  Produced by Al Haines. [image] Cover art [image] The 95th Charge Home Boys of the Light Brigade A Story of BY HERBERT STRANG AUTHOR OF "TOM BURNABY" With a Preface by Colonel WILLOUGHBY VERNER Illustrated by William Rainey, R.I. BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED To Spain they sent The Rifle Corps To teach the French the Art of War! —Old Rifleman's Song. DEDICATED THE DUKE OF CONNAUGHT AND STRATHEARN COLONEL-IN-CHIEF AND TO THE OFFICERS OF THE RIFLE BRIGADE Preface Mr. Herbert Strang has asked me to write a few words explanatory of the title he has chosen for this book. "The Light Brigade" was the name given to the first British Brigade of Light Infantry, consisting of the 43rd Light Infantry, 52nd Light Infantry, and the 95th Rifles, which were trained together as a war-brigade at Shorncliffe Camp in the years 1803-1805, just a century ago, by General Sir John Moore, the Hero of Corunna. These regiments subsequently saw much service together in various quarters of the globe; they were engaged in the Expedition to Denmark in 1807, the Campaign in Portugal in 1808 under Sir Arthur Wellesley, including the Battle of Vimeiro, and the famous Corunna Campaign under Sir John Moore. In July, 1809, The Light Brigade, consisting of the same three corps, was re-formed under the gallant Brigadier-General Robert Craufurd (afterwards slain at their head at the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo in 1812), at Vallada, in Portugal, and it was in the same month that it made the forced march, famous in all history as "the March of the Light Division", of some fifty miles in twenty-four hours to the battle-field of Talavera. In June, 1810, when at Almeida, in Spain, "The Light Brigade" was expanded into "The Light Division" by the addition of Ross's "Chestnut Troop" of Horse Artillery,[#] the 14th Light Dragoons,[#] the 1st King's German Hussars, and two regiments of Portuguese CaÇadores. [#] The present "A" Battery, R.H.A., which bears its proud title of "The Chestnut Troop" in the army lists to this day. [#] The present 14th (King's) Hussars. Charles Lever, the novelist, recounts some of their gallant deeds in Charles O'Malley, the Irish Dragoon. It was as "The Light Division", throughout the long and bloody struggle in the Peninsula, and up to the Battle of Toulouse, fought in April, 1814, that the regiments of the old "Light Brigade" maintained their proud position, so well described by Sir John Kincaid (who was adjutant of the 1st Battalion at the Battle of Waterloo) in his delightful book, Adventures in the Rifle Brigade. He writes of the 95th Rifles in the Peninsula as follows:— "We were the Light Regiment of the Light Division, and fired the first and last shot in almost every battle, siege, and skirmish in which the army was engaged during the war. "In stating the foregoing, however, with regard to regiments, I beg to be understood as identifying our old and gallant associates, the Forty-third and Fifty-second, as a part of ourselves, for they bore their share in everything, and I love them as I hope to do my better half (when I come to be divided); wherever we were, they were; and although the nature of our arm[#] generally gave us more employment in the way of skirmishing, yet, whenever it came to a pinch, independent of a suitable mixture of them among us, we had only to look behind to see a line, in which we might place a degree of confidence almost equal to our hopes in heaven; nor were we ever disappointed. There never was a corps of Riflemen in the hands of such supporters!" [#] The Baker rifle, a short weapon with a flat-bladed sword-bayonet known as a "sword", very like the present so-called "bayonet", only longer. Hence the Rifleman's command, "Fix swords!" The three battalions of the 95th were (with the exception of the 5th battalion of the 60th Regiment) the only corps in the British army armed with rifles at the period of the Peninsular War, all others carrying long smooth-bore muskets, known as "Brown Bess", with long three-sided bayonets. The Baker rifle fired with precision up to 300 yards, whereas "Brown Bess" could not be depended upon to hit a mark at one-third that range. Such was the "Light Brigade" which gives its title to this book. The story deals with a period full of interest to Englishmen. Napoleon, having overrun Spain with some 250,000 men, swept away and defeated all the Spanish armies, and occupied Madrid, had set his hosts in motion to re-occupy Portugal and complete the subjugation of Andalusia. At this critical moment in the history of Spain, Sir John Moore, who had landed in the Peninsula with a small British army only about 30,000 strong, conceived the bold project of marching on Salamanca, and thus threatening Napoleon's "line of communications" with France—whence he drew all his supplies and ammunition. The effect was almost magical. Napoleon was compelled instantly to stay the march of his immense armies, whilst at the head of over 80,000 of his finest troops he hurled himself on the intrepid Moore. The latter, thus assailed by overwhelming numbers, was forced to order a retreat on his base at Corunna, a movement which he conducted successfully, despite the terrible privations of a rapid march in mid-winter through a desolate and mountainous country, with insufficient transport and inadequate staff arrangements. Thrice he turned to bay and thrice did he severely handle his pursuers. Finally, at Corunna, after embarking his sick and wounded, he fought the memorable battle of that name, and inflicted on the French such heavy losses that his army was enabled to re-embark and sail for England with but little further molestation. The gallant Moore himself was mortally wounded, and died the same night. The effects of the Corunna campaign were to paralyse all the Emperor's plans for nigh three months, during which time the Spaniards rallied and regained confidence, and the war took a wholly different turn, although it was only after five years' constant fighting that the French invaders were finally driven out of the country. The Spaniards, on the other hand, animated by the presence of their English allies, once again took up arms in all directions and made a desperate resistance. No struggle was of more appalling or sustained a nature than was their second defence of Saragossa, which, in the words of the French soldiers engaged in the siege, was defended not by soldiers but by "an army of madmen". The following story has thus a double interest. In its account of Moore's great Retreat it illustrates what we did for Spain in her dark days of 1808-1809; while in the pages dealing with the heroic Defence of Saragossa it illustrates what Spain did for herself. Contents
List of Illustrations
Maps and Plans 1. 2. 3. 4. The plans of Corunna and Saragossa are copied, by kind permission of Professor Oman and the Delegates of the Clarendon Press, from the former's "History of the Peninsular War", Vols. I and II. CHAPTER I Corporal Wilkes wants to know An International Question—Discipline—An Onlooker—Lumsden of the 95th—Dogged—A Six Days' Ride—Puzzlement "What I want to know," said Corporal Wilkes, banging his fist on the table in front of him—"what I want to know is, what you Dons are doing for all the coin we've spent on you." He was seated with a few other stalwarts of the 95th under the eastern colonnade of the Plaza Mayor, in Salamanca; a nondescript group of Spaniards, stolidly curious, blocked up the footway, and stood lounging against the balustrade. Getting no answer to his question, and probably expecting none, the corporal jerked his chin-strap under his nose, glared comprehensively around, and continued: "I asked before, and I ask again, what has become of the ship-loads of honest British guineas you Dons have been pocketing for I don't know how long? Tell me that! What have you got to show for 'em, eh?—that's what I want to know. Here are we, without a stiver to our name, no pay for weeks, and no chance of seeing any. And look at this: here's a boot for you; that's what your Spanish mud makes o' good Bermondsey leather; and rain—well, of all the rain I ever see, blest if it ain't the wettest!" He paused; the knot of Riflemen grunted approval. The Spaniards, who had by this time become aware that his remarks were aimed directly at them, turned enquiringly to one of their number, who shrugged, and gave them in Spanish the heads of the speaker's argument. Perceiving that he had made some impression, the corporal proceeded to follow up his advantage. "What I want to know is, what 'ave we come here for? They did say as we were sent for to help you Dons fight the French. That's what they said. Well, the French are all right; but what are you doing? We showed you the way at Vimeiro; that's a long time ago now—what have you done since? Where are all the armies and the generals you talked so much about? What's become of them? Tell me that! Here we've been in Salamanky a matter of fourteen days, but we ain't seen none of them. There's plenty of you Dons about, sure enough, but you don't look to me like fighting-men. Where are you hiding 'em?—that's what I want to know." There was no mistaking the glance of withering contempt with which the speaker pointed his questions; a movement of resentment was already visible among his mixed audience. The interpreter, whose dress proclaimed him a seaman from one of the Biscayan ports, was now volubly rendering the gist of the Englishman's taunts, to an accompaniment of strange oaths and ominous murmurs from the crowd. Warming with their sympathy, he became more and more excited, passed from explanation to denunciation, and then, turning suddenly from his compatriots, clenched his fist and poured out a torrent of abuse in a lurid mixture of Basque and Billingsgate. The corporal, recognizing phrases that could only have been picked up at Deptford or Wapping, smiled appreciatively, and, with a wink at his companions, said: "Ain't it like home? He ought to be a drill-sergeant—eh, boys?" A shout of laughter greeted this sally. The Spaniard, his complexion changing from olive to purple, strode forward and shook his fist within an inch of the corporal's nose. Wilkes, greatly tolerant of foreign eccentricity, preserved an unwinking front; but his bland smile was too much for the Spaniard's fast-ebbing self-control. With a snarl of rage he plucked a knife from his sash and aimed a blow at the Rifleman, which, had it taken effect, would assuredly have put an end to his interrogative career. But the corporal's left-hand neighbour, who had been lolling against a post, flung out his arm and arrested the stroke; almost at the same instant Wilkes himself got home a deft right-hander beneath his assailant's chin that hurled him senseless across the table. In a moment a score of Spaniards with drawn knives were surging around the little group. Being without arms the Riflemen had slipped off their belts and closed up to meet the attack. The colonnade now rang with fierce shouts, and from all quarters of the large square there was a hurry-scurry of idlers attracted by the noise of the fray. Cheerfully confident, the half-dozen British soldiers, their backs against the wall, kept the throng at arm's-length with the practised swing of their long belts. But the odds against them were heavy. It could only be a few moments before the Spaniards must get in with their knives, and then the 95th would be six men short on parade. One or two of the Spaniards had been hard hit; but the rest were drawing together for a rush, when suddenly, above the din of the mÊlÉe, rang out the clear authoritative word of command: "Attention!" The habit of discipline was so strong that the British soldiers on the instant dropped their belts and stood rigid as statues. On the Spaniards the effect of the interruption was equally remarkable. Surprised at the sudden change of attitude, they looked round with a startled air to seek the cause of the Englishmen's strange quiescence. A horseman had reined up opposite the scene of the scuffle—a tall youthful figure, wearing the headgear of the 95th and a heavy cavalry cloak. "Stand easy!" he cried to the Riflemen, over the heads of the crowd, "and don't move an eyelash." With a dozen Spanish knives flashing before their eyes, the command was a severe test of discipline; but in the British army a hundred years ago rigid training had made instant unquestioning obedience an instinct. While the Spaniards were still fingering their weapons, and hesitating whether to finish off their work, the officer began to address them in pure Castilian. "Pardon me, SeÑores," he said, "for interrupting what I am sure was a pastime. I am an English officer, as you see, and I fear that my men, ignorant of your customs and traditions, might have taken seriously what was no doubt begun in sport. There is no need for me to say a word, SeÑores about your valour; is not that known to all the world? and I am sure you would be the last to do anything to endanger the friendly alliance between your country and mine. The French are your enemies, SeÑores; they are ours too. We are fighting shoulder to shoulder in a noble cause. Confusion to the invader, say I! Hurrah for the independence of Spain! Cry Viva la EspaÑa with me!" Then turning suddenly to the Riflemen, he cried: "Now, men, give three rousing cheers." Wilkes and his friends cheered half-heartedly and with an air of endurance; but the Spaniards were not discriminating, and responded with shrill vivas. "Thank you, my friends!" said the officer, when the tumult had subsided. "And now, as I have a few words to say to my men before I ride off, I will bid you good-day." In a few moments the pacified crowd dispersed in small knots, discussing with interested curiosity the young officer whose courteous firmness and fluent Spanish had produced so remarkable an effect. When, last of all, the interpreter, having recovered from the blow, had made his way across the square, the horseman called up Corporal Wilkes, who advanced with a somewhat guilty air and saluted. "Now, Corporal Wilkes, what do you mean by this? Have you forgotten the general's orders about brawling with the Spaniards?" The corporal shifted his feet uneasily, and began to mumble an explanation in his slow ponderous way. "That'll do," said the officer, cutting him short. "You're always in hot water. Get off to your quarters, and report yourself to me in the morning." "Very good, sir." With a look of injured innocence he saluted and slouched off with his companions, while the officer, touching his horse's flanks with the spur, cantered away. At the angle of the colonnade the crestfallen Riflemen were confronted by a tall stately figure in cocked hat and long military cloak, who had for some time been quietly watching the scene from an inconspicuous post of observation. "Who's your officer, my man?" The Riflemen halted in a line, struck their heels together, and brought their hands to the salute like automata. "Mr. Lumsden, your honour," replied Wilkes, looking as though he would have liked to be elsewhere. "Oh indeed! Thank you!" The commander-in-chief acknowledged their salute and turned on his heel. The men stared after him for a few moments in silence; then Wilkes turned to his comrades, and said with a rueful look: "By gum! How much of that 'ere rumpus did Johnny see?—that's what I'd like to know." Meanwhile Lumsden of the 95th had trotted off, across the great square, past the church of San Martin, towards the University and the Tormes bridge. He was bound for a farmhouse some five miles south-east of the city, where it had been reported that a considerable quantity of flour could be purchased for the troops. Since the arrival of his regiment in Salamanca a fortnight before, he had been employed continuously on commissariat business, and was the object of envy to his fellow-subalterns, who would gladly have found some special work of the kind to vary the monotony of life. It was the 28th November in the year 1808. Salamanca was full of British soldiers, who had marched in on the 13th amid a drenching rain-storm and the cheers of the inhabitants. They comprised six infantry brigades and one battery of artillery, among the former being the famous 95th Rifles under Colonel Beckwith, in which Jack Lumsden was a second lieutenant. The main artillery force, with its escort, was near the Escurial, a few miles from Madrid, under Sir John Hope, who was intending to march northwards to join his chief; while Sir David Baird lay at Astorga, with three batteries, four infantry brigades, and a force of cavalry under Lord Paget. The infantry had marched from Lisbon under Sir John Moore, who had succeeded to the chief command of the British forces in the Peninsula recently vacated by Sir Hew Dalrymple. At Salamanca Sir John expected to receive news of the approach of a Spanish force under the Marquis of La Romana, to co-operate with him in offensive movements against the French. The march had been particularly arduous and uncomfortable; rain had fallen in torrents for the greater part of the way, and owing to lack of supplies the men were in a sorry state as regards clothes and equipment. But they nourished high hopes of soon inflicting a heavy blow on the French invaders; and though the delay, due to want of definite information about the movements of the Spaniards and the position of the French, was telling somewhat on the spirits of the force, Sir John Moore was so popular with all ranks, and enjoyed their confidence so thoroughly, that discontent had only shown itself in half-humorous protests like that of Corporal Wilkes. Jack Lumsden rode easily through the darkening streets, passed the sentry at the bridge head, and cantered along the sodden road leading to Alba de Tormes. Three miles out of Salamanca he struck off to the left, and, carefully picking his way among the ruts and depressions, reached his destination just as the black darkness of a November evening fell. His errand with the farmer occupied some little time. He then accepted the refreshments pressed upon him with true Castilian hospitality; and at length, towards seven o'clock, set off on the return journey. The moon was rising behind him, throwing a dim misty radiance over the bare fields to right and left. As he reached the cross-roads, and wheeled round into the highway towards Salamanca, he saw, some hundred yards ahead, several dark forms on both sides of the road, creeping along with stealthy movements in the same direction. Carrying his gaze beyond them, he descried a man leading a horse, who, he instantly concluded, was being followed by a gang of foot-pads, or of the brigands who notoriously infested every part of Spain. Almost involuntarily Jack pricked his horse forward; he saw that the furtive band were rapidly lessening the distance between them and the walking horseman, who every now and then half-turned to look at them, and then resumed his slow progress. The road was so soft, and the men were so intent upon their expected prey, that they did not hear the sound of Jack's approach until he was within a few yards of them. Then a sudden splash in a large puddle caused them to stop and look round; Jack galloped up, and as he passed them, ostentatiously held his pistol so that a glint of moonlight fell on the barrel. At the same moment the dismounted rider heard the pad of his horse's hoofs; he paused, still holding the bridle, and turned towards Jack, who pulled his horse across the road and glanced back at the brigands. They had now formed a group, and stood in the middle of the road. Jack clicked the lock of his pistol. After an instant's hesitation the men turned in a body and vanished into the darkness. "Many thanks!" said the pedestrian. "I was never more glad to see a British officer. Those bandits have been following me up for some minutes. My horse is lame, as you see, and though I've a couple of pistols handy I'm afraid I'd be no match for eight big fellows with their knives. And I've a particular reason for avoiding risks." "They've had the discretion to sheer off," said Jack, turning again towards Salamanca. "It's unlucky your horse is lamed. Have you been riding far, sir?" "About five hundred miles," was the reply. Jack stared. "No wonder your horse is lame—though you didn't ride the whole distance on the same beast, I suppose." "No indeed; but I've scarcely been out of the saddle for six days—" "Six days! Hard riding that, sir." "True. The fact is, I've most important despatches for Sir John Moore, and haven't wasted a minute more than I could help." Jack was off his horse in a moment. "In that case, sir, pray take my horse and finish your ride with equal speed. If you bring news for the general, no one will be more delighted to see you. It's only about three miles, and the road's straight ahead; I'll follow with your horse." "That's very good of you. I didn't like the idea of trudging in in this lame fashion. You're sure you don't mind? Those brigands, eh?" "Not a bit. They won't show their noses again." By this time the stranger had mounted Jack's horse, and was preparing to ride off. "By the way," he said, "to what address shall I return the horse?—a pretty animal, begad!" "I'm quartered at a worthy alderman's in the Calle de Moros—El Regidor Don Perez Gerrion; my name's Lumsden." "Lumsden!" repeated the stranger with a start, letting the reins fall on the horse's neck. "Yes," said Jack, looking up in surprise. "Why?" "Oh! Excuse me now. I have my despatches to deliver, and then I will call on you at the regidor's. I have a communication, probably, to make to you. Au revoir!" With a wave of the hand he galloped off, leaving Jack to tramp along behind him, in some wonderment as to what communication a despatch-rider could have to make to a subaltern of the 95th. |
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