The Project Gutenberg EBook of Journal of a Soldier of the Seventy-First or Glasgow Regiment Highland Light Infant, by Anonymous This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license Title: Journal of a Soldier of the Seventy-First or Glasgow Regiment Highland Light Infantry from 1806-1815 Author: Anonymous Release Date: June 7, 2015 [EBook #49163] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOURNAL OF A SOLDIER *** Produced by Brian Coe, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) JOURNAL OF A SOLDIER OF {i} THE SEVENTY-FIRST, OR GLASGOW REGIMENT, HIGHLAND LIGHT INFANTRY, FROM 1806 TO 1815. EDINBURGH: PRINTED FOR WILLIAM AND CHARLES TAIT, 78, PRINCE’S STREET; ADAM BLACK, 57, SOUTH BRIDGE; G. AND W. B. WHITTAKER, LONDON; AND JAMES BRASH AND CO. GLASGOW. —— 1819. ADVERTISEMENT The Publishers have taken pains to ascertain the accuracy of the statements in the following Journal, and the result has confirmed them in the belief, that the Writer of it has related nothing but what passed under his own observation. His education sufficiently accounts for his expressing himself better than could have been expected from a private soldier. No alteration has been made upon his language, farther than the correction of a few of the more obvious verbal inaccuracies. Edinburgh, 29th March, 1819 CONTENTS. The Writer’s parentage and education, page 1. Attempts the stage, and fails, 5. Joins a recruiting party, and sails for the Isle of Wight, 9. Adventure there, 16. Sails for South America, 18. Arrival at Madeira, 19. Arrival at the Cape of Good Hope, and account of Cape Town, ib. Arrival at the River la Plata, and situation of the English army, 24. Battle of Monte Video, 25. Account of the inhabitants, 31. Conversation with a Spanish priest, 36. Arrival of General Whitelock, and departure for Buenos Ayres, 37. Attack of the town, 40. Taken prisoner, 42. Anecdotes of the battle, and prisoners, 43. Generous behaviour of the Spanish priest, 44. Arrival at Cork, 46. Sails in an expedition under the command of Sir Arthur Wellesley, 52. Battle of Rolleia, 54. Description of Vimiera, 56. Battle of Vimiera, 57. Behaviour of the peasants at night, after the battle, 59. Marches to Abrantes, 61. Kindness of the Spaniards at Badajos, ib. Arrival at Escurial, and retreat to Salamanca, 62. Dreadful state of the weather, ib. Commencement of the retreat to Corunna, 64. Duke of Ossuna’s Palace at Benevente much destroyed, 67. Skirmish at Benevente, 68. Arrival at Astorga, Description of General Romana’s army, 69. Sufferings of the army between Astorga and Villa Franca, 70. March from Villa Franca, 73. Cruelty of the French, 74. Arrival at Castro, 77. March to Lugo, bravery of the stragglers, ib. Skirmishes at Lugo, 84. Desperation of the men, 86. Arrival at Corunna, 87. Battle of Corunna, 90. Noble conduct of the Spaniards, 95. Arrival in England, and kindness of the people, 98. Sails for Flushing, 99. Bombardment of Flushing, 100. Takes the fever, and sent back to England, 104. {ii} {iii} {iv} {v} {vi} Embarked for Lisbon, 107. Description of the town, 108. Joins the army at Sabral, 111. Action at Sabral, 112. Retreat of the French, 121. Cruelties of the French, 122. Retreat of the French from Santarem, 127. Battle of Fuentes de Honore, 130. Distressing March to Albuera, 139. March after General Girard, 143. Total route of his army, 146. Storming of Fort Almarez, 152. Retreat from Burgos, 157. Manners of the Spanish peasants, 170. Description of the Fandango, 175. Departure from Boho, 177. Battle of Vittoria, 180. Action in front of Maya, 186. Battles in the Pyrennees, 188. Dreadful state of the wounded, 189. Battle before Pamplona, 192. Sufferings of our army on the heights, 195. Battle of Orthes, 198. Crosses the Nive, 199. Battle of Bayonne, 202. Severe fighting before Aris, 205. Battle of Toulouse, 207. Return to Ireland, 211. Embarked for North America, 213. Returns to England, 214. Sails for Antwerp, ib. Marched to Louis, ib. Arrival at Waterloo, 215. Battle of Waterloo, 218. March to Paris, 225. Anecdotes there, 226. Conclusion, 227. JOURNAL OF A SOLDIER OF THE SEVENTY-FIRST REGIMENT OF FOOT. FROM motives of delicacy, which the narrative will explain, I choose to conceal my name, the knowledge of which can be of little importance to the reader. I pledge myself to write nothing but what came under my own observation, and what I was personally engaged in. I was born of poor but respectable parents, in Edinburgh, who bestowed upon me an education superior to my rank in life. It was their ambition to educate me for one of the learned professions; my mother wishing me to be a clergyman, my father to be a writer. They kept from themselves many comforts, that I might appear genteel, and attend the best schools: my brothers and sister did not appear to belong to the same family. My parents had three children, two boys and a girl, besides myself. On me alone was lavished all their care. My brothers, John and William, could read and write, and at the age of twelve years, were bound apprentices to trades. My sister, Jane, was made, at home, a servant of all-work to assist my mother; I alone was a gentleman in a house of poverty. My father had, for sometime, been in a bad state of health, and unable to follow his usual employment. I was unable to earn any thing for our support. In fact, I was a burden upon the family. The only certain income we had, was the board of my two brothers, and a weekly allowance from a benefit society of which my father was a member. The whole sum was five shillings for my brothers, and six from the society, which were soon to be reduced to three, as the time of full sick-money was almost expired. I do confess, (as I intend to conceal nothing,) this distressed state of affairs softened not my heart. I became sullen and discontented at the abridgment of my usual comforts; and, unnatural wretch that I was! I vented that spleen upon my already too distressed parents. My former studies were no longer followed, for want of means to appear as I was wont. That innate principle of exertion, that can make a man struggle with, and support him in the greatest difficulties, had been stifled in me by indulgence and indolence. I forsook my former school-fellows, and got acquainted with others, alas! not for the better. I was now sixteen years of age, tall and well made, of a genteel appearance and address. Amongst my new acquaintances, were a few who had formed themselves into a spouting club, where plays were acted to small parties of friends, who were liberal in their encomiums. I was quite bewildered with their praise, and thought of nothing but becoming another Rosicus,—making a fortune and acquiring a deathless name. I forsook my classical authors for Shakespeare, and the study of the stage. Thus, notwithstanding the many tears of my mother, and entreaties of my father, I hurried to ruin. I was seldom at home, as my parents constantly remonstrated with me on the folly of my proceedings. This I could not endure: I had been encouraged and assisted by them in all my former whims. All my undertakings were looked upon, by them, as the doings of a superior genius. To be crossed now, I thought the most unjust and cruel treatment. I had, through the interference of my new acquaintances, got introduced to the Manager of the Theatre at Edinburgh, who was pleased with my manner and appearance. The day was fixed on which I was to make my trial. I had now attained the summit of my first ambition. I had not the most distant doubt of my success. Universal applause, crowded houses, and wealth, all danced before my imagination. Intoxicated with joy, I went home to my parents. Never shall the agony of their looks be effaced from my memory. My mother’s grief was loud and heart-rending, but my father’s harrowed up my very soul. It was the look of despair—the expression of his blasted prospects he had so long looked forward to, with hopes and joy,—hopes, that had supported him in all his toil and privations, crushed in the dust. It was too much; his eyes at length filled with tears, and, raising them to heaven, he only said, or rather groaned, “God, thy ways are just and wise—thou hast seen it necessary to punish my foolish partiality and pride. But, O God! forgive the instrument of my punishment.” Must I confess, I turned upon my heel and said, with the most cool indifference, (so much had the indulgence of my former life blunted my feelings towards my parents,) “When I am courted and praised by all, and have made you {vii} {viii} {1} {2} {3} {4} {5} {6} {7} independent, you will think otherwise of my choice.” “Never, never,” he replied,—“you bring my grey hairs with sorrow to the grave."—“Thomas, Thomas, you will have our deaths to answer for,” was all my mother could say;—tears and sobs choked her utterance. I was immoveable in my resolves. The bills were printed, and I had given my word. This was the last time I ever saw them both. The scene has embittered all my former days, and still haunts me in all my hours of thought. Often, like an avenging spirit, it starts up in my most tranquil hours, and deprives me of my peace. Often, in the dead of night, when on duty, a solitary sentinel, has it wrung from my breast a groan of remorse. Scarce had I left the house, when a sensation of horror at what I had done pierced my heart. I thought the echo of my steps sounded, “You will have our deaths to answer for."—I started, and turned back to throw myself at the feet of my parents, and implore their forgiveness.—Already I was at the door, when I met one of my new acquaintances, who inquired what detained me? I said, “I must not go; my parents are against my going, and I am resolved to obey them.” He laughed at my weakness, as he called it. I stood unmoved. Then, with an affected scorn, he said I was afraid, conscious I was unable to perform what I had taken upon me. Fired by his taunts, my good resolves vanished, and I once more left my parents’ door, resolved to follow the bent of my own inclinations. I went to the Theatre, and prepared for my appearance. The house was crowded to excess. I came upon the stage with a fluttering heart, amidst universal silence. I bowed, and attempted to speak; my lips obeyed the impulse, but my voice had fled. In that moment of bitter agony and shame, my punishment commenced.—I trembled; a cold sweat oozed through every pore; my father and mother’s words rung in my ears; my senses became confused—hisses began from the audience—I utterly failed. From the confusion of my mind, I could not even comprehend the place in which I stood. To conclude, I shrunk unseen from the theatre, bewildered, and in a state of despair. I wandered the whole night. In the morning early, meeting a party of recruits about to embark, I rashly offered to go with them; my offer was accepted, and I embarked at Leith, with seventeen others, for the Isle of Wight, in July, 1806. The morning was beautiful and refreshing. A fine breeze wafted us from the roads. The darkness of the preceding night only tended to deepen the gloomy agitation of my mind; but the beauties of the morning scene stole over my soul, and stilled the perturbation of my mind. The violent beat of the pulse at my temples subsided, and I, as it were, awoke from a dream. I turned my eyes from the beauties of the Forth, to the deck of the vessel on which I stood; I had not yet exchanged words with any of my fellow- recruits; I now inquired of the sergeant, to what regiment I had engaged myself? His answer was, “To the gallant 71st; you are a noble lad, and shall be an officer.” He ran on in this fulsome cant for some time. I heard him not. Tantallon[1] and the Bass[2] were only a little way from us; we were quickly leaving behind all that was dear to me, and all I ought to regret. The shores of Lothian had vanished; we had passed Dunbar; I was seized with a sudden agitation; a menacing voice seemed to ask, “What do you here? What is to become of your parents?” The blood forsook my heart; a delirium followed, and I fell on the deck. I have no recollection of what passed for some days. I was roused out of my lethargy by a bustle over my head. It was the fearful noise of a storm, which had overtaken us in Yarmouth roads. The looks of despair, and the lamentable cries of the passengers, pierced me. I looked upon myself as the only cause of our present danger—like Jonah, overtaken in my guilty flight. The thought of acknowledging myself the sole cause of the storm, more than once crossed my mind. I certainly would have done so, had not the violent rocking of the vessel disqualified me from leaving the bed on which I lay. I was obliged to press my feet against one side, and my shoulder against another, to preserve myself from receiving contusions. Striving to assuage the anguish of my feelings in prayer, I was the only composed person there. All around me were bewailing their fate in tears and lamentations. I had seen nothing of the storm, as the passengers were all kept down below, to prevent their incommoding the seamen. During its continuance, I had made up my mind with regard to my future proceedings. As an atonement for my past misconduct, I resolved to undergo all the dangers and fatigues of a private soldier for seven years. This limitation of service I was enabled to adopt, by the excellent bill brought into Parliament by the late Mr. Windham. Without further accident, we arrived safe at the Isle of Wight, where I was enlisted, and sworn to serve my king and country faithfully for the space of seven years, for which I received a bounty of eleven guineas. The price thus paid for my liberty was the first money I could ever call my own. Of this sum it required about four pounds to furnish my necessaries, assisted by the sale of my present-clothing; of the remainder, I sent five pounds to my parents, with the following letter: Newport Barracks, Isle of Wight, July, 1806. Father, IF a disobedient and undutiful son may still address you by that dear and now much-valued name;—and my mother!—the blood forsakes my heart, and my hand refuses to move, when I think upon that unhallowed night I left your peaceful roof to follow my foolish and way ward inclinations. O, I have suffered, and must ever suffer, for my guilty conduct. Pardon me! pardon me! I can hardly hope —yet—O drive me not to despair! I have doomed myself to seven years’ punishment. I made this choice in an hour of shame. I could not appear in Edinburgh after what had happened. Never shall I again do any thing to bring shame upon myself or you. The hope of your pardon and forgiveness alone sustains me. Again I implore pardon on my knees. Would I could lay my head at your feet! then would I not rise till you pronounced my pardon, and raised to your embrace Your wretched Thomas. Now I began to drink the cup of bitterness. How different was my situation from what it had been! Forced from bed at five o’clock each morning, to get all things ready for drill; then drilled for three hours with the most unfeeling rigour, and often beat by the sergeant for the faults of others—I, who had never been crossed at home—I, who never knew fatigue, was now fainting under it. This I bore without a murmur, as I had looked to it in my engagement. My greatest sufferings were where I had not expected them. I could not associate with the common soldiers; their habits made me shudder. I feared an oath—they never spoke without one: I {8} {9} {10} {11} {12} {13} {14} {15} could not drink—they loved liquor: They gamed—I knew nothing of play. Thus was I a solitary individual among hundreds. They lost no opportunity of teasing me. “Saucy Tom,” or “The distressed Methodist,” were the names they distinguished me by. I had no way of redress, until an event occurred, that gave me, against my will, an opportunity to prove that my spirit was above insult. A recruit who had joined at the same time with myself, was particularly active in his endeavours to turn me into ridicule. One evening I was sitting in a side-window reading. Of an old newspaper he made a fool’s cap, and, unperceived by me, placed it upon my head. Fired at the insult, I started up and knocked him down.—“Clear the room; a ring, a ring,—the Methodist is going to fight,” was vociferated from all sides. Repenting my haste, yet determined not to affront myself, I stood firm, and determined to do my utmost. My antagonist, stunned by the violence of the blow, and surprised at the spirit I displayed, rose slowly, and stood irresolute. I demanded an apology. He began to bluster and threaten, but I saw at once that he was afraid; and, turning from him, said in a cool decided manner, “If you dare again insult me, I will chastise you as you deserve; you are beneath my anger.” I again sat down, and resumed my reading, as if nothing had happened. From this time I was no longer insulted; and I became much esteemed among my fellow-soldiers, who before despised me. Still I could not associate with them. Their pleasures were repugnant to my feelings. There was one of my fellow-soldiers, Donald M‘Donald, who seemed to take pleasure in my company. We became attached to each other. He came up in the same smack with myself: He was my bed-fellow, and became my firm friend. Often would he get himself into altercations on my account. Donald could read and write. This was the sum of his education. He was innocent, and ignorant of the world; only 18 years of age, and had never been a night from home before he left his father’s house, more than myself. To be a soldier was the height of his ambition. He had come from near Inverness to Edinburgh on foot, with no other intention than to enlist in the 71st. His father had been a soldier in it, and was now living at home after being discharged. Donald called it his regiment, and would not have taken the bounty from any other. To increase my grief, I was ordered to embark for the Cape of Good Hope, fifteen days after my arrival in the Isle of Wight, and before I had received an answer to my letter to my father. If my mind had been at ease, I would have enjoyed this voyage much. We had very pleasant weather, and were not crowded in our births. There were six soldiers to a birth, and we were at liberty to be on deck all day if we chose. The first land I saw after leaving the Channel, was Porto Santo. It is very low, yet we could distinguish it plainly while we were 30 miles off. It has the appearance of a collection of small hills ending in peaks. In a short time after, we had a most pleasant sight; the island of Madeira, covered with delightful verdure. The view of it calmed me greatly, and I felt just as I had done the first time I saw the country after a long illness, in which my life was despaired of. How much was that pleasure increased when we anchored between the Desertas and the island! The weather was beautiful and clear; we lay at a distance of not more than six or seven miles, at most, from the shore. The island is quite unlike Porto Santo. It seems to be one continued mountain, running from east to west, covered with stately trees and verdure. Every spot looked more luxuriant than another. As it is approached from the east, it has the appearance of a crescent, or new moon, the corners pointed towards you. While we lay there, we had boats alongside every day with oranges, lemons, figs, and many other fruits, which we purchased at a rate that surprised us, considering how dearly we had been accustomed to purchase them in England. As soon as we cast anchor, the health-boat came alongside, to inquire the state of the crew and passengers. This is always done before any communication is allowed with the island. We had the pleasure to tell them that there was not a sick person onboard; that we only wanted a supply of water, and were to sail as soon as possible. Funchal is the largest town on the island. It is situated on the north side of a hill towards the ocean, covering the hill from the summit to the base. The houses reach to the water’s edge, and they all look as if they were newly built, they are so white and clean. Another range of hills is seen rising above the one on which the town is built; these are also covered with houses, vineyards, and plantations of fruit trees. Nothing could be more charming to our eyes, which had ached so long in looking over a boundless expanse of sea. Having completed our supply of water, we set sail for the Cape of Good Hope. As we sailed onwards, I was often surprised at the immense numbers of fishes of all descriptions that played round our vessel. When the weather was calm, fish of every kind, the dolphin, flying-fish, &c. were mixed harmlessly together. The shark was seen playing amongst them, and they not in the least alarmed. Small and large, all seemed collected before us to display the beauties and riches of Divine Providence in the great deep. In a dark night, the sea seemed sparkling with fire. I inquired the cause of this assemblage of fishes, and their tameness, at an old sailor. He informed me, that the cause was the reflection of the copper on the ship’s bottom, and that they were never seen unless the vessel was coppered. It was early in the morning when we first beheld the land about the Cape of Good Hope. We soon after could distinguish a hill, called the Sugar Loaf, and next reached a low island, called Robben Island. We anchored in Table Bay, and were, disembarked next day. Cape Town lies in a valley, the sides of which rise gently to the foot of the mountains that encompass it on all sides; those near the town are of a great height. The houses of the town are all coloured white or yellow. They are mostly built of stone, and appear as if they were not a month old, they are so clean. The streets are paved with flagstones, which I am told are brought from India. They are very agreeable in so hot a climate, being very cool. I expected to see few people here but Dutch, but I found a collection of all the nations in the world. No doubt the Dutch are the most numerous, but there are a great many Germans, Swiss, French, British, Irish, &c. all very much assimilated to each other: The Dutch have made the French more grave; the French, the Dutch less sedate. Every class of foreigners seems the better for being thus mixed with others. All are equally industrious, all seem happy and content. I remained only three weeks at the Cape. I was again embarked in an expedition against South America, under Sir Samuel Achmuty and Brigadier-General Lumley. We arrived in the River La Plata in October 1806, when we were informed that the Spaniards had retaken Buenos Ayres, and that our troops only possessed Maldonado, a small space on the side of the river, about {16} {17} {18} {19} {20} {21} {22} {23} {24} five or six miles farther up than Monte Video. On our disembarkation, we found the remains of the army in the greatest want of every necessary belonging to an army, and quite disheartened. On the land side, they were surrounded by about 400 horsemen, who cut off all their foraging parties, and intercepted all supplies. These horsemen were not regular soldiers, but the inhabitants of the country, who had turned out to defend their homes from the enemy. Soon after our arrival at Maldonado, the Spaniards advanced out of Monte Video to attack us. They were about 600, and had, besides, a number of great guns with them. They came upon us in two columns, the right consisting of Cavalry, the left of infantry, and bore so hard upon our out-picquet of 400 men, that Colonel Brown, who commanded our left, ordered Major Campbell, with three companies of the 40th regiment, to its support. These charged the head of the column: the Spaniards stood firm and fought bravely; numbers fell on both sides; but the gallant 40th drove them back with the point of the bayonet. Sir Samuel Auchmuty ordered the rifle corps, and light battalion, to attack the rear of their column, which was done with the utmost spirit. Three cheers were the signal of our onset. The Spaniards fled; and the right column, seeing the fate of their left, set spurs to their horses, and fled without having shared in the action. There remained in our possession one general, and a great number of prisoners, besides one of their great guns. They left about 300 dead on the field. We had very few wounded prisoners, and these were taken in the pursuit. I saw them carry their people back to the town as soon as they were hurt. Our loss was much less than theirs. After this action, we saw no more of our troublesome guests, the horsemen, who used to brave us in our lines, and even wound our people in the camp. This was the first blood I had ever seen shed in battle; the first time the cannon had roared in my hearing charged with death. I was not yet seventeen years of age, and had not been six months from home. My limbs bending under me with fatigue, in a sultry clime, the musket and accoutrements that I was forced to carry were insupportably oppressive. Still I bore all with invincible patience. During the action, the thought of death never once crossed my mind. After the firing commenced, a still sensation stole over my whole frame, a firm determined torpor, bordering on insensibility. I heard an old soldier answer, to a youth like myself, who inquired what he should do during the battle, “Do your duty.” As the battalion to which I belonged returned from the pursuit, we passed, in our way to the camp, over the field of the dead. It was too much for my feelings. I was obliged to turn aside my head from the horrid sight. The birds of prey seemed to contend with those who were burying the slain, for the possession of the bodies. Horrid sight! Men who, in the morning, exulting trode forth in strength; whose minds, only fettered by their bodies, seemed to feel restraint, now lay shockingly mangled, and a prey to animals—and I had been an assistant in this work of death! I almost wished I had been a victim. Until the 2nd of November, my fatigue was great: constructing batteries and other works, we were forced to labour night and day. My hands, when I left home, were white and soft; now they were excoriated and brown, and, where they were unbroken, as hard as horn. Often overpowered by fatigue, sleep has sealed my eyes;—I have awoke groaning with thirst, and the intense heat of my hands. It was then I felt, in all its horror, the folly of my former conduct. Bitter was the sigh that acknowledged my punishment was just. In the storming of Monte Video, I had no share. We remained with the camp to protect the rear. While we lay before the town, the shells of the enemy were falling often near where I stood; one, in particular, seemed as if it would fall at our feet. A young officer ran backwards and forwards, as if he would hide himself; an old soldier said to him, with all the gravity of a Turk, “You need not hide, Sir; if there is any thing there for you, it will find you out.” The young man looked confused, stood to his duty, and I never saw him appear uneasy again,—so soon was he converted to the warrior’s doctrine. We marched into Monte Video the day after the assault, where I remained seven months. It is a most delightful country, were it not so hot. The evening is the only tolerable time of the day. The sea-breeze sets in about eight or nine o’clock in the morning, which mitigates the heat a good deal; yet I suffered much. It was now the middle of December. Summer had commenced with all its sweets, on a scale I had no conception of; neither can I convey any idea of it in words. We had the greatest abundance of every article of food, and, as the summer advanced, the choicest fruit, indeed even more than we could consume, and at length we loathed it. I had been along with the other youths appointed to Sir Samuel Auchmuty’s guard, as the least fatiguing duty. I would have been comparatively happy, had I known my parents were well, and had pardoned me: the uncertainty of this, and reflections on my past conduct, kept me in a state of continual gloom. I was billeted upon a young widow, who did all in her power to make me comfortable, alongst with her aged father. Her husband had been slain in the first attack of our troops upon the place, and she remained inconsolable. During the seven months I remained in Monte Video, she behaved to me like a mother. To her I was indebted for many comforts. Never shall I forget Maria de Parides: she was of a small figure, yet elegant in her appearance. Like the other women of the country, she was very brown, her eyes sparkling, black as jet, her teeth equal and white. She wore her own hair, when dressed, as is the fashion of the country, in plaits down her back. It was very long, and of a glossy black. Her dress was very plain: a black veil covered her head, and her mantilla was tied in the most graceful manner under her chin. This was the common dress of all the women; the only difference was in the colour of their mantillas and shoes. These they often wore of all colours, and sometimes the veil was white. The men wore the cloak and hat of the Spaniards; but many of them had sandals, and a great many wanted both shoes and stockings. The native women were the most uncomely I ever beheld. They have broad noses, thick lips, and are of very small stature. Their hair, which is long, black, and hard to the feel, they wear frizzled up in front, in the most hideous manner, while it hangs down their backs below the waist. When they dress, they stick in it feathers and flowers, and walk about in all the pride of ugliness. The men are short of stature, stout made, and have large joints. They are brave, but indolent to excess. I have seen them galloping about on horseback, almost naked, with silver spurs on their bare heels, perhaps an old rug upon their shoulders. They fear not pain. I have seen them with hurts ghastly to look at, yet they never seemed to mind them. As for their idleness, I have seen them lie stretched for a whole day, gazing upon the river, and their wives bring them their victuals; and, if they were not pleased with the quantity, they would beat them furiously. This is the only exertion they ever make, readily venting their fury upon their wives. They prefer flesh to any other food, and they eat it almost raw, and in quantities which a European would think impossible. {25} {26} {27} {28} {29} {30} {31} {32} {33} I had little opportunity of seeing the better sort of Spanish settlers, as they had all left the place before we took it; and, during the siege, those I had any opportunity of knowing, were of the poorer sort, who used to visit Maria de Parides and her father, Don Santanos. They are ignorant in the extreme, and very superstitious. Maria told me, with the utmost concern, that the cause of her husband’s death was his being bewitched by an old Indian, to whom he had refused some partridges, as he returned from hunting, a few days before the battle. As I became acquainted with the language, I observed many singular traits of character. When Maria, or old Santanos, yawned, they crossed their mouth with the utmost haste, to prevent the Devil going down their throats. If Santanos sneezed, Maria called, “Jesus!” his answer was, “Muchas gracias,” “Many thanks."—When they knock at any door, they say, “Ave Maria purissima;” they open at once, as they think no one with an evil intent will use this holy phrase. When they meet a woman, they say, “A sus pies senora,” or, “Beso los pies de Usted,” “I lay myself at your feet,” or, “I kiss your feet.” As they part, he says, “Me tengo a sus pies de Usted,” or, “Baxo de sus pies,” “I am at your feet,” or, “Keep me at your feet;” she replies, “Beso a Usted la mano, Cavallero,” “I kiss your hand, Sir.” When they leave any one, they say, “Vaya Usted con Dios,” or, “Con la Virgen,” “May God, (or, the Holy Virgin,) attend you.” When they are angry, it is a common phrase with them, “Vaya Usted con cien mil Demonios,” “Begone with a hundred thousand Devils."—Maria was concerned that I should be a heretic, and wished much I would change my religion and become a Catholic, as the only means of my salvation. In vain I said to her, “Muchos caminos al cielo,” “Many roads to heaven.” There were few priests in the town, as they had thought it better to move off to Buenos Ayres, with the church plate, &c. before we took the town, than trust to their prayers and our generosity. Maria, however, got one to convert me, as her own father-confessor had gone with the rest. It was in the afternoon, on my return from guard, I first met him. His appearance made an impression on me, much in his favour; he was tall and graceful, and wore his beard, which was grey and full, giving a venerable cast to his face, and softening the wrinkles that time had made in his forehead. Maria introduced me to him as a young man who was willing to receive instruction, and one she wished much to believe in all the doctrines of the Holy Church, that I might not be lost for ever through my unbelief. He then began to say a great deal about the errors of the Protestants, and their undone state, since they had left the true church. The only answer I made was, “Muchos caminos al cielo.” He shook his head, and said, all heretics were a stubborn sort of people, but begged me to consider of what he said. I answered, certainly I would, and we parted friends. Maria was much disappointed at my not being convinced at once; and her father, Santanos, said he had no doubt that I would yet become a good Catholic, and remain with them. I loved them the more for their disinterested zeal: their only wish was for my welfare. Thus had I passed my time, until the arrival of General Whitelock, with reinforcements, in the beginning of June, 1807. It was the middle of winter at Monte Video; the nights were frosty, with now and then a little snow, and great showers of hail as large as beans. In the day, dreadful rains deluged all around. We had sometimes thunder and lightning. One night in particular, the whole earth seemed one continued blaze; the mountain on the side of which the town is built, re-echoed the thunder, as if it would rend in pieces. The whole inhabitants flocked to the churches, or kneeled in the streets. On the arrival of the reinforcements, we were formed into a brigade, alongst with the light companies of the 36th, 38th, 40th, 87th, and four companies of the 95th regiments. On the 28th June, we assembled near Ensenada de Barragon, with the whole army, and commenced our march towards Buenos Ayres. The country is almost all level, and covered with long clover that reached to our waists, and large herds of bullocks and horses, which seemed to run wild. The weather was very wet. For days I had not a dry article on my body. We crossed many morasses in our march, in one of which I lost my shoes, and was under the necessity of marching the rest of the way bare-footed. We passed the river at a ford called Passorico, under the command of Major-General Gower. Here we drove back a body of the enemy. We were next day joined by General Whitelock, and the remainder of the army. Upon his joining us, the line was formed by Sir Samuel Auchmuty on the left, stretching towards a convent called the Recolletta, distant from the left about two miles. Two regiments were stationed on the right. Brigadier-General Crawford’s brigade occupied the centre, and possessed the principal avenues to the town, which was distant from the great square and fort three miles. Three regiments extended towards the Residenta, on the right. The town and suburbs are built in squares of about 140 yards on each side; and all the houses are flat on the top for the use of the inhabitants, who go upon them to enjoy the cool of the evening. These, we were told, they meant to occupy with their slaves, and fire down upon us as we charged through the streets. From the disposition of our army, the town was nearly surrounded. We remained under arms on the morning of the 5th of July, waiting the order to advance. Judge our astonishment when the word was given to march without ammunition, with fixed bayonets only. “We are betrayed,” was whispered through the ranks. “Mind your duty, my lads; onwards, onwards, Britain for ever,” were the last words I heard our noble Captain Brookman utter. He fell as we entered the town. Onwards we rushed, carrying every thing before us, scrambling over ditches, and other impediments which the inhabitants had placed in our way. At the corner of every street, and flanking all the ditches, they had placed cannon that thinned our ranks every step we took. Still onwards we drove, up one street, down another, until we came to the church of St. Domingo, where the colours of the 71st regiment had been placed, as a trophy, over the shrine of the Virgin Mary. We made a sally into it, and took them from that disgraceful resting-place, where they had remained ever since the surrender of General Beresford to General Liniers. Now we were going to sally out in triumph. The Spaniards had not been idle. The entrances of the church were barricaded, and cannon placed at each entrance. We were forced to surrender, and were marched to prison. It was there I first learned the complete failure of our enterprise. During the time we were charging through the streets, many of our men made sallies into the houses in search of plunder; and many were encumbered with it at the time of our surrender. One sergeant of the 38th had made a longish hole in his wooden canteen, like that over the money drawer in the counter of a retail shop; into it he slipped all the money he could lay his hands upon. As he came out of a house he had been ransacking, he was shot through the head. In his fall the canteen burst, and a great many doubloons ran in all directions on the street. Then commenced a scramble for the money, and about eighteen men were shot, grasping at the gold they were never to enjoy. They even snatched it from their dying companions, although they themselves were to be in the same situation the next moment. We were all searched, and every article that was Spanish taken from us; but we were allowed to keep the rest. During the search, one soldier, who had a good many doubloons, put them into his camp-kettle, with flesh and water above them; placed all upon a fire, and kept them safe. There were about one hundred of us, who had been taken in the church, marched out of prison to be shot, {34} {35} {36} {37} {38} {39} {40} {41} {42} {43} unless we produced a gold crucifix of great value, that was amissing. We stood in a large circle of Spaniards and Indians. Their levelled pieces and savage looks gave us little to hope, unless the crucifix was produced. It was found on the ground on the spot where we stood; but it was not known who had taken it. The troops retired, and we were allowed to go back to prison without further molestation. Four days after we were made prisoners, the good priest I had conversed with in the house of Maria de Parides, came to me in prison, and offered to obtain my release, if I would only say that I would, at any future time, embrace the Catholic faith. He held out many inducements. I thanked him kindly for his offer, but told him it was impossible I ever could. He said, “I have done my duty as a servant of God; now I will do it as a man.” He never again spoke to me of changing my religion; yet he visited me every day with some comfort or another. Donald M‘Donald was quite at home all the time we had been in South America. He was a good Catholic[3], and much caressed by the Spaniards. He attended mass regularly; bowed to all processions; and was in their eyes every thing a good Catholic ought to be. He often thought of remaining at Buenos Ayres, under the protection of the worthy priest; he had actually agreed to do so, when the order for our release arrived. We were to join General Whitelock on the next day, after fourteen days’ confinement. Donald was still wavering, yet most inclined to stay. I sung to him, “Lochaber no more[4]!” the tears started into his eyes—he dashed them off—“Na, na! I canna stay, I’d maybe return to Lochaber nae mair.” The good priest was hurt at his retracting his promise, yet was not offended. He said “It is natural. I once loved Spain above all the other parts of the world; but——“ here he checked himself, gave us his blessing, and ten doubloons a-piece, and left us. We immediately, upon our release, set out on our return to Britain, and had an agreeable and quick passage, in which nothing particular occurred. It was on the 25th December, 1807, after an absence of seventeen months from Britain, that I landed at the Cove of Cork in Ireland. A thrill of joy ran through my whole body, and prompted a fervid inward ejaculation to God, who had sustained me through so many dangers, and brought me to a place where I might hear if my parents had pardoned me, or if my misconduct had shortened the period of their lives. The uncertainty of this embittered all my thoughts, and gave additional weight to all my fatigues. How differently did the joy of our return act upon my fellow-soldiers!—to them it was a night of riot and dissipation. Immediately on our arrival, our regiment was marched to Middleton Barracks, where we remained one month; during which time I wrote to my father, and sent to him the amount of the ten doubloons I had received from the good priest. In the course of post I received the following letter, inclosed in one from my brother. It had been returned to them by the Post-office at the Isle of Wight. “Edinburgh, 5th August, 1806. “DEAR THOMAS, “WE received your letter from the Isle of Wight, which gave us much pleasure. I do not mean to add to your sorrows by any reflection upon what is past, as you are now sensible of your former faults, and the cruelty of your desertion. Let it be a lesson to you in future. It had nearly been our deaths. Your mother, brothers, and myself, searched in every quarter that night you left us; but it pleased God we should not find you. Had we only known you were alive, we would have been happy. We praise God you are safe, and send you our forgiveness and blessings. The money you have sent, we mean to assist to purchase your discharge, if you will leave the army and come to us again. You say you have made a vow to remain seven years.—It was rash to do so, if you have vowed solemnly. Write us on receipt of this, that I may know what course to pursue. “Your Loving Parent.” “Edinburgh, 5th January, 1808. “Dear Brother, “WE received your letter with joy. It has relieved our minds from much uneasiness; but, alas! he who would have rejoiced most is no more. My heart bleeds for you on receipt of this; but on no account, I beseech you, think your going away caused his death. You know he had been long badly before you left us; and it pleased God to take him to his reward shortly after your departure. He received your letter two days before his death. He was, at the time, propped up in bed. It was a beautiful fore-noon. William and myself were at his bedside; Jean and our dear mother each held a hand. Our father said in his usual manner, ‘My dear children, I feel the time at hand in which I am to bid adieu to this scene of troubles. I would go to my final abode content and happy, would it please God to let me hear of Thomas; if dead, that our ashes might mingle together; if alive, to convey to him my pardon and blessings; for, ere now, I feel conscious, he mourns for his faults.’ As he spoke, your letter arrived. He opened it himself; and, as he read, his face beamed with joy, and the tears ran down his cheeks: ‘Gallant, unfortunate boy, may God bless and forgive you as I do.’ He gave me the letter to read to my mother aloud. While I read it, he seemed to pray fervently. He then desired me to write to you as he would dictate. This letter was returned to us again. I now send it you under cover of this. Your mother is well, and sends you her blessings; but wishes you to leave the army, and come home. The money you sent just now, and the five pounds before, will purchase your discharge. Send us the happy intelligence you will do so. I remain “Your Loving Brother.” On receipt of this letter, I became unfit to do or think on any thing but the fatal effects of my folly. I fell into a lowness of spirits, that continued with me until my arrival in Spain; when the fatigue and hardship I was forced to undergo, roused me from my lethargy. I was now more determined to remain with the army, to punish myself, than ever. This I wrote to my brother, and desired him to make my mother as comfortable as possible with the money I had sent. We remained only one month in Middleton Barracks, when we were again marched to Cork Barracks, where I remained until the 27th June, 1808, when I was embarked with the troops on an expedition under Sir Arthur Wellesley, consisting of nine regiments of infantry. We remained at anchor until the 12th July, when we set sail for the coast of Portugal, where we arrived on the 29th July, at {44} {45} {46} {47} {48} {49} {50} {51} {52} Mondego Bay. We began to disembark on the 1st of August. The weather was so rough and stormy, that we were not all landed until the 5th. On our leaving the ships, each man got four pound of biscuit, and four pound of salt beef, cooked on board. We marched for twelve miles up to the knees in sand, which caused us to suffer much from thirst; for the marching made it rise and cover us. We lost four men of our regiment, who died of thirst. We buried them where they fell. At night we came to our camp ground, in a wood, where we found plenty of water; to us more acceptable than any thing besides on earth. We here built large huts, and remained four days. We again commenced our march alongst the coast, towards Lisbon. In our advance, we found all the villages deserted, except by the old and destitute, who cared not what became of them. On the 13th there, was a small skirmish between the French and our cavalry, after which the French retired. On the 14th we reached a village called Alcobaco, which the French had left the night before. Here were a great many wine stores, that had been broken open by the French. In a large wine cask we found a French soldier, drowned, with all his accoutrements. On the morning of the 17th we were under arms an hour before day. Half an hour after sunrise, we observed the enemy in a wood. We received orders to retreat. Having fallen back about two miles, we struck to the right, in order to come upon their flank, whilst the 9th, 29th, and 5th battalion of the 60th, attacked them in front. They had a very strong position on a hill. The 29th advanced up the hill, not perceiving an ambush of the enemy, which they had placed on each side of the road. As soon as the 29th was right between them, they gave a volley, which killed, or Wounded, every man in the grenadier company except seven. Unmindful of their loss, they drove on, and carried the entrenchments. The engagement lasted until about four o’clock, when the enemy gave way. We continued the pursuit till darkness put a stop to it. The 71st had only one man killed, and one wounded: we were manœuvring all day to turn their flank, so that our fatigue was excessive, though our loss was but small. This was the battle of Rolleia, a small town at the entrance of a hilly part of the country. We marched the whole of the 18th and 19th without meeting any resistance. On the 19th, we encamped at the village of Vimeira, and took up a position alongst a range of mountains. On the 20th, we marched out of our position to cover the disembarkation of four regiments, under General Anstruther. We saw a few French cavalry, who kept manœuvring, but did not offer to attack us. On the 21st we were all under arms an hour before day-break. After remaining same time, we were dismissed, with orders to parade again at 10 o’clock, to attend divine service; for this was a Sabbath morning. How unlike the Sabbaths I was wont to enjoy! Had it not been for the situation in which I had placed myself, I could have enjoyed it much. Vimeira is situated in a lovely valley, through which the small river Maceira winds, adding beauty to one of the sweetest scenes, surrounded on all sides by mountains and the sea, from which the village is distant about three miles. There is a deep ravine that parts the heights, over which the Lourinha road passes. We were posted on these mountains, and had a complete view of the valley below. I here, for a time, indulged in one of the most pleasing reveries I had enjoyed since I left home. I was seated upon the side of a mountain, admiring the beauties beneath. I thought of home;—Arthur’s Seat, and the level between it and the sea, all stole over my imagination. I became lost in contemplation, and was happy for a time. Soon my day-dream broke and vanished from my sight. The bustle around was great. There was no trace of a day of rest. Many were washing their linen in the river, others cleaning their firelocks; every man was engaged in some employment. In the midst of our preparation for divine service, the French columns began to make their appearance on the opposite hills. “To arms, to arms!” was beat at half-past eight o’clock. Every...