Читать книгу English Battles and Sieges in the Peninsula - William Francis Patrick Napier - Страница 17

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Soon after this skirmish Ciudad Rodrigo fell, and Ney advanced towards Almeida on the Coa. Craufurd’s orders were to recross that river, yet from headstrong ambition he remained with four thousand British and Portuguese infantry, eleven hundred cavalry and six guns to fight thirty thousand French on bad ground; for though his left, resting on an unfinished tower eight hundred yards from Almeida, was protected by the guns of that fortress, his right was insecure; most of his cavalry was in an open plain in front, and in his rear was a deep ravine, at the bottom of which, more than a mile off, was the Coa with only one narrow bridge for a retreat.

A stormy night ushered in the 24th of July, and the troops, drenched with rain, were under arms before daylight expecting to retire when some pistol-shots in front, followed by an order for the cavalry reserves and guns to advance, gave notice of the enemy’s approach; then the morning cleared, and twenty-four thousand French infantry, five thousand cavalry, and thirty pieces of artillery, were observed in march beyond the Turones. The British line was immediately contracted and brought under the edge of the ravine, but Ney had seen Craufurd’s false disposition, and came down with the stoop of an eagle—four thousand horsemen and a powerful artillery swept the English cavalry from the plain, and Loison’s infantry, rushing on at a charging pace, made for the centre and left of the position.

While the French were thus pouring down, several ill-judged changes were made on the English side; a part of the troops were advanced, others drawn back; the 43rd Regiment was placed within an inclosure of solid masonry ten feet high, near the road, about half-musket-shot down the ravine and having but one narrow outlet! The firing in front became heavy, the cavalry, the artillery and Portuguese caçadores successively passed this inclosure in retreat, the sharp clang of the rifles was heard along the edge of the plain above, and in a few moments the imprisoned regiment would have been without a hope of escape, if here, as in every other part of the field, the battalion officers had not remedied the faults of the general. The egress was so narrow that some large stones were loosened, a powerful simultaneous effort of the whole line then burst the wall, and the next instant the regiment was up with the riflemen. There was no room for array, no time for anything but battle, every captain carried off his company independently, joining as he could with the riflemen and 52nd, and a mass of skirmishers was thus presented, acting in small parties and under no regular command, yet each confident in the courage and discipline of those on his right and left, and all keeping together with surprising vigour.

It is unnecessary to describe the first burst of French soldiers, it is well known with what gallantry the officers lead, with what vehemence the troops follow, with what a storm of fire they waste a field of battle. At this moment, with the advantage of ground and numbers, they were breaking over the edge of the ravine, their guns, ranged along the summit, pouring down grape, while their hussars galloped over the glacis of Almeida and along the road to the bridge sabreing everything in their way. Ney, desirous that Montbrun should follow the hussars with the whole of the French cavalry, sent five officers in succession to urge him on, and so mixed were friends and enemies, that only a few guns of the fortress dared open, and no courage could have availed against such overwhelming numbers: but Montbrun enjoyed an independent command, and as the attack was made without Massena’s knowledge he would not stir. Then the British regiments, with singular intelligence and discipline, extricated themselves from their perilous situation. Falling back slowly and stopping to fight whenever opportunity offered, they retired down the ravine, tangled as it was with crags and vineyards, in despite of their enemies; who were yet so fierce and eager that even their horsemen rode amongst the inclosures, striking at the soldiers as they mounted the walls or scrambled over the rocks.

Soon the retreating troops approached the river, and the ground became more open, but the left wing, hardest pressed and having the shortest distance, arrived while the bridge was crowded with artillery and cavalry, and the right was still distant! Major M‘Leod of the 43rd instantly rallied four companies of his regiment on a hill to cover the line of passage, he was joined by some riflemen, and at the same time the brigade-major Rowan10 posted two companies on another hill to the left, flanking the road: these posts were maintained while the right wing was filing over the river, yet the French gathering in great numbers made a rush, forcing the British companies back before the bridge was cleared, and when part of the 52nd was still distant from it. Very imminent was the danger, but M‘Leod, a young man endowed with a natural genius for war, turned his horse, called on the troops to follow, waved his cap, and rode with a shout towards the enemy, on whom the suddenness of the thing and the animating gesture of the man produced the effect designed, for the soldiers rushed after him, cheering and charging as if a whole army had been at their backs: the enemy’s skirmishers not comprehending this stopped short, and before their surprise was over the 52nd passed the river, and M‘Leod followed at speed: it was a fine exploit!

As the infantry passed the bridge they planted themselves in loose order on the side of the mountain, the artillery went to the summit, and the cavalry observed the roads to the right; this disposition was made to watch some upper fords two miles off, and the bridge of Castello Bom; for it was to be apprehended that while Ney attacked in front, other troops might pass by those fords and bridge of Castello Bom and so cut off the division from the army: the river was however rising fast with the rain, and it was impossible to retreat farther until nightfall.

Soon the French skirmishers opened a biting fire across the water: it was returned as bitterly; the artillery on both sides played vigorously, the sounds were repeated by numberless echoes, and the smoke slowly rising, resolved itself into an immense arch, spanning the whole gulf and sparkling with the whirling fuzes of the flying shells. Fast and thickly the French gathered behind the high rocks, and a dragoon was seen to try the depth of the upper stream above, but two shots from the 52nd killed horse and man, and the carcasses floating down between the contending forces intimated that the river was impassable save by the bridge. Then the monotonous tones of a French drum were heard, the head of a noble column darkened the long narrow bridge, a drummer and an officer, the last in a splendid uniform, leaped together to the front and the whole rushed on with loud cries. The depth of the ravine so deceived the English soldiers’ aim at first, that two-thirds of the passage was won ere a shot had brought down an enemy; yet a few paces onwards the line of death was traced, and the whole of the leading French section fell as one man; the gallant column still pressed forward, but none could pass that terrible line, and the killed and wounded rolled together until the heap rose nearly even with the parapet, while the living mass behind them melted away rather than gave back.

The shouts of the British now rose loudly, yet they were confidently answered, and in half an hour another column, more numerous than the first, again crowded the bridge: this time the range was far better judged, and ere half the passage was gained the multitude was again torn, shattered, dispersed or slain: only ten or twelve men crossed to take shelter under the rocks at the brink of the river. The skirmishing was then renewed, yet a French surgeon, coming to the very foot of the bridge, waved a handkerchief and commenced dressing the wounded under the hottest fire; nor was the brave man’s touching appeal unheeded, every musket turned from him, although his still undaunted countrymen were preparing for a third attempt, a last effort, which was made indeed, yet with fewer numbers and less energy, for the impossibility of forcing the passage was become apparent. The combat was however continued. By the French as a point of honour, to cover the escape of those who had passed the bridge; by the English from ignorance of their object. One of the enemy’s guns was dismantled, a field magazine exploded, and many continued to fall on both sides until about four o’clock, when torrents of rain caused a momentary cessation of fire, the men amongst the rocks then escaped to their own side, the fight ceased and Craufurd retired in the night behind the Pinhel river. Forty-four Portuguese, two hundred and seventy-two British, including twenty-eight officers, were killed, wounded, or taken; and it was at first supposed that half a company of the 52nd, posted in the unfinished tower, were captured; but their officer, keeping close until the night, had passed the enemy’s posts, and crossed the Coa. The French lost above a thousand men, and the slaughter at the bridge was fearful to behold.

During the combat General Picton came up from Pinhel alone, and Craufurd asked him for the support of the third division; he refused, and they separated after a sharp altercation.11 Picton was wrong, for Craufurd’s situation was one of extreme danger; he could not then retire, and Massena might, by the bridge of Castello Bom, have taken the division in flank and destroyed it between the Coa and Pinhel rivers. Picton and Craufurd were however not formed by nature to agree. The stern countenance, robust frame, saturnine complexion, caustic speech and austere demeanour of the first promised little sympathy with the short thick figure, dark flashing eyes, quick movements and fiery temper of the second: nor did they often meet without a quarrel. Nevertheless, they had many points of resemblance in their characters and fortunes. Both were harsh and rigid in command; both prone to disobedience, yet exacting entire submission from inferiors; alike ambitious and craving of glory, they were both enterprising, yet neither was expert in handling troops under fire. After distinguished services both perished in arms, and being celebrated as generals of division while living, have been, since their deaths, injudiciously spoken of as rivalling their great leader in war.

That they were officers of mark and pretension is unquestionable—Craufurd far more so than Picton, because the latter never had a separate command and his opportunities were more circumscribed—but to compare either to the Duke of Wellington displays ignorance of the men and of the art they professed. If they had even comprehended the profound military and political combinations he was then conducting, the one would have carefully avoided fighting on the Coa, and the other, far from refusing, would have eagerly proffered his support.

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Here some illustrations of the intelligence and the lofty spirit of British soldiers will not be misplaced.

When the last of the retreating troops had passed the bridge, an Irishman of the 43rd, named Pigot, a bold turbulent fellow, leaned on his firelock, regarded the advancing enemy for some time, and then in the author’s hearing thus delivered his opinion of the action.

“General Craufurd wanted glory, so he stopped on the wrong side of the river, and now he is knocked over to the right side. The French general won’t be content until his men try to get on the wrong side also, and then they will be knocked back. Well! both will claim a victory, which is neither here nor there, but just in the middle of the river. That’s glory!” Then firing his musket he fell into the ranks. Even to the letter was his prediction verified, for General Craufurd published a contradiction of Massena’s dispatch.

This sarcasm was enforced by one of a tragic nature. There was a fellow-soldier to Pigot, a north of Ireland man, named Stewart but jocularly called the Boy because of his youth, being only nineteen, and of his gigantic stature and strength. He had fought bravely and displayed great intelligence beyond the river, and was one of the last men who came down to the bridge, but he would not pass. Turning round, he regarded the French with a grim look, and spoke aloud as follows. “So! This is the end of our boasting. This is our first battle and we retreat! The boy Stewart will not live to hear that said.” Then striding forward in his giant might he fell furiously on the nearest enemies with the bayonet, refused the quarter they seemed desirous of granting, and died fighting in the midst of them!

Still more touching, more noble, more heroic was the death of Sergeant Robert M‘Quade. During M‘Leod’s rush this man, also from the north of Ireland, saw two Frenchmen level their muskets on rests against a high gap in a bank, awaiting the uprise of an enemy; the present Sir George Brown, then a lad of sixteen, attempted to ascend at the fatal point, but M‘Quade, himself only twenty-four years of age, pulled him back, saying with a calm decided tone “You are too young Sir to be killed,” and then offering his own person to the fire fell dead, pierced with both balls!