Jack Hinton: The Guardsman

‘Are you the Guerilla Guiposcoa de Condeiga?’ said one of the party, accosting me, as I stood wrapped up in my cloak.

‘No; I am an English officer.’

‘Show your epaulettes, then,’ said another, who knew that Spanish officers never wore such.

I opened my cloak, when the sight of my red uniform at once satisfied them. At this instant a clamour of voices without was heard, and several persons called out, ‘We have him! here he is!’ The crowd around me rushed forth at the sound; and following among them I reached the street, now jammed up with horse and foot, waggons, tumbrels, and caissons – some endeavouring to hasten forward towards the road to Bayonne; others as eagerly turned towards the plain of Vittoria, where the deafening roll of artillery showed the fight was at its fiercest. The dragoons issued forth, dragging a man amongst them whose enormous stature and broad chest towered above the others, but who apparently made not the slightest resistance as they hurried him forward, shouting, as they went, ‘A la grand’ place! – à la place!’

It was the celebrated Guerilla Guiposcoa, who had distinguished himself by acts of heroic daring, and sometimes by savage cruelty towards the French, and who had fallen into their hands that morning. Anxious to catch a glance at one of whom I had heard so often, I pressed forward among the rest, and soon found myself in the motley crowd of soldiers and townspeople that hurried towards the Plaza.

Scarcely had I entered the square when the movement of the multitude was arrested, and a low whispering murmur succeeded to the deafening shouts of vengeance and loud cries of death I had heard before; then came the deep roll of a muffled drum. I made a strong effort to press forward, and at length reached the rear of a line of dismounted dragoons who stood leaning on their carbines, their eyes steadily bent on a figure some twenty paces in front. He was leisurely employed in divesting himself of some of his clothes, which, as he took off, he piled in a little heap beside him; his broad guerilla hat, his dark cloak, his sheep’s-wool jacket slashed with gold, fell one by one from his hand, and his broad manly chest at last lay bare, heaving with manifest pride and emotion, as he turned his dark eyes calmly around him. Nothing was now heard in that vast crowd save when some low, broken sob of grief would burst from the close-drawn mantillas of the women, as they offered up their heartfelt prayers for the soul of the patriot.

A low parapet wall, surmounted by an iron railing, closed in this part of the Plaza, and separated it from a deep and rapid river that flowed beneath – a branch of the Ebro. Beyond, the wide plain of Vittoria stretched away towards the Pyrenees; and two leagues distant the scene of the battle was discernible, from the heavy mass of cloud that lowered overhead, and the deep booming of the guns that seemed to make the air tremulous.

The Spaniard turned his calm look towards the battlefield, and for an instant his dark eye flashed back upon his foes with an expression of triumphant daring, which seemed as it were to say, ‘I am avenged already!’ A cry of impatience burst from the crowd of soldiers, and the crash of their firelocks threatened that they would not wait longer for his blood. But the guerilla’s manner changed at once, and holding up a small ebony crucifix before him, he seemed to ask a moment’s respite for a short prayer.

The stillness showed his request was complied with; he turned his back towards the crowd, and placing the crucifix on the low parapet, he bent down on both his knees, and seemed lost in his devotions. As he rose I thought I could perceive that he threw a glance, rapid as lightning, over the wall towards the river that flowed beneath. He now turned fully round; and unfastening the girdle of many a gay colour that he wore round his waist, he threw it carelessly on his left arm; and then, baring his breast to the full, knelt slowly down, and with his arms wide apart called out in Spanish, ‘Here is my life! come, take it!’ The words were scarcely uttered, when the carbines clanked as they brought them to the shoulder; the sergeant of the company called out the words, ‘Donnez!’ a pause – ‘Feu!’ The fusilade rang out, and as my eyes pierced the smoke I could see that the guerilla had fallen to the earth, his arms crossed upon his bosom.

A shriek wild and terrific burst from the crowd. The blue smoke slowly rose, and I perceived the French sergeant standing over the body of the guerilla, which lay covered with blood upon the turf. A kind of convulsive spasm seemed to twitch the limbs, upon which the Frenchman drew his sabre. The rattle of the steel scabbard rang through my heart; the bright weapon glanced as he raised it above his head. At the same instant the guerilla chief sprang to his legs; he tottered as he did so, for I could see that his left arm hung powerless at his side, but his right held a long poniard. He threw himself upon the Frenchman’s bosom; a yell followed, and the same moment the guerilla sprang over the battlements, and with a loud splash dropped into the river beneath. The water had scarce covered his body, as the Frenchman fell a corpse upon the ground.

A perfect roar of madness and rage burst from the French soldiers, as, rushing to the parapet, a hundred balls swept the surface of the river; but the tall reeds of the bank had already concealed the bold guerilla, whose left arm had received the fire of the soldiers, who now saw the meaning of that quick movement by which he had thrown his girdle around it. The incident was but the work of a few brief moments; nor was there longer time to think on it, for suddenly a squadron of cavalry swept past at the full speed of their horses, calling out the words, ‘Place there! Make way there in front! The ambulance! the ambulance!’

A low groan of horror rose around; the quick retreat of the wounded betokened that the battle was going against the French; the words ‘beaten and retreat’ reechoed through the crowd; and as the dark suspicion crept amid the moving mass, the first waggon of the wounded slowly turned the angle of the square, a white flag hanging above it. I caught but one glance of the sad convoy; but never shall I forget that spectacle of blood and agony. Torn and mangled, they lay an indiscriminate heap – their faces blackened with powder, their bodies shattered with wounds. High above the other sounds their piercing cries rent the air, with mingled blasphemies and insane ravings. Meanwhile the drivers seemed only anxious to get forward, as, deaf to every prayer and entreaty, they whipped their horses and called out to the crowd to make way.

Escape was now open; but where could I go? My uniform exposed me to immediate detection; should I endeavour to conceal myself, discovery would be my death. The vast tide of people that poured along the streets was a current too strong to stem, and I hesitated what course to follow. My doubts were soon resolved for me; an officer of General Oudinot’s staff, who had seen me the previous night, rode up close to where I stood, and then turning to his orderly, spoke a few hurried words. The moment after, two heavy dragoons, in green uniform and brass helmets, came up, one at either side of me; without a second’s delay one of them unfastened a coil of small rope that hung at his saddle-bow, which with the assistance of the other was passed over my right wrist and drawn tight. In this way, secured like a malefactor, I was ordered forward. In vain I remonstrated; in vain I told them I was a British officer; to no purpose did I reiterate that hitherto I had made no effort to escape. It is not in the hour of defeat that a Frenchman can behave either with humanity or justice. A volley of sacrés was the only answer I received, and nothing was left me but to yield.

Meanwhile the tumult and confusion of the town was increasing every minute. Heavy waggons inscribed in large letters, ‘Domaine extérieure de sa Majesté l’Empereur,’ containing the jewels and treasures of Madrid, passed by, drawn by eight and sometimes ten horses, and accompanied by strong cavalry detachments. Infantry regiments, blackened with smoke and gunpowder, newly arrived from the field, hurried past to take up positions on the Bayonne road to protect the retreat; then came the nearer din and crash of the artillery as the French army were falling back upon the town.

Scarcely had we issued from the walls of the city when the whole scene of flight and ruin was presented to our eyes. The country for miles round was one moving mass of fugitives; cannon, waggons, tumbrels, wounded soldiers, horsemen, and even splendid equipages were all mixed up together on the Pampeluna road, which lay to our right. The march was there intercepted by an overturned waggon; the horses were plunging, and the cries of wounded men could be heard even where we were. The fields at each side of the way were soon spread over by the crowd, eager to press on. Guns were now abandoned and thrown into ditches and ravines; the men broke their muskets, and threw the fragments on the roadside, and vast magazines of powder were exploded here and there through the plain.

But my attention was soon drawn to objects more immediately beside me. The Bayonne road, which we now reached, was the last hope of the retiring army. To maintain this line of retreat strong detachments of infantry, supported by heavy guns, were stationed at every eminence commanding the position; but the swooping torrent of the retreat had left little time for these to form, many of whom were borne along with the flying army. Discipline gave way on every side; the men sprang upon the waggons, refusing to march; the treasures were broken open and thrown upon the road. Frequently the baggage-guard interchanged shots and sabre-cuts with the infuriated soldiers, who only thought of escape; and the ladies, who but yesterday were the objects of every care and solicitude, were hurried along amid that rude multitude – some on foot, others glad to be allowed to take a place in the ambulance among the wounded, their dresses blood-stained and torn, adding to the horror and misery of the scene.

Such was the prospect before us. Behind, a dark mass hovered as if even yet withstanding the attack of the enemy, whose guns thundered clearer and clearer every moment. Still the long line of wounded came on – some in wide open carts, others stretched upon the gun-carriages, mangled and bleeding. Among these my attention was drawn to one whose head having fallen over the edge of the cart was endangered by every roll of the heavy wheel that grazed his very skull. There was a halt, and I seized the moment to assist the poor fellow as he lay thus in peril. His helmet had fallen back, and was merely retained by the brass chain beneath his chin; his temples were actually cleft open by a sabre-cut, and I could see that he had also received some shot-wounds in the side, where he pressed his hands, the blood welling up between the fingers. As I lifted the head to place it within the cart, the eyes opened and turned fully upon me. A faint smile of gratitude curled his lip; I bent over him, and to my horror recognised in the mangled and shattered form before me the gallant fellow with whom the very night before I had formed almost a friendship. The word ‘cold,’ muttered between his teeth, was the only answer I could catch as I called him by his name. The order to march rang out from the head of the convoy, and I had barely time to unfasten my cloak and throw it over him ere the waggon moved on. I never saw him after.

A squadron of cavalry now galloped past, reckless of all before them; the traces of their artillery were cut, and the men, mounting the horses, deserted the guns, and rode for their lives. In the midst of the flying mass a splendid equipage flew past, its six horses lashed to madness by the postillions; a straggling guard of honour galloped at either side, and a grand écuyer in scarlet, who rode in front, called out incessantly, ‘Place, place, pour sa Majesté!’ But all to no purpose; the road, blocked up by broken waggons, dense crowds of horse and foot, dead and dying, soon became impassable. An effort to pass a heavily-loaded waggon entangled the coach; the axle was caught by the huge waggon; the horses plunged when they felt the restraint, and the next moment the royal carriage was hurled over on its side, and fell with a crash into the ravine at the roadside. While the officers of his staff dismounted to rescue the fallen monarch, a ribald burst of laughter rose from the crowd, and a pioneer actually gave the butt of his carbine to assist the king as, covered with mud, he scrambled up the ditch. I had but an instant to look upon his pale countenance, which even since the night before seemed to have grown many years older, ere I was myself dragged forward among the crowd.

Darkness now added its horror to the scene of riot and confusion. The incessant cries of the fugitives told that the English cavalry were upon them; the artillery came closer and closer, and the black sky was traversed by many a line of fire, as the shells poured down upon the routed army. The English guns, regardless of roads, dashed down on the terrified masses, raining balls and howitzer-shells on every side. Already the cheers of my gallant countrymen were within my hearing, and amid all the misery and danger around me my heart rose proudly at the glorious victory they had gained.

Meanwhile my escort, whose feeling towards me became more brutal as their defeat was more perceptible, urged me forward with many an oath and imprecation. Leaving the main road, we took the fields, already crowded with the infantry. At last, as the charges of the English came closer, my escort seemed to hesitate upon being any longer burdened by me, and one, after interchanging some angry words with his companion, rode off, leaving me to the care of him who passed the cord round my wrist. For a second or two this fellow seemed to waver whether he might not dispose of me more briefly, and once he half withdrew his pistol from the holster, and turned round in his saddle to regard me more steadily. A better feeling, however, gained the mastery; the hope, too, of promotion, could he bring in an officer his prisoner, had doubtless its share in his decision. He ordered me to jump up behind him, and, dashing spurs into his troop-horse, rode forward.

I have, perhaps, lingered too long in my recollections of this eventful night; it was, however, the last striking incident which preceded a long captivity. On the third day of the retreat I was joined to a band of Spanish prisoners marching towards Bayonne. Of the glorious victory which rescued the Peninsula from the dominion of the French, and drove their beaten armies beyond the Pyrenees, or of the great current of events which followed the battle of Vittoria, I do not purpose to speak. Neither will I trouble my reader with a narrative of hardship and suffering; it is enough to mention that my refusal to give my parole subjected me in all cases to every indignity. Wearied out at length, however, I accepted this only chance of rendering life endurable; and on reaching Bayonne I gave my word not to attempt my escape, and was accordingly separated from my companions in misfortune, and once more treated as a gentleman.

The refusal to accept ‘parole,’ I learned afterwards, was invariably construed by the French authorities of the day into a direct avowal not only to attempt escape by any means that might present themselves, but was also deemed a rejection of the hospitality of the country, which placed the recusant beyond the pale of its courtesy. No sooner had I complied with this necessity – for such it was – than I experienced the greatest kindness and politeness in every quarter. Through every village in the south, the house of the most respectable inhabitant was always opened to me; and with a delicacy it would be difficult to match elsewhere, although the events of the Spanish war were the subjects of general interest wherever we passed, not a word was spoken nor a hint dropped before the ‘prisoner’ which could in the slightest degree offend his nationality or hurt his susceptibility as an enemy.

I shall now beg of my reader to pass over with me a long interval of time, during which my life presented nothing of interest or incident, and accompany me to the environs of St. Omer, where, in the commencement of the year 1814 I found myself domesticated as a prisoner of war on parole. During the long period that had elapsed since the battle of Vittoria, I had but once heard from home. Matters there were pretty much as I had left them. My father had removed to a colonial appointment, whence he transmitted the rich revenues of his office to my mother, whose habitual economy enabled her to dispense hospitality at Bath, much in the same kind of way as she had formerly done at London. My lovely cousin – in the full possession of her beauty and a large fortune – had refused some half-dozen brilliant proposals, and was reported to have an unswerving attachment to some near relative – which happy individual, my mother suggested, was myself. Of the Bellews, I learned from the newspapers that Sir Simon was dead; and Miss Bellew, having recovered most of the great estates of her family through the instrumentality of a clever attorney (whom I guessed to be my friend Paul), was now the great belle and fortune of Dublin. I had frequently written home, and once or twice to the Rooneys and the Major, but never received any answer; so that at last I began to think myself forgotten by every one, and dreamed away my life in a state almost of apathy – dead to the exciting events of the campaign, which, even in the seclusion where I lived, were from time to time reported. The brilliant march of our victorious troops through the Pyrenees and the south of France, Nivelle, Orthez, and Toulouse, I read of as people read of long past events. Life to me appeared to have run out; and my thoughts turned ever backward to the bright morning of my career in Ireland – my early burst of manhood, my first and only passion.

The old royalist seigneur upon whom I was billeted could evidently make nothing of the stolid indifference with which I heard him and his antiquated spouse discuss the glorious prospect of a restoration of the Bourbons: even the hope of liberty was dying away within me. One ever-present thought had damped all ardour and all ambition – I had done nothing as a soldier; my career had ended as it begun; and, while others had risen to fame and honour, my name had won nothing of distinction and repute. Instead of anxiously looking forward to a meeting with Louisa Bellew, I dreaded the very thoughts of it. My mother’s fashionable morgue and indifference I should now feel as a sarcasm on my own failure; and as to my cousin Julia, the idea alone of her raillery was insufferable. The only plan I could devise for the future was, as soon as I should recover my liberty, to exchange into some regiment in the East Indies, and never to return to England.

It was, then, with some surprise and not much sympathy that I beheld my venerable host appear one morning at breakfast with a large white cockade in the breast of his frock-coat, and a huge white lily in a wineglass before him. His elated manner and joyous looks were all so many riddles to me; while the roll of drums in the peaceful little town, the ringing of bells, and the shouts of the inhabitants were all too much even for apathy like mine.

‘What is the tintamarre about?’ said I pettishly, as I saw the old gentleman fidget from the table to the window and then back again, rubbing his hands, admiring his cockade, and smelling at the lily, alternatively.

‘Tintamarre!’ said he indignantly, ‘savez-vous, monsieur? Ce n’est pas le mot, celui-là. We are restored, sir! we have regained our rightful throne! we are no longer exiles!’

‘Yes!’ said the old lady, bursting into the room, and throwing herself into her husband’s arms, and then into mine, in a rapture of enthusiasm – ‘yes, brave young man! to you and your victorious companions in arms we owe the happiness of this moment. We are restored!’

‘Yes! restored! restored!’ echoed the old gentleman, throwing open the window, and shouting as though he would have burst a blood-vessel; while the mob without, catching up the cry, yelled it louder than ever.

‘These people must be all deranged,’ thought I, unable to conjecture at the moment the reasons for such extravagant joy. Meanwhile, the room became crowded with townspeople in holiday costume, all wearing the white cockade, and exchanging with one another the warmest felicitations at the happy event.

I now soon learned that the Allies were in the possession of Paris, that Napoleon had abdicated, and the immediate return of Louis xviii. was already decided upon. The trumpets of a cavalry regiment on the march were soon added to the uproar without, accompanied by cries of ‘The English! The brave English!’ I rushed to the door, and to my astonishment beheld above the heads of the crowd the tall caps of a British dragoon regiment towering aloft. Their band struck up as they approached; and what a sensation did my heart experience as I heard the well-remembered air of ‘Garryowen’ resound through the little streets of a French village!

‘An Irish regiment!’ said I, half aloud.

The word was caught by a bystander, who immediately communicated it to the crowd, adding, by way of explanation, ‘Les Irlandois! oui, ces sont les Cossaques d’Angleterre.’

I could not help laughing at the interpretation, when suddenly my own name was called out loudly by some person from the ranks. I started at the sound, and forcing my way through the crowd I looked eagerly on every side, my heart beating with anxiety lest some deception might have misled me.

‘Hinton! Jack Hinton!’ cried the voice again. At the head of the regiment rode three officers, whose looks were bent steadily on me, while they seemed to enjoy my surprise and confusion. The oldest of the party, who rode between the two others, was a large swarthy-looking man, with a long drooping moustache, at that time rarely worn by officers of our army. His left arm he wore in a sling; but his right was held in a certain easy, jaunty manner I could not soon forget. A burst of laughter broke from him at length, as he called out – ’ Come, Jack, you must remember me!’ ‘What!’ cried I,’ O’Grady! Is it possible?’ ‘Even so, my boy,’ said he, as throwing his reins on his wrist he grasped my hand and shook it with all his heart. ‘I knew you were here, and I exerted all my interest to get quartered near you. This is my regiment – eh? – not fellows to be ashamed of, Jack? But come along with us; we mustn’t part company now.’

Amid the wildest cries of rejoicing and frantic demonstrations of gratitude from the crowd, the regiment moved on to the little square of the village. Here the billets were speedily arranged; the men betook themselves to their quarters, the officers broke into small parties, and O’Grady and myself retired to the inn, where, having dined tête-à-tête, we began the interchange of our various adventures since we parted.