Part 6

The power of music combined with poetry, seems more gigantic when applied to the struggles of a people for liberty--or in other words--to exalt the passion of patriotism, than any other emotion of the heart; perhaps, because the passion _itself_ is more susceptible of excitement than others. The songs of every nation speak more strongly the character of the particular people to which they belong, than any thing that can be written by the pen of the commentator or the historian. It was a great statesman who said “Give me but the power to write the songs of a nation, and I will govern them;” an observation in my mind, of no less strength than truth. The war-songs of every people are part of their arsenal; and by no means the least in power. The Scotch pipes have done nearly as much as the claymore. An instance of this occurred with the late gallant Colonel Cameron of the 42d. The piper was detached from the corps by the order of the General at an engagement in Holland--the men went into action without him;--they charged, and were repulsed. The General, on the evening of the same day, said to the Colonel, “Don’t boast of your 42d again.” To this censure Colonel Cameron replied, “General, _you_ are to blame--you took our arms from us.”--“How?”--“You took the pipes from us: let us have _them_, and we’ll prove the 42d worthy of the highest boast.” This was done; the regiment had an opportunity next day of charging with the pipes behind them, and they covered themselves with glory. The Irish too, at the storming of Badajos, carried the breach to the tune of “_Garryowen_,” played by their own band under the most destructive fire. The power of national song was so feared by Buonaparte, that he forbade the Swiss air “_Le Ranz des Vaches_” in his army, lest the natives of that country should desert. It was stated in the French National Assembly that the Marseillois Hymn brought a million of recruits to the army; and certainly it might be said that Dibdin’s songs did more for the British navy than the whole of the _press_-gang. The anthem of “_God save the King_” every body values, yet none have said, (although I believe it to be truth) that it is a strong bulwark of the throne--that it throws a sublimity--a grandeur--a general respect around royalty; excites the warmest sentiments of devotion, and secures unconscious attachment. The national hymn of Portugal is strongly expressive of that mixture of melancholy and martial boldness of sound which inspires the hearer to meditate revenge for injuries done; and, as the Spaniards suffered in a similar way to the Portuguese, _their_ national song carries with it a sentiment precisely similar to that of Portugal. This song was not composed during the days of Ferdinand, but while the nation was struggling, in concert with the British, for liberty; and every Guerilla sung it--every peasant sung it--every child sung it. Its title is, “_A la Guerra Espaniolas_;” the Spanish words of it are simple, but strong; and the music, like the national air of the Portuguese, is truly beautiful. The following are English words, written for it among the mountains of Biscay; and to those of my readers who know the air, perhaps they will be acceptable.

THE SPANISH NATIONAL SONG.

I.

The curse of Slavery’s o’er us, And suffering Freedom weeps; No hope--no hope’s before us While Spain’s bright spirit sleeps. But if her slumbers lighten, Then Freedom’s glance will brighten, And lips shall cease to sigh, and hearts to pain. So let us smite The drum of fight; She’ll wake and rise again. To the war--to the war, ye Spaniards! The hour is nigh, To break your chain; Your rights to gain. Live free--live free,--or die!

II.

In death our sons are sleeping Our homes in ruin laid; Our daughters o’er them weeping, Alone--forlorn--betrayed! In vain is Britain’s bravery, To rid you of your slavery; In vain her heroes bleed--her arms resound, Unless the fire Of Freedom’s ire Burn every heart around. To the war--to the war, ye Spaniards! The hour is nigh To break your chain; Your rights to gain. Live free--live free,--or die!

--But enough of music: let us now march on without it.

I proceeded with the fourth division, and arrived after two marches, at the high banks of the Esla: there it was that I beheld the concentrated army--at least the greatest part of it. Some of the troops had passed the river and “opened the ball” with the enemy on the opposite bank: their rear guard had a brisk engagement with our advanced cavalry, and the 10th Hussars had the honour to draw the first blood of the campaign--they “_astonished_” the French Dragoons not a little. After this brush the enemy continued their retreat rapidly, in the direction of Burgos.

The crossing of the Esla by the army, as I beheld it, was one of the most impressive, magnificent, and beautiful sights that was ever presented: I will describe it briefly, from my memory, upon which it is indelibly delineated.

The river Esla, at the point where the army crossed, is in breadth equal to the Thames at Richmond or Windsor; high banks--or rather hills--rise abruptly on either side, for the most part covered with short trees and underwood: the approaches to the river are by even pathways winding down each side of it. When standing on that bank where first I saw the river, the water appeared to be about three hundred yards below me, and its course bending so as to exclude a farther view of it than the segment of a circle of about a mile in length. On my left, where the river began to appear, and where the hill on which I stood pushed itself forward and terminated in an overhanging rock, the ponton was placed--immense boats at regular distances, and well planked, so as to form a passage of about twenty feet in breadth, railed on each side compactly: so admirable a bridge it was, that one would suppose it to have been a permanent rather than a temporary erection, which could be at a moment removed and carried wherever the army went. Over this passed the troops, with the exception of some cavalry who forded at another part, and five of whom (Germans) were swept away by the current in crossing. An idea may be formed of the vast quantity of soldiers, muleteers, women, horses, mules, artillery stores, equipage, and baggage, which covered the hills near the ponton, when I say, that I was from ten o’clock in the morning until five in the afternoon, before it came to my turn to pass the water; and all this time the bridge was filled with columns of men. We who waited for our turn, sat on the hill under the trees, eating cold beef and biscuit, chatting, and admiring the splendid scene. The day was as bright as the sun; a general hilarity spread over every countenance; the Spanish and Portuguese muleteers cracked their loud jokes with the soldiers--laughed and sung--ate their rations, and toasted their friends in grog. To add still more interest to the scene, many elegant English ladies--wives of the officers--were to be seen upon the rock which overhung the river, with their gay parasols and waving feathers, while immediately below was the bridge with its moving mass--horse--foot--artillery--baggage--and followers:--a little above this, and still beneath the ladies, were groups of bullocks swimming across the river, and with difficulty gaining the opposite bank, owing to the power of the current; while others were climbing the opposite hills, refreshed and relieved from the dust of their day’s travel, by the cool water from which they had just emerged. The distant and lessening line of troops as it winded upwards to the plain above, and broke into several divisions to take up ground for the night, added an admirable perspective background to the picture. Then arose the hum of the crowd--the loud command--the laugh--the mingling of different languages--the lowing of oxen--the neighing of horses, and the braying of the less noble animals--the clear sky--the bright sun--the crystal river, overhung and darkened in the distance by bold rocks, on which the wondering goatherd lay as his goats carelessly browsed--it was a scene never to be forgotten. Every soldier saw at a glance the collective strength of the great military machine of which he formed a part--all beneath his eye, as it were in a theatre: this heightened the glow of pride within him, and elevated his spirit with the buoyancy of glorious hope--all was cheerfulness, and the army looked more like conquerors, than men about to enter into a bloody and doubtful contest. I spent seven hours in admiring, and then crossed in my turn the ponton; took up my quarters for the night, with my horses, under a shed; and slept as soundly as the Prince who was cast into a seven years’ sleep by a fairy.

The morning was only opening her eyes, when the drum beat and we turned out: the fires of the night were expiring; around many of which groups of soldiers were assembled, packing up their knapsacks and fixing their accoutrements. The moving to and fro of military figures, all over the level ground, before me--the tingling of the mules’ bells--the drums at various distances--the early birds chirping--the horses champing their barley--the men biting their biscuit--the increasing hum and the coming daylight--by degrees, dissipated the heaviness which naturally succeeded to a short _field_ sleep, and the cheerfulness of the preceding day was restored throughout.--The column was in motion; and the field, where thousands crowded, was, in a few minutes, as naked and silent as a desert.

At this ground we had expected a desperate fight; but with the exception of a brush with our Hussars, the enemy showed no wish to trouble us. The soldiers now became still more elevated with a confidence in success; and the wishful cry which every where along the march had resounded in their ears, from the inhabitants, “_Vamus a Francia!_”--“(_Away to France!_)” was considered as about to be realized; yet most of the army expected that we should first have a desperate struggle at the Ebro.

We marched by Aguilar to Palencia; our light cavalry by Zamora and Toro: the right and centre columns of the army, with Lord Wellington, passed through Salamanca to Valladolid--the whole directing their march to Burgos. At Palencia I first saw the ponton boats in their carriages: they were drawn by oxen; each boat had a carriage to itself, and each carriage was drawn by from twelve to sixteen. The boats were reversed--or bottom uppermost--and seated on them were the pontoneers, dressed in naval uniform; these were men specially employed to launch the boats, form the bridge, and, in short, to conduct that service through all its branches. I had but a faint idea of the extreme ponderosity of warlike machinery until I beheld these boats upon their carriages: the battering rams of the Romans were go-carts compared with the ponton train on the march: the Spaniards, as they passed, threw up their eyes in an ecstasy of admiration at the sight of them, and cheered loudly while they were in view. Over those boats were to pass to France, which they feared and hated, the invading and delivering armies--over them the cannon that was to thunder their victory:--this thought was enough to make them cheer, and their “_vivas!_” were well answered by the troops that followed.

I remained at Palencia until the evening of the day on which the pontons passed through it; and there I accidentally met with a young officer, whose subsequent greatness I little thought then depended so on the success of our campaign, as it afterwards turned out. This officer was Captain De Grammont, then of the 10th Hussars, but now his Grace the Duc de Guiche. He is a part of the royal family of France, aid-de-camp to the Duke d’Angoulême, and high in favour at the Tuilleries. When I saw him at Palencia, he appeared one of the finest models of a young Hussar chief I ever beheld: he wore his beard, which curled upon his chin; his regimentals were sufficiently field-rubbed to have lost that _very_ bright gloss which distinguished them on the parade at home; and there was a melancholy cast about his countenance and manner, which, from being mixed with the most affable address, made a strong impression upon me--particularly when I learnt his true situation. He was engaged against his countrymen--but for his country’s rights; and he had only a day or two before met them in the charge. It was _his_ troop that spilled the first French blood of that campaign, and it was _his_ subaltern who gave the first wound. He described the charge to me: it was thus:--The French having crossed the Esla, a strong guard covered their retreat, and the 10th Hussars attacked their rear, which was defended by light dragoons. In advancing to the charge, the Subaltern of Captain De Grammont, Cornet Fitzgerald--a lad of only sixteen years of age--happened to have been somewhat in advance of the troop, owing to the mettle of his horse: the Cornet’s servant rode beside him in the ranks, and determined to protect his master. The French dragoons came on gallantly; their swords were nearly as long again as those of our Hussars; and a ferocious looking Sergeant was coming at full gallop--right in front of the Cornet: in vain was the young officer called on to pull in his horse--on he went, his servant closing up to him in order to avert the steel of the opponent: a moment more and the long straight sword of the French dragoon would have been cased in the youth’s breast; for the servant’s horse could not head his master’s. The Captain expected to see him fall; but just as the point of the weapon approached, the cornet grasped his pistol--fired--and down the dragoon tumbled from his saddle! This was but an instant before the remainder of the hussars were mixed with their opponents; and in a few minutes more, they were pursuing them as fugitives, killing, wounding, and taking many of them. I remembered having seen this heroic youth at Lisbon, when the regiment landed there: he was a mere stripling, with light hair, and rosy cheeks--anything but the man destined to kill the first Frenchman on the campaign; and I still more admired him when I heard that he was a son of the celebrated Lord Edward Fitzgerald, and cousin to the present Duke of Leinster. I met Captain De Grammont afterwards, at the close of the campaign, and he assured me joyfully, that he had had the pleasure, the day before, of looking from the Pyrenees, while on piquet, at the lawful estates of his family; and only a very few months after this, I had the gratification of seeing him enter the town of Bordeaux as a Duke, and on the staff of his lawful Prince, the Duke d’Angoulême. This officer, although born in France, is in language and manners a perfect English gentleman, from having been since his infancy in England. He received his commission in the 10th Hussars when very young, and remained in the regiment until the restoration of the Bourbons. Should we yet go to war with France, I should be sorry to see the gallant soldier arrayed against us, and I am sure it would be no pleasurable office to himself.

We moved on the left of Burgos, which city the French, contrary to our expectation, had not shut up, but quickly abandoned at the approach of the British. I slept in the house of an intelligent peasant, about two miles from the fortress, and of course the war was the subject of our chat. I found the man very communicative: he had the fullest hope of our success, and gave it as his opinion, that the French would _not_ stand at the Ebro. He talked of the time when the British were before on his ground; and showed me in his fields some of their bones--bleached white and dry: he informed me that a great number of our army perished there. This man, from his apparent acquaintance with the events of the war in Spain, I have no doubt had taken an active part in it--perhaps on the French side; for if it had been on the other, he most probably would not have made it a secret in our conversation; however, many of the Spaniards sided with the strongest party, and now that the British held the sway, this peasant was their warmest well-wisher.

We proceeded through Villa Diego towards the Ebro, and came in sight of that river from the plain--or high table land--over which I had been travelling ever since I had left Portugal. The advanced troops had passed the river that morning without opposition, for the French had continued their retreat. The view of the valley--or rather amphitheatre--at the bottom of which the Ebro runs, astonished me by its beauty: for several days I had been accustomed to little variation of scenery--all level country; and now the bosom of luxuriant and romantic nature suddenly presented itself to my sight, as if it were done by magic. Half a dozen steps brought me from a view of mere sky and corn plains, to a scene of the most splendidly varied character--a deep valley, or rather hollow, of about ten miles in circumference, surrounded by woody mountains, except at that part directly facing me. This part opened, and there the eye might travel over blue hills, until the more distant could not be distinguished from the light clouds of the horizon. In this circular valley, every variation of rural beauty was to be seen--cultivated fields--luxuriant foliage--bubbling streams--winding paths--villas, and farm-houses. At the bottom ran the Ebro,--in this place a river of no great breadth; and here the main body of the liberating army had crossed a few hours before me.

The line of march now lay along a small branch of a river, which watered the foot of high and bold rocks, shelved and wooded in the most picturesque manner; trees, rooted over trees, hung out in grotesque attitudes, or dipped downwards, as if seeking the black and clear water beneath--thick moss, streaming underwood, wild flowers, and massy trunks, mingled to beautify the first day’s march after we crossed the Ebro:--this repaid me amply for the toil of the preceding days.

I remained an hour behind the division, to refresh my horses--they having been nearly knocked up; and it was at this place I perceived the first effects of fatigue in some of the soldiers. The army had, for the preceding march, pressed onwards more rapidly than before, and the weather had become very hot; several men, therefore, lagged behind, and I met eight or ten of them sitting by the side of the river--some only severely blistered on the feet from walking, but others extremely ill. There was no depôt nearer than Valladolid--about ninety miles distant; for the army’s advance was so rapid and so unexpected, that no time could be allowed for considerations of this kind; and the soldiers, if left behind, would have fared but miserably indeed--particularly those who were ill there. I, without hesitation, laid an embargo upon a sort of cart, which was drawn by two horses, and which happened, fortunately, to be near; in this vehicle I directed the men to place themselves and their kits, which they had unbuckled from their backs, and dispatched them to continue their march. I also desired the men not to permit the carter to return until they overtook their division. “All is fair in war,” says the unamiable adage: it was a hard case for the Castilian carter, but for the poor disabled soldiers it would have been a still harder; and I thought I could not do better, under the circumstances, than to oblige the peasant, who seemed well-fed and hearty, to do “the state some service,” whether he was so disposed or not.

Our march was now ten times more a march of pleasure than it had been before we crossed the Ebro, although it did not long hold that character: there was soon something for the army to do besides to admire the scenery, sing songs, and smoke cigars. Each day’s march was concluded about twelve or one o’clock, and the men encamped or bivouacked usually on some open glade, near or in a small wood; or perhaps in a valley by a river: here they unbent from the toils of the morning, and escaped the meridian heat of the sun, within their tents, or beneath the thick foliage with which nature so profusely stocked the country. A considerable distance right and left of the road, where the army encamped each day, was changed from the silence in which it had so long dwelt, to the hum and bustle of a populated city. The first thing done, on arriving at the ground for encampment, was to cook:--rations were served out; wood, water, and fire, made ready: and while the meat was boiling--or _broiling_, more frequently, upon a wooden spit--the men would sit together in groups on the grass, and chat. After dinner, they employed themselves for a short time in washing both themselves and their linen in the neighbouring streams--cleaning their arms, clothes, &c., and then a pipe and a cup of grog prepared the way for a sweet and sound sleep on the turf.

A description of the manner in which I have seen bullocks slaughtered on the march, may not be uninteresting. We had our own butchers,--men from the ranks; but, in general, the oxen were slaughtered by Spaniards or Portuguese: and, in my mind, their mode of depriving a bullock of life is by far the most expeditious; it certainly gives little, if any, torture to the animal. They, having tied a noose about the horns of the beast, drew the end of it round a tree, and secured the head close to it; then instantly pushed a sharp-pointed knife down between the back of the skull and the first vertebræ of the neck: this was no sooner done than the animal was dead: the veins of the neck were then opened, and the blood flowed.

In the division with which I marched, the Spanish butcher adopted a singular mode of securing the bullock destined for slaughter; he had trained a huge mastiff to be his assistant, and thus they operated:--the butcher held his dog by a chain, and having let loose one of the drove of oxen, took the chain off the mastiff, and gave him the word; the dog ran instantly to the bullock; seized him by the nose in his teeth; and, without the least noise, held him forcibly down: the butcher then plunged the knife in, and the animal rolled lifeless. All this was done in less than half a minute. The first place at which I witnessed this dog at his calling, was at Villa Diego; and no sooner were the veins of the neck opened, than several Spanish old women, with pans in their hands, squabbled about catching the blood: the greatest vixen succeeded in obtaining it; and I learnt that it was to be used as food for her family. It is said that the poor of Connaught eat the blood of oxen; if so, may not the practice have been brought over by the Spaniards, from whom the inhabitants of that province claim extraction?