THE SKIRMISH.

For several months after the battle of Talavera my life presented nothing which I feel worth recording. Our good fortune seemed to have deserted us when our hopes were highest; for from the day of that splendid victory we began our retrograde movement upon Portugal. Pressed hard by overwhelming masses of the enemy, we saw the fortresses of Ciudad Rodrigo and Almeida fall successively into their hands. The Spaniards were defeated wherever they ventured upon a battle; and our own troops, thinned by sickness and desertion, presented but a shadow of that brilliant army which only a few months previous had followed the retiring French beyond the frontiers of Portugal.

However willing I now am—and who is not—to recognize the genius and foresight of that great man who then held the destinies of the Peninsula within his hands, I confess at the time I speak of I could ill comprehend and still less feel contented with the successive retreats our forces made; and while the words Torres Vedras brought nothing to my mind but the last resting-place before embarkation, the sad fortunes of Corunna were now before me, and it was with a gloomy and desponding spirit I followed the routine of my daily duty.

During these weary months, if my life was devoid of stirring interest or adventure, it was not profitless. Constantly employed at the outposts, I became thoroughly inured to all the roughing of a soldier’s life, and learned in the best of schools that tacit obedience which alone can form the subordinate or ultimately fit its possessor for command himself.

Humble and unobtrusive as such a career must ever be, it was not without its occasional rewards. From General Crawfurd I more than once obtained most kind mention in his despatches, and felt that I was not unknown or unnoticed by Sir Arthur Wellesley himself. At that time these testimonies, slight and passing as they were, contributed to the pride and glory of my existence; and even now—shall I confess it?—when some gray hairs are mingling with the brown, and when my old dragoon swagger is taming down into a kind of half-pay shamble, I feel my heart warm at the recollection of them.

Be it so; I care not who smiles at the avowal. I know of little better worth remembering as we grow old than what pleased us while we were young. With the memory of the kind words once spoken come back the still kinder looks of those who spoke them, and better than all, that early feeling of budding manhood, when there was neither fear nor distrust. Alas! these are the things, and not weak eyes and tottering limbs, which form the burden of old age. Oh, if we could only go on believing, go on trusting, go on hoping to the last, who would shed tears for the bygone feats of his youthful days, when the spirit that evoked them lived young and vivid as before?

But to my story. While Ciudad Rodrigo still held out against the besieging French,—its battered walls and breached ramparts sadly foretelling the fate inevitably impending,—we were ordered, together with the 16th Light Dragoons, to proceed to Gallegos, to reinforce Crawfurd’s division, then forming a corps of observation upon Massena’s movements.

The position he occupied was a most commanding one,—the crown of a long mountain ridge, studded with pine-copse and cork-trees, presenting every facility for light-infantry movements; and here and there gently sloping towards the plain, offering a field for cavalry manoeuvres. Beneath, in the vast plain, were encamped the dark legions of France, their heavy siege-artillery planted against the doomed fortress, while clouds of their cavalry caracoled proudly before us, as if in taunting sarcasm at our inactivity.

Every artifice which his natural cunning could suggest, every taunt a Frenchman’s vocabulary contains, had been used by Massena to induce Sir Arthur Wellesley to come to the assistance of the beleagured fortress: but in vain. In vain he relaxed the energy of the siege, and affected carelessness. In vain he asserted that the English were either afraid or else traitors to their allies. The mind of him he thus assailed was neither accessible to menace nor to sarcasm. Patiently abiding his time, he watched the progress of events, and provided for that future which was to crown his country’s arms with success and himself with undying glory.

Of a far different mettle was the general formed under whose orders we were now placed. Hot, passionate, and impetuous, relying upon bold and headlong heroism rather than upon cool judgment and well-matured plans, Crawfurd felt in war all the asperity and bitterness of a personal conflict. Ill brooking the insulting tone of the wily Frenchman, he thirsted for any occasion of a battle, and his proud spirit chafed against the colder counsels of his superior.

On the very morning we joined, the pickets brought in the intelligence that the French patrols were nightly in the habit of visiting the villages at the outposts and committing every species of cruel indignity upon the wretched inhabitants. Fired at this daring insult, our general resolved to cut them off, and formed two ambuscades for the purpose.

Six squadrons of the 14th were despatched to Villa del Puerco, three of the 16th to Baguetto, while some companies of the 95th, and the caÇadores, supported by artillery, were ordered to hold themselves in reserve, for the enemy were in force at no great distance from us.

The morning was just breaking as an aide-de-camp galloped up with the intelligence that the French had been seen near the Villa del Puerco, a body of infantry and some cavalry having crossed the plain, and disappeared in that direction. While our colonel was forming us, with the intention of getting between them and their main body, the tramp of horses was heard in the wood behind, and in a few moments two officers rode up. The foremost, who was a short, stoutly-built man of about forty, with a bronzed face and eye of piercing black, shouted out as we wheeled into column:—

“Halt, there! Why, where the devil are you going? That’s your ground!” So saying, and pointing straight towards the village with his hand, he would not listen to our colonel’s explanation that several stone fences and enclosures would interfere with cavalry movements, but added, “Forward, I say! Proceed!”

Unfortunately, the nature of the ground separated our squadron, as the colonel anticipated; and although we came on at a topping pace, the French had time to form in square upon a hill to await us, and when we charged, they stood firmly, and firing with a low and steady aim, several of our troopers fell. As we wheeled round, we found ourselves exactly in front of their cavalry coming out of Baguilles; so dashing straight at them, we revenged ourselves for our first repulse by capturing twenty-nine prisoners, and wounding several others.

The French infantry were, however, still unbroken; and Colonel Talbot rode boldly up with five squadrons of the 14th; but the charge, pressed home with all its gallantry, failed also, and the colonel fell mortally wounded, and fourteen of his troopers around him. Twice we rode round the square, seeking for a weak point, but in vain; the gallant Frenchman who commanded, Captain Guache, stood fearlessly amidst his brave followers, and we could hear him, as he called out from time to time,—

“C’est Ça mes enfans! TrÉs bien fait, mes braves!”

And at length they made good their retreat, while we returned to the camp, leaving thirty-two troopers and our brave colonel dead upon the field in this disastrous affair.

The repulse we had met with, so contrary to all our hopes and expectations, made that a most gloomy day to all of us. The brave fellows we had left behind us, the taunting cheer of the French infantry, the unbroken ranks against which we rode time after time in vain, never left our minds; and a sense of shame of what might be thought of us at headquarters rendered the reflection still more painful.

Our bivouac, notwithstanding all our efforts, was a sad one, and when the moon rose, some drops of heavy rain falling at intervals in the still, unruffled air threatened a night of storm; gradually the sky grew darker and darker, the clouds hung nearer to the earth, and a dense, thick mass of dark mist shrouded every object. The heavy cannonade of the siege was stilled; nothing betrayed that a vast army was encamped near us; their bivouac fires were even imperceptible; and the only sound we heard was the great bell of Ciudad Rodrigo as it struck the hour, and seemed, in the mournful cadence of its chime, like the knell of the doomed citadel.

The patrol which I commanded had to visit on its rounds the most advanced post of our position. This was a small farm-house, which, standing upon a little rising ledge of ground, was separated from the French lines by a little stream tributary to the Aguda. A party of the 14th were picketed here, and beneath them in the valley, scarce five hundred yards distant, was the detachment of cuirassiers which formed the French outpost. As we neared our picket the deep voice of the sentry challenged us; and while all else was silent as the grave, we could hear from the opposite side the merry chorus of a French chanson À boire, with its clattering accompaniment of glasses, as some gay companions were making merry together.

Within the little hut which contained our fellows, the scene was a different one. The three officers who commanded sat moodily over a wretched fire of wet wood; a solitary candle dimly lighted the dismantled room, where a table but ill-supplied with cheer stood unminded and uncared for.

“Well, O’Malley,” cried Baker, as I came in, “what is the night about? And what’s Crawfurd for next?”

“We hear,” cried another, “that he means to give battle to-morrow; but surely Sir Arthur’s orders are positive enough. Gordon himself told me that he was forbidden to fight beyond the Coa, but to retreat at the first advance of the enemy.”

“I’m afraid,” replied I, “that retreating is his last thought just now. Ammunition has just been served out, and I know the horse artillery have orders to be in readiness by daybreak.”

“All right,” said Hampden, with a half-bitter tone. “Nothing like going through with it. If he is to be brought to court-martial for disobedience, he’ll take good care we sha’n’t be there to see it.”

“Why, the French are fifty thousand strong!” said Baker. “Look there, what does that mean, now? That’s a signal from the town.”

As he spoke a rocket of great brilliancy shot up into the sky, and bursting at length fell in millions of red lustrous sparks on every side, showing forth the tall fortress, and the encamped army around it, with all the clearness of noonday. It was a most splendid sight; and though the next moment all was dark as before, we gazed still fixedly into the gloomy distance, straining our eyes to observe what was hid from our view forever.

“That must be a signal,” repeated Baker.

“Begad! if Crawfurd sees it he’ll interpret it as a reason for fighting. I trust he’s asleep by this time,” said Hampden. “By-the-bye, O’Malley, did you see the fellows at work in the trenches? How beautifully clear it was towards the southward!”

“Yes, I remarked that! and what surprised me was the openness of their position in that direction. Towards the San Benito mole I could not see a man.”

“Ah, they’ll not attack on that side; but if we really are—”

“Stay, Hampden!” said I, interrupting him, “a thought has just struck me. At sunset, I saw, through my telescope, the French engineers marking with their white tape the line of a new entrenchment in that quarter. Would it not be a glorious thing to move the tape, and bring the fellows under the fire of San Benito?”

“By Jove, O’Malley, that is a thought worth a troop to you!”

“Far more likely to forward his promotion in the next world than in this,” said Baker, smiling.

“By no means,” added I. “I marked the ground this evening, and have it perfectly in my mind. If we were to follow the bend of the river, I’ll be bound to come right upon the spot; by nearing the fortress we’ll escape the sentries; and all this portion is open to us.”

The project thus loosely thrown out was now discussed in all its bearings. Whatever difficulties it presented were combated so much to our own satisfaction, that at last its very facility damped our ardor. Meanwhile the night wore on, and the storm of rain so long impending began to descend in very torrents; hissing along the parched ground, it rose in a mist, while overhead the heavy thunder rolled in long unbroken peals; the crazy door threatened to give way at each moment, and the whole building trembled to its foundation.

“Pass the brandy down here, Hampden, and thank your stars you’re where you are. Eh, O’Malley? You’ll defer your trip to San Benito for finer weather.”

“Well, to come to the point,” said Hampden, “I’d rather begin my engineering at a more favorable season; but if O’Malley’s for it—”

“And O’Malley is for it,” said I, suddenly.

“Then faith, I’m not the man to balk his fancy; and as Crawfurd is so bent upon fighting to-morrow, it don’t make much difference. Is it a bargain?”

“It is; here’s my hand on it.”

“Come, come, boys, I’ll have none of this; we’ve been prettily cut up this morning already. You shall not go upon this foolish excursion.”

“Confound it, old fellow! it’s all very well for you to talk, with the majority before you, next step; but here we are, if peace came to-morrow, scarcely better than we left England. No, no; if O’Malley’s ready—and I see he is so before me—What have you got there? Oh, I see; that’s our tape line; capital fun, by George! The worst of it is, they’ll make us colonels of engineers. Now then, what’s your plan—on foot or mounted?”

“Mounted, and for this reason, the country is all open; if we are to have a run for it, our thoroughbreds ought to distance them; and as we must expect to pass some of their sentries, our only chance is on horseback.”

“My mind is relieved of a great load,” said Hampden; “I was trembling in my skin lest you should make it a walking party. I’ll do anything you like in the saddle, from robbing the mail to cutting out a frigate; but I never was much of a foot-pad.”

“Well, Mike,” said I, as I returned to the room with my trusty follower, “are the cattle to be depended on?”

“If we had a snaffle in Malachi Daly’s mouth [my brown horse], I’d be afeared of nothing, sir; but if it comes to fencing, with that cruel bit,—but sure, you’ve a light hand, and let him have his head, if it’s wall.”

“By Jove, he thinks it a fox-chase!” said Hampden.

“Isn’t it the same, sir?” said Mike, with a seriousness that made the whole party smile.

“Well, I hope we shall not be earthed, any way,” said I. “Now, the next thing is, who has a lantern? Ah! the very thing; nothing better. Look to your pistols, Hampden; and Mike, here’s a glass of grog for you; we’ll want you. And now, one bumper for good luck. Eh, Baker, won’t you pledge us?”

“And spare a little for me,” said Hampden. “How it does rain! If one didn’t expect to be water-proofed before morning, one really wouldn’t go out in such weather.”

While I busied myself in arranging my few preparations, Hampden proceeded gravely to inform Mike that we were going to the assistance of the besieged fortress, which could not possibly go on without us.

“Tare and ages!” said Mike, “that’s mighty quare; and the blue rocket was a letter of invitation, I suppose?”

“Exactly,” said Hampden; “and you see there’s no ceremony between us. We’ll just drop in, in the evening, in a friendly way.”

“Well, then, upon my conscience, I’d wait, if I was you, till the family wasn’t in confusion. They have enough on their hands just now.”

“So you’ll not be persuaded?” said Baker. “Well, I frankly tell you, that come what will of it, as your senior officer I’ll report you to-morrow. I’ll not risk myself for any such hair-brained expeditions.”

“A mighty pleasant look-out for me,” said Mike; “if I’m not shot to-night, I may be flogged in the morning.”

This speech once more threw us into a hearty fit of laughter, amidst which we took leave of our friends, and set forth upon our way.