abrantes must have been lowered in his estimation not a little, because it is well known that, contrary to the advice of several able officers, MassÉna was overruled by Junot, who assured him those heights could be easily carried.

After numerous reconnoissances, the French Marshal came to the resolution of renouncing any hope of success from an assault; and his army formed a line blockade, with its right at Otta, its centre at Alenquer, and its left at Villa Franca. But it must have been a matter of deep regret to him to have learned, when too late, that by this useless advance of his, he exposed upwards of three thousand of his wounded from the battle of Busaco, left at Coimbra, to be massacred by the Portuguese militia and peasantry.

For the space of a month the French army remained inactive in their wretched cantonments, their supply of provisions growing every day more scanty; their horses, reduced to the necessity of subsisting on the vine twigs, died by hundreds; and the soldiers, pining from disease, became discontented and discouraged. In consequence, the desertions increased with their increasing wants, and it appeared very evident that matters could not long continue in the state they had assumed at the beginning of November.

Although our situation was, in every respect, better than that of the enemy, we were far from comfortable. Our huts, from want of any good materials to construct them, were but a weak defence against the heavy rains which fell at this time. We had no straw to serve for thatch, and the heath which we were obliged to use as a substitute, though it looked well enough when in full leaf and blossom, and was a delightful shelter in fine weather, became a wretched protection against the torrents that soon after inundated us. The inside of our habitation presented an appearance as varied as it was uncomfortable; at one end might be seen a couple of officers, with their cloaks thrown about them, snoring on a truss of straw, while over their heads hung their blankets, which served as a kind of inner wall, and for a time stopped the flood that deluged the parts of the hut not so defended; but this, by degrees, becoming completely saturated with rain, not only lost its original appearance, but what was worse, its original usefulness; for the water, dripping down from the edges, gradually made its way towards the centre of the blanket, and thus, by degrees, it assumed a shape not unlike the parachute of a balloon. Finally the whole, being overpowered with its own weight, and either giving way at the point or bottom, or breaking its hold from the twigs which feebly held it at top, overwhelmed those it was intended to protect, and in the space of a minute more effectually drenched them than the heaviest fall of rain would have accomplished in several hours. In another corner lay some one else, who, for want of a better, substituted a sheet or an old tablecloth as a temporary defence; but this was even more disastrous than the blanket, for from the nature of its texture, and the imperfect manner in which it was from necessity pitched, it made but a poor stand; it soon performed the functions of a filtering machine, and with equal effect, though less force, was to the full as unserviceable as the blanket. Others, more stout and convivial, sat up smoking cigars and drinking brandy punch, waiting for the signal to proceed to our alarm-post, a duty which the army performed every morning two hours before day. This was by no means a pleasant task; scrambling up a hill of mud and standing shivering for a couple of hours in the dark and wet was exceedingly uncomfortable, but I don’t remember to have heard one single murmur; we all saw the necessity of such a line of conduct, and we obeyed it with cheerfulness.

On the 14th of November MassÉna broke up his camp, and on that night his army was in full march upon Santarem; ours made a corresponding movement, and the headquarters were on the 18th established at Cartaxo.

It was the general opinion in the army that a battle in the neighbourhood of Santarem would be the result of those manoeuvres, and this opinion was strengthened by Lord Wellington making a reconnoissance on the 19th; but although those expectations were disappointed, the situation of the troops was much improved, and their comforts increased. Our division occupied the town of Torres Vedras, while the other corps were in the villages of Alenquer, Azambujo, and Alcoentre. The French army foraged the country between Santarem and the river Zezere. Santarem was much strengthened, and the two armies were thus circumstanced at the end of November 1810.

Our fatigues being for a time at an end, we occupied ourselves in such pursuits as each of us fancied. We had no unnecessary drilling, nor were we tormented with that greatest of all bores to an officer at any time, but particularly on service, uniformity of dress. The consequence was that every duty was performed with cheerfulness; the army was in the highest state of discipline; and those gentlemen who had, or fancied they had, a taste for leading the fashion, had now a fine opportunity of bringing their talents into play.

With such latitude it is not to be wondered at that our appearance was not quite as uniform as some general officers would approve of; but Lord Wellington was a most indulgent commander; he never harassed us with reviews, or petty annoyances, which so far from promoting discipline, or doing good in any way, have a contrary effect. A corporal’s guard frequently did the duty at headquarters; and every officer who chose to purchase a horse might ride on a march. Provided we brought our men into the field well appointed, and with sixty rounds of good ammunition each, he never looked to see whether their trousers were black, blue, or grey; and as to ourselves, we might be rigged out in all the colours of the rainbow if we fancied it. The consequence was, that scarcely any two officers were dressed alike! Some with grey braided coats, others with brown; some again liked blue; while many from choice, or perhaps necessity, stuck to the “old red rag.” Overalls, of all things, were in vogue, and the comical appearance of a number of infantry officers loaded with leather bottoms to their pantaloons, and huge chains suspended from the side buttons, like a parcel of troopers, was amusing enough. Quantities of hair, a regular brutus, a pair of mustachios, and screw brass spurs, were essential to a first-rate Count, for so were our dandies designated. The “cut-down” hat, exactly a span in height, was another rage; this burlesque on a chapeau was usually out-topped by some extraordinary-looking feather; while, again, others wore their hats without any feather at all—and indeed this was the most rational thing they did. In the paroxysm of a wish to be singularly singular, a friend of mine shaved all the hair off the crown of his head, and he was decidedly the most outrÉ-looking man amongst us, and consequently the happiest. I myself had a hankering to be a Count, and had I half as much money to spare as time, I should not have been outdone by any man in the army, so I hit upon the expedient of cutting my hat down a couple of inches lower than any one else: this I thought would be better than nothing. Lieutenant Heppenstal, of the 88th Regiment, was nearly falling a sacrifice to the richness of his dress. He belonged to the light troops of our army at the battle of Busaco, and was warmly engaged with the advance of the enemy. He was a man of the most determined bravery and gigantic strength, and more than once became personally engaged with the French riflemen. At one time, carried away by his daring impetuosity, he pursued his success so far as to be nearly mixed with the enemy; a number of Portuguese CaÇadores, coming up at this moment, mistook him for a French general officer, and attempted to make him a prisoner; a scuffle ensued, in which he lost the skirts of his frockcoat; and it was not until an explanation took place that he was enabled to join his regiment in this laughable trim—his beautiful gold-tagged frock being converted into a regular spencer.

Poor Heppenstal! It was his first appearance under fire, and it was not difficult for those who witnessed his too gallant dÉbut to foresee that his career of glory would be short. He carried a rifle, and his unerring aim brought down many a man on the morning I am speaking of; but he did not long survive the praises so justly bestowed on him, and it will soon be my painful duty to record his death.

Dress, however, with its attractions, by no means engrossed all our thoughts; some were fond of shooting, and those whose tastes lay that way had plenty of sport, as the country abounded in game; others took to horse-racing, and here was a fine opportunity for the lovers of the turf and of dress to display their knowledge in both. Jockeys, adorned with all colours, were to be seen on the course, and the harlequin-like appearance of these equestrians was far from unpleasing. Some of the races were admirably contested, and afforded us as much gratification as those of Epsom and Doncaster do to the visitants of those receptacles of rank and fashion.

We had great inconvenience in making ourselves understood by our Portuguese allies, and a laughable circumstance of this sort took place between a friend of mine and a shoemaker, in the village of Rio Mayor. He left his boots, his only pair, to be mended, and understood they were to be put in serviceable condition for a crusado novo, less than three shillings of our money. Next day, on entering the shop, the man made two or three efforts to make the officer comprehend how well the work had been done; but it was all to no purpose, for my friend, not understanding one word of what was said, conceived the fellow wanted to impose a higher price upon him, and got into a violent rage. An Irish soldier, belonging to the 88th Regiment, of the name of Larracy, a shoemaker, who had been working for the Portuguese, a common indulgence allowed to the tradesmen of the army, came up to his officer and thus accosted him.

“Ah! your honour, I see you can’t talk to him, but lave him to me; I’ve been working in his shop these three weeks, and, saving your presence, there isn’t a bigger rascal in all Ireland; but I can spake as well as himself now, and I’m up to his ways.”

Larracy thus became interpreter and mediator, and it would be difficult to say in which character he best acquitted himself. Possessing no knowledge whatever of the language, notwithstanding his repeated assurances that he could talk it nately, he brought that happy talent for invention, for which the Irish most undeniably stand unrivalled, into play. Seizing one of the boots, he approached his employer, and suiting the word to the action, addressed him in the following words:—

“Si, senhor! Quanto the munnee, for the solee, the heelee, and the nailee?”

The astonishment portrayed in the countenance of the Portuguese baffles all description; he surveyed Larracy from head to foot, and with much gravity of manner replied, “En nÀo entendo-o que vÓs me dizeis.”^[8]—“And sure I’m telling him so,” rejoined Larracy. “What does the fellow say?” demanded my friend. “What does he say?—What does he say, is it? He says he put a fine pair of welts to your boots, sir (and it’s true for him!); and that your honour will have to give him a dollar [about two shillings more than was demanded by the Portuguese!], but just only lave him to me, and give me the dollar, and if I don’t bate him down in the price, never believe a word that I’ll tell your honour again; and I’ll carry home your boots for you, and bring you the account in rotation (by which he meant in writing), and the change of the dollar.”—“Oh! never mind, you are an honest fellow, Larracy, and keep the change for your trouble; but you may tell your employer it is the last job he shall ever do for me.”—“Och! sure I told your honour he was a blackguard,” grinned Larracy, escorting his officer to the door, and putting the dollar in his pocket.

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While in the other parts of the Peninsula much activity prevailed, with us all was quiet; and although the season was advancing towards spring, there was no appearance of our commencing the offensive, and conjectures innumerable were the consequence. Promotion, that great planet whose influence more or less affected us all, was perpetually on the tapis. There were some among us of a desponding cast; they would say, “Have we not lost Almeida, Rodrigo, and now, though last not least, Badajoz? And should we be obliged to evacuate the Peninsula, good-bye to promotion.” Others there were who held a different opinion, and, resting their hopes on some fortunate “turn-up,” expected ere long to have the enviable title of captain attached to their name. To this class I belonged, and as it was the most numerous in the army, it was in consequence the most clamorous on this head.

The life of a subaltern, in what Miss Mac-Tab would call a marching regiment, where many of us, and I myself for one, had little except our pay, is a perpetual scene of irritating calculation from the 24th of one month to the 24th of the next. No matter under what circumstances, or in what quarter of the globe the subaltern is placed, his first thought points towards that powerful magnet the twenty-fourth—his next to promotion.

The 24th has scarcely passed when the same routine is pursued, every hour increasing in interest according to the immediate wants of the calculator; and time rolls on, either rapidly or slowly, in the exact ratio with the strength or weakness of his purse. The moment he receives his pay he discharges his bills, and by the time he has got about half-way into the first week of the next month, he has little occasion for a knowledge of Cocker to enable him to calculate his money.

The period generally reckoned on by a subaltern to get his company, in a good fighting regiment—that is to say, one that had the good luck to be in the thick and thin of what was going on, for all regiments fight alike for that matter—was from five to six years. The “extra shilling” was rarely heard of, and never thought of but with disgust.^[9]

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