Part 2

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.

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, 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 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.