Chapter VII: Part 7

The British had stood firm without flinching an inch; but the French, who were now fighting in a great disorganized mob, had continued to advance, by the rear men pushing on the _front_, until within thirty paces of the British line; and at so short a distance it may easily be supposed that the shot on both sides told with fearful effect, especially among the dense masses of the French, before whom, in five minutes, arose a pile of their own dead and wounded like a breast-work. Beyond this ghastly line they would not advance an inch, nor could they be prevailed upon to do so even by the most strenuous exertions of their officers, who, whenever the smoke cleared away a little, were observed brandishing their sabres, waving their colours and eagles, and enthusiastically crying, "_Vive la France! Vive l'Empereur! Vive la Gloire!_" But their soldiers heeded them not, and continued to load and fire with the utmost _sang froid_, but would not be led to the charge.

The brave 71st Highland Light Infantry, after fighting with their usual obstinacy and intrepidity, had been compelled to give way, by which three Portuguese pieces of cannon fell into the possession of the French. To recapture these, a desperate attempt was made by Lieutenant Armstrong, who, at the head of eight private soldiers, as brave and as rash as himself, rushed furiously on the enemy. With his sword in one hand and his bonnet in the other, the gallant Borderer was seen amidst the smoke leading them on; but all perished under the leaden shower, within a few feet of the French bayonets. After being reduced to half its number of officers and men, this fine regiment began to retire in disorder. The 34th and 50th were in the same perilous predicament, owing to the front and flank movements of the enemy, when Fassifern with his Highlanders entered the bloody arena. As the battalion moved in open column of companies, along the hill-top from the camp towards the pass, Cameron addressed a few words to them, exhorting them to fight to the last man, and maintain the ancient fame of the north. He reminded them that they were not fighting merely for the defence of Spain, but of those homes where their kindred dwelt. His voice became drowned in the din of the conflict which rolled along the face of the hills, and Stuart heard only the concluding part of his address, and part of it was in Gaelic. "Highlanders! we shall have a bloody sabbath here to-day; but we go forth to shed our blood that the sabbath-bells may ring in peace at home, in those green straths and wooded glens where many a Scottish heart is praying for us at this hour." The sound of the pipes, as the piper on the flank of each company struck up "_On wi' the Tartan_," was the only reply. What a gush of indescribable feeling came through every breast, when the blast of the pipe was heard at such a moment! Every eye lighted up, and every cheek flushed: the effect of the sound of that strange instrument on the sons of Caledonia is well known.

"In halls of joy and in scenes of mourning it has prevailed,--it has animated her warriors in battle, and welcomed them back after their toils to the homes of their love and the hills of their nativity. Its strains were the first sounded in the ears of infancy, and they are the last to be forgotten in the wanderings of age. Even Highlanders will allow that it is not the gentlest of instruments; but when far from their mountain-homes, what sounds, however melodious, could thrill their hearts like one burst of their own wild native pipe? The feelings which other instruments awaken are general and undefined, because they talk alike to Frenchmen, Spaniards, Germans, and Highlanders, for they are common to all; but the bag-pipe is sacred to Scotland, and speaks a language which Scotsmen only feel. It talks to them of home and all _the past_, and brings before them, on the burning shores of India, the wild hills and oft-frequented streams of Caledonia,--the friends that are thinking of them, and the sweethearts and wives that are weeping for them there. And need it be told here to how many fields of danger and victory its proud strains have led? There is not a battle that is honourable to Britain in which its war-blast has not sounded; when every other instrument has been hushed by the confusion and carnage of the scene, it has been borne into the thick of the battle, and far in the advance its bleeding but devoted bearer, sinking to the earth, has sounded at once encouragement to his countrymen--and his own coronach!"[*]

[*] Preface to Macdonald's "Ancient Martial Music of Scotland."

Ranald-dhu with his comrades strove to call up the "fierce native daring" of the Highlanders, who continued to move quickly forward. The balls now began to hiss and tear up the turf around them, now and then striking down some poor fellow, who was left rolling on the ground in agony.

"The battalion will form line on the grenadiers," cried Fassifem,--"double quick!" The movement was performed with the rapidity and precision of a home-review. As the covering-serjeant of the light company took up the ground of alignement, holding his long pike aloft, a shot struck him in the head, passing through his right eye, and he fell dead. The line formed across his body, and the word of command from Seaton, "Light company; halt,--front,--dress!" had scarcely been heard on the left, before the orderly bugler, who stood by Cameron's side, sounded to fire, and the hoarse braying _piobrachd_ now rang along the line.

The first volley of the Highlanders gave a temporary check to the enemy, and enabled the 34th and "old Half-hundred" to reform in order. The French line was now, as I have said, within thirty paces, and every lineament and feature of their dark and sallow faces could be distinctly seen at so short a distance. They were now in the midst of all the uproar, the smoke, the blood, the danger, the mingling of hideous groans and cries,--in short, the hell upon earth of a hot engagement, in which both parties became so heated by the slaughter around them, that all the softer passions were forgotten, and they longed, with a tiger-like feeling, to bury their blades in each other's hearts.

Ronald felt his pulses thickening, the blood tingling in his ears, for the sound of the musquetry had deafened them to every thing else, and his heart rebounded within his bosom until he could almost hear it beat; but it was with feelings the reverse of fear,--a wish to leap headlong among the enemy, to cut them down with his sword as he would whinbushes, and to revenge the slaughter the terrible fire of so dense a column was making among his gallant and devoted regiment. So thick was the smoke become, that he could scarcely see the third file from him, and only at times it cleared up a little. What was then revealed, served only to infuriate him the more. The Highlanders were lying in heaps across and across each other,--piled up just as they fell; while their comrades fought above them, firing and reloading with all the rapidity in their power, until struck by a shot, and down they fell to perish unnoticed and unknown. Almost every shot killed; for the distance was short, and the wounds were hideous and ghastly, the blood spouting forth from the orifice as if through a syringe.

Now and then Ronald felt his heart momentarily recoil within him when he beheld some poor soldier, while in the full possession of life and energy, toss aside his firelock, and fall suddenly backwards across some heap of corpses--stricken dead. But a battle-field is no place for sympathy, and the feeling lasted but for an instant.

"Shall we never get the word to charge?" cried Seaton fiercely. "O Stuart! this is indeed infernal work,--to be mauled thus, and within a few feet of their muzzles."

"A charge would be madness, and our utter destruction. A single regiment against thirteen columns of Frenchmen--"

"We possess the pass, though. Poor Macivar is on the turf, and Macdonuil is shot through the heart. Hah! see to the left: the 50th are giving way--God! I am struck!" He sunk to the earth, with the blood gushing from his mouth and nostrils. A shot had pierced his breast, beating in with it a part of the silver breast-plate, and in great agony he rolled over several times, grasping and tearing the turf with fruitless efforts to regain his feet.

"Never mind me, light bobs, but stand by Cameron to the last. Hurrah!" Convulsively he strove to raise himself up; but another bullet passed through his neck, and a deadly paleness overspread his countenance. He gave his claymore one last flourish, he cast a glance of fury and despair towards the enemy, and expired. Scarcely a minute had elapsed since he was struck, and now he was dead!

"Poor Seaton!" muttered Ronald, and turned away. He had now the command of the light company; the other lieutenant lay bleeding to death a few yards off, and in the intervals of pain crying fruitlessly for water. One soldier, who had been struck by a shot across the bridge of the nose, became blind, and rushed frantickly among the enemy, to perish under their bayonets. Another, who had his lower jaw carried off, presented a horrible spectacle as he lay on the ground, vomiting up blood through his open throat, and lolling out his exposed and swollen tongue.[*]

[*] This man lived for many years afterwards, having the loss supplied by a mask, through which soups were induced by a pipe for his sustenance. For pension he received the sum of nine-pence per day.

"Ninety-second! Prepare to charge!" cried Cameron, animated to fury by this deadly slaughter of his regiment. "Gordon Highlanders! prepare to charge," he repeated, as he galloped along the broken line with eyes flashing fire, while he waved his bonnet aloft. "Close up,--keep together; shoulder to shoulder, Highland men,--charge!" Ronald alone heard him, and repeated the rash order; but their voices were unheard amidst the din of the conflict. At that moment the smoke cleared a little away, and in front Ronald perceived a French grenadier sling his musquet, and advancing a few paces before his friends, stoop down to rifle an officer of the 71st regiment, who was lying dead between the lines.

"Iverach, mark that plundering rascal," said Stuart; "aim steadily."

Evan fired and missed.

"That was not like a man from the braes of Strathonan!" said his master angrily. "Fire, Ian Macdonald; you are one of the best shots in the company."

"My father shot the _Damh mhor a Vonalia_ toon in Padenoch,[*] and I was aye thouchten to pe a petterer marksman than him," replied the young Highlander coolly, as he levelled his piece and fired. The Frenchman fell forward, beat the earth with his heels for a moment, and then lay motionless.

[*] A famous white stag, shot in Badenoch in 1807. It was believed by the Highlanders to be more than 200 years old.

"He's toon, sir: I have pitten a flea in his lug," replied the marksman, as he bit another cartridge.

For two hours this desperate and unequal conflict was maintained. The other regiments had given way in disorder, and the Highlanders began to waver, after the loss of their gallant colonel, who had retired severely wounded. Nearly all the officers were dead or dying on the ground, while others were endeavouring to find their way to some place where they could get their wounds dressed. Two alone were left with the regiment,--Ronald and another lieutenant, who, being senior, had the command, and finding that the battalion was reduced to less than a company, ordered it to retire towards the pass of Maya, having lost in two hours five-and-twenty officers, and three hundred rank and file. The other regiments were cut up in nearly the same manner, but none had lost so many officers. Stuart carried the king's colour, and a serjeant the regimental--all the ensigns being killed or wounded. Poor Alister Macdonald was left on the field among the former. A shot had passed through his head, and he died without a groan. His friend Ronald was considerably startled when he saw him lying dead. The prediction of Dugald Mhor flashed upon his mind, and he looked round for that singular old Highlander; but he was away with Fassifern, on the road for the village of Irun.

The whole of the British forces were now in retreat before the overwhelming power of the enemy, column after column of whom continued to press forward. The defenders of the pass retired on the rock of Maya, abandoning their camp and baggage to the French. On retreating through the pass, Major Campbell, whose horse had been as usual shot under him, and who had first left the field owing to a severe wound, headed a few Highlanders, who scrambled like squirrels up the face of a precipitous crag, from the summit of which they kept up a hot fire upon the French troops, not only holding them decidedly in check and giving their friends time to retire, but revenging the previous slaughter in front of the pass. Here it may be worth mentioning that Major Campbell lost his celebrated cudgel, which, in the enthusiasm of the moment he sent flying among the foe, and unhorsed a mounted officer. He gave them also much weightier proofs of his good-will. Just as the flank of a column of French grenadiers reached the base of the crag occupied by the Highlanders, a tremendous fragment of rock, urged forward by the powerful hands of the major, came thundering down among them,--rolling through the dense mass of men with irresistible force and fury, making a perfect but terrible lane, and doing as much mischief as a dozen bomb-shells. Every man below held his breath for a moment, and then cries of rage and fury burst from the whole division of Drouet; while the Scots, pouring upon them a parting salute of shot and stones, descended from the other side of the rock, and rejoined their comrades in double-quick time. Under the orders of General Stuart the whole retired to the rock of Maya, those in the rear maintaining an irregular skirmish with the French; who, on perceiving this rearward movement, filled the air with cries of "Long live the great Emperor! Long live beautiful France!" mingled with shouts,--absolute yells of triumph and exultation.

Thoroughly enraged and disheartened, the British continued to retire, yet anxiously expecting that succours from Lord Wellington would arrive in time to enable them to face about, and beat Soult before nightfall. As the little band of Highlanders descended straggling from the hills, Stuart saw a lady (the wife of an officer of the 50th) on horseback, and in a miserable situation. Her horse had stuck fast above the saddle-girths in a deep morass, and she was too much terrified and bewildered to leave it. The balls of the sharp-shooters were whistling past her every second, and she cried imploringly on the retreating Highlanders to yield her some assistance; but it was impossible, and she fell into the hands of the French. Her husband was lying dead, with his sword in his hand, in the gorge of the fatal pass. On the brigade of Sir Edward Barnes coming up from the rear, a new and sanguinary conflict took place; but the enemy were defeated, and the pass regained.

That night the shattered remains of the Gordon Highlanders bivouacked near Barrueta. The consternation of the inhabitants in the mountain villages, when the heights were abandoned and the French again advancing, cannot be easily described. From Barrueta, Elizondo, Maya, and Huarte, men, women, and children were seen pouring forth during the night and descending the mountain paths by torch-light, bearing along, with infinite toil, their sick and infirm relatives, their bedding, furniture, &c., to save them from the remorseless invaders, who, they too well knew would give all to the flames that was "too hot or too heavy" to carry off.

So eager were the French soldiers for plunder, that their searches were conducted upon a regular system. When a town was entered, every piece of furniture was broken, every plank raised to see whether any thing was hidden or buried, and the hammer and small saw, carried by every man in his havresack, assisted greatly this unsoldier-like work. It is said, that in Germany the vaults of the churches, the very graves in the church-yards were searched; and the brutality with which they treated those unfortunate Spaniards, male and female, who fell into their power, cannot be described. Therefore it is not be wondered at that the Pyrenean mountaineers fled at their approach, as from a legion of devils.

The roads were likewise crowded with wounded officers and soldiers, pouring down from the passes of Maya and Roncesvalles. Those who were able to move, were ordered to retire to Vittoria, which had already been converted into a vast hospital, and crowded to excess with the wounded of the great battle; and the miseries these unfortunates suffered, travelling without baggage or money in a strange country, weary, sick, and wounded, for a distance of one hundred miles during a hot season, are utterly inconceivable. Many wounds mortified, and became incurable; hundreds of men perished by the way-side of starvation and loss of blood, or reached Vittoria only to expire in the streets. Every medical officer had from ninety to a hundred patients on his list, and many lives were lost from the want of proper attendance.

The astounding intelligence that the Duke of Dalmatia had forced the Pyrenean passes, reached Lord Wellington at night, and promptly as usual he took means to concentrate his army, providing at the same time for the siege of San Sebastian, and the blockade of Pampeluna. The right wing was in full retreat from the mountains when he directed it to halt, and soon arrived himself to direct measures for covering Pampeluna, within a few miles of which Soult, eager for its relief, had now arrived. The discomfited troops from Maya were ordered to march on the position before Pampeluna, and moved accordingly from Barrueta on Tuesday the 27th. A melancholy spectacle the parade of the Gordon Highlanders presented on that morning! The colours, which had been shot almost to rags, were cased, and carried by non-commissioned officers; two young lieutenants had the command, and as the solitary piper, Ranald Macdonuildhu, blew the 'gathering,' he watched with a stern and louring visage the few survivors of the late conflict, as they paraded on the hill-side, falling one by one into their places. Here were five men of the grenadiers, twenty men of another company, ten of a third, two of a fourth, and many others were totally annihilated, neither officer nor private being present. The Serjeant-major, with his arm in a sling, presented a list of the casualties to Lieutenant Logan, who commanded,--Logan of that Ilk, as he was named by the mess.

"Where is Captain Mac Ivor?"

"Killed, sir. I saw him lying dead, close by Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Macdonald."

"Where is Captain Bevan?"

"He retired, sir, with his arm shattered near the elbow, and expired at the moment Dr. Stuart attempted to remove the limb at the shoulder-socket."

"Where is Gordon?"

"Severely wounded, and gone to the rear."

"Grant?"

"Shot through the side."

"Macpherson and Macdonald,--Ranald Macdonuil, I mean?"

"Missing, sir." And so on--killed, wounded, and missing, was the answer to every question.

"God help us, sir!" said the worthy non-commissioned officer, as he raised his hand to his bonnet and turned away with a glistening eye, "but it's a heart-breaking thing to see the regiment cut up in this way."

The band was annihilated, and with a single drum and bagpipe the little party moved off, just as the morning sun rose above that deadly pass, where so many a gallant heart had grown cold, and ceased to beat for ever.

*CHAPTER IX.*

*THE BLOCK-HOUSE. MINA.*

Hill's division from the Pyrenees arrived at Pampeluna in time to share the fighting which ensued when Soult endeavoured to dislodge the allies on the 28th, but was repulsed with immense loss. Along the heights of Huarte the contest was very severe, and the bravery of the British was equalled only by that of their enemies. Every regiment charged with the bayonet; and the Highlanders,--ever at home at close quarters, more than once. Both armies remained quiet during the 29th; but Wellington, having completed all his arrangements, attacked the left and centre of Soult's forces next morning, and defeated them with great slaughter. Upon this discomfiture, the marshal's only object was to secure a safe retreat into France. After a fruitless attempt to turn Sir Rowland Hill's position at La Zarza, and fighting until compelled to cease firing by night coming on, they abandoned their ground under the favouring shadow of the darkness, and on the morrow were discovered in full retreat for France by the pass of Donna Maria. The allies "followed them up" in hot pursuit, fighting and capturing at every yard of the way, and on the 1st of August again took possession of those hard-contested passes, while the French retired into their own country completely thrashed, but certainly not to their hearts' content. With the exception of a slight bayonet-wound in a charge at La Zarza, Ronald Stuart had escaped with a whole skin during all these hard conflicts, known generally as the battles of the Pyrenees. But how much the regiment had suffered may be inferred from the fact, that of the thousand men who had landed in Spain under its colours, about eighty only were in the ranks.

The aspect of the passes of Maya and Roncesvalles, when re-occupied, was at once revolting and humiliating. The corses of friends and foes lay yet unburied there; but the death-hunters, the guerillas, and those ferocious banditti who infested every part of Spain, had been there at work; and most of the bodies were lying naked as when they came into the world. Ronald found Captain Mac Ivor in this condition, with his broad-sword so glued and encrusted with gore to his stiffened fingers, that it could not be removed, and so was buried with him. For many days the soldiers were busied in burying the dead. Deep holes were dug, wherein friends and foes were interred together,--thrown in just as they were found; and when the pit was brim full, the earth was heaped over it. These mounds of death,--fragments of uniform, tatters of tartan and plumage, shakoes and grenadier-caps, scattered about in thousands where the troops were encamped, served very disagreeably to remind them of what might be their own fate on some future day. With the exception of his sash and epaulets, ring and watch, &c., the body of poor Alister lay untouched, and Stuart was deeply moved, at least as much as a hard-hearted campaigner could well be, at the sight of his once merry and brave young comrade's remains. His claymore was grasped in one hand, and his bonnet in the other. The death-shot had passed through his brain, and he had fallen in the act of cheering on his men. His dark locks were damp with the midnight dew, and a formidable frown contracted his fine bold forehead. He had lain for seven days uninterred, and Ronald prepared to commit his body to the earth. It was rolled in a blanket, while Evan dug a pit three feet deep and six long, in which the corse was deposited.

"Puir Maister Macdonald!" said Evan, as he smoothed down the green sods. "He was a leal true Scotsman and a gallant gentleman: lang it may be ere we see his maik again. He was a gude officer, and well was he loed by every ane."

The other officers were all placed in one grave by the Highlanders, who, according to the ancient Scottish custom, piled a large cairn of loose stones over it. It was situated on the left of the road leading from Maya to France, and probably is yet to be seen. So great was the slaughter among the officers, that Stuart, although a very junior lieutenant, obtained a company, and succeeded his friend Seaton in command of the "light bobs." While the troops lay encamped on the Pyrenees, the different corps were soon made up to their proper strength by the return of convalescents from Vittoria, and the arrival of recruits from the depots or second battalions at home. In about two months the Highlanders began once more to assume the appearance of a regiment; and Fassifern, and other officers who had been wounded in the fatal action of the 25th July, rejoined as soon as their scars were closed.

Along the chain of heights, strong redoubts and block-houses were placed at intervals. The last were composed of horizontal logs, loop-holed for musquetry, and occupied by strong picquets, who were continually on the alert, in case Marshal Soult might again pay them some sudden visit from Gascony. One night in October, Ronald Stuart with his company were on duty in one of these blockhouses, when a sudden attack was made on the position by the enemy. There had been a great fall of snow, and the intense cold by which it was accompanied added greatly to the discomfort of the troops encamped on these bleak and lofty mountains, with no other shelter against the inclemencies of the weather, day and night, than canvas tents. The hills and valleys were completely covered to the depth of several feet, and many sentinels were lost, or found dreadfully frost-bitten when dug out. A path had been made from the Maya camp to the block-house which Stuart was to occupy; and as his company marched along the slippery and winding roadway, they often saw Spanish peasants or guerillas lying dead with shovels near them, showing that they perished with the intensity of the cold whilst engaged on some working or fatigue-party. In some places a frozen grisly head, or shrunken hand, clenched and withered, appeared above the smooth white surface of the snow. Had the view around the block-house been in Greenland or Newfoundland, it could not have presented a more dreary aspect. The whole of the Pyrenean chain, and the plains of Bearn and Gascony below, were clad in the same white livery. The sky was of the purest, deepest, and coldest blue, showing the most distant summits of the Pyrenean chain, the white peaks of which rose in long perspective beyond each other in an infinity of outlines. The dense smoke from the camp fires was curling up from amidst the dingy-coloured tents, where now and then the beat of a drum rang out sharply into the clear and frosty air.

Although the cold was intense, and the legs of the Highlanders were as red as their jackets, the sun was shining brightly, and the whole surface of the earth and the atmosphere were sparkling and glittering in his radiance. With their musquets slung and a piper playing before them, the light company trod merrily up the ascent, many of them singing aloud to the notes of the pipe and the tramp of their feet, which sounded dull and hollow on the hard and frozen path. A captain of the 34th regiment, whom with his company they relieved, left Stuart a flask of brandy, for which he and his two subs (Chisholm and Evan Macpherson) were very thankful, and they found it a considerable acquisition during a winter day and night in a log-house, where the wind went in and out at a hundred chinks and crannies. The picquet-house was internally one large apartment, in the centre of which the soldiers piled their arms, and huddled close together on the ground for mutual heat, and to avoid the cold blast which blew through the numerous open loop-holes in the four walls of the edifice.

Towards night, a soldier of the 66th regiment, muffled up in his grey great-coat, came toiling up the steep ascent from the valley below, bringing to Stuart a letter, which had arrived from Lisbon in the packet for his corps. An officer of the 66th, who was intimate with Ronald, had despatched it to him forthwith, and he knew in an instant, by the hand-writing and the crest on the seal, that it came from Alice Lisle. Giving the Englishman a glass of brandy, he desired him to lose no time in regaining his quarters, in case of a snow-storm setting in before nightfall.

If any thing would serve to buoy up one's spirits amid all the miseries of campaigning and the dangers of daily warfare, such letters as those of Alice Lisle certainly must have had that effect. After expressing her delight for Stuart's success and safety in a manner and delicacy of style peculiarly her own, she continued thus:--

"And so you are really now a captain, and knight of a military order? O Heaven! I can scarcely believe it, even when your name appears in the army list. How short a time has elapsed since you used to harry the nests of the eagle and owl at Tullyisla, among the dark nooks of the old castle, and gather flowers and berries with Louis and me in Strathonan! You well know, dear Ronald, that no one rejoices more than Alice Lisle at your rapid promotion, but indeed I think it very horrid to owe one's advancement to the death of one's friends, and I see that a sad alteration has taken place among the officers of the Gordon Highlanders since the battle of the Pyrenees. The joy I now feel in the knowledge of your--alas! only temporary--safety and good fortune, will scarcely counterbalance the agony of mind I experienced when the news of Vittoria arrived, and your name appeared in the list of wounded. Papa concealed the papers from me for some days, but I heard of it from my foster-sister, Jessie Cavers, and until your letters, dated from the "Maya Camp" reached us, my anxiety and perturbation of spirit are quite indescribable. What was thought of your danger by the people up the glen at Lochisla I really know not, but the whole country side was in an uproar in honour of the victory. The banner was displayed from the tower, a huge bonfire blazed on the summit of Craigonan, and the two old cannon on the bartizan were kept booming away the live-long night, greatly to the terror of all the old ladies within ten miles, who supposed that Buonaparte in person had come up the Tay, and landed a host of be-whiskered grenadiers on the Inches of Perth. The noise of the cannon alarmed others, too. The militia, the fencibles, and the volunteers got under arms; many of the chiefs north of this began to muster their people, and the whole country was in a state of commotion. Your father gave a dinner to his kin and tenantry, and dancing, drinking, and piping were kept up, I believe, in the old hall until the morning sun shone down the glen upon them."

Rolled up in his cloak, Ronald sat sipping his brandy and water, while by the light of a streaming candle he conned over the letter, so much absorbed in its contents as to forget every thing around him, until the report of a musquet, fired by the sentinel outside the block-house, caused him to start and leap to his feet as if he had received an electric shock.

"The French, and in this frosty night!" exclaimed Macpherson, leaping up from the ground, on which he had been fast asleep. "Now the devil confound them! they might have chosen daylight for their visit. Come, Stuart, leave your love-letter,--it can scarcely be any thing else, as you have been reading it all night,--leave it, and attend to your command, or Wellington will be issuing such another order anent love-letters as he gave us about the wild-pigs at Alba."

"We receive more reprehensions than rewards from head-quarters, certainly. But where are the French? Among the hills?"

"Close by, man!"

"In force, too!" added Chisholm, a smart little sub, who had been watching them from a loop-hole. "There will be heads broken in ten minutes."

"I believe you, my boy," answered Evan Macpherson, (a tall fellow, with thick black curly hair and a keen dark eye,) as he adjusted his sword-belt. "They are in force enough to put us all to our mettle."

"Stand to your arms, men!" said Ronald; but the order was needless, every man being at his post. "Be bold of heart, my lads!" he added, as he watched the advancing enemy. "We shall soon be succoured."

"Not likely," said Macpherson bluntly, "with all due deference to you, Stuart. Mina, the guerilla chief, with his followers, is far down the mountains, and General Walker's brigade is scarcely within gun-shot; so we may fight till daylight without aid."

"Or till doomsday," retorted Stuart, "if the logs hold together, and the ammunition lasts. Blow, Macvurich," said he to the piper; "give us '_Roderick Mhic Alpain Dubh_,' and blow till the logs shake around us."

The night was clear, the moon shone brightly, and from their loop-holes they saw the French advancing in considerable force,--probably two thousand strong. Their dark figures, enveloped in loose great coats, were seen distinctly dotting the pure white covering of the mountain-side, up the slippery ascent of which they were toiling with infinite labour.

"They are advancing in extended order," observed Stuart, "for fear of our sending them a cannon-shot, probably."

"Which shows they know nothing about our position."

"Certes," said Chisholm, "they are no economists of their persons, to advance upon us over such open ground. They are chasseurs, probably. The moon shines brightly, yet no appointments glitter about them."

"Soult is a most indefatigable fool," said Stuart. "He causes his soldiers to fight needlessly. Poor fellows! they must obey their orders; but what benefit is gained, even if this solitary picquet is cut off? The actions at the Pyrenees and before Pampeluna might have taught the 'Lieutenant of the Emperor' a little experience."

"I dare say," said Macpherson, "they are within range now."

"Well, then, we will enjoy some shooting with them," replied his captain. "Line the loop-holes,--aim steadily; every bullet is worth its weight in gold to-night. They are twenty to one, but care not for that! Help is at hand."

"Get into yer places, lads," said Serjeant Duncan Macrone, "and mind ye ta level low, and gie them ta cauld kail o' Vittoria het again. Got pless us; but this nicht is cauld eneuch ta freeze ta fery Ness."

The discharge of forty musquets almost shook the frail block-house to pieces; and while those soldiers who had fired withdrew to reload, forty others took their places; and thus a rapid and constant fire was maintained against the enemy, blazing around the redoubt and flashing incessantly from every loop-hole. The summit of the hill was enveloped in clouds of smoke streaked with red fire, and the echoes of the musquetry sounded like peals of thunder, booming through the clear atmosphere and echoing among the surrounding peaks. Deadly execution was done among the advancing foe, whose killed and wounded were seen lying prostrate on the frozen snow, and marking the route up the hill by a series of black spots. Nevertheless, although their numbers were diminishing at every step, the main body continued to advance with unabated ardour, formed in a wide half-circle at extended order, returning as well as they could the fire of their adversaries, upon whose place of concealment their shot came every instant, tearing away huge splinters or sinking deep into the stockade with a dull heavy sound; but only a single bullet, during a hot contest of two hours, entered the block-house. It passed through a loophole, and wounded a Highlander named Allan Warristoun in the neck, passing through his leather stock, and he sunk on the ground bleeding profusely; but Chisholm attempted to stanch the blood, by dressing the wound as well as circumstances would permit. This was the only casualty that occurred during that night's skirmish, but terrible execution was done among the enemy. They were kept completely at bay, until they became wearied and disheartened by the slaughter made among them. The light-company being excellent marksmen, every shot they fired told fatally on the assailants, at whom they could aim unseen with the utmost coolness and precision. After enduring that sort of work for nearly two hours, they retired with the utmost expedition on perceiving a strong body of Spanish guerillas advancing up the mountains from the village of Roncesvalles. A little further off was seen the brigade of General Walker, which the noise of the firing had summoned to arms; but their appearance was needless, as the conflict was over.

"Here comes Mina,--the king of Navarre!" exclaimed Stuart, as the great mob of guerillas came rushing up the mountains with shouts of "_Viva Ferdinand_! Long live Spain!" &c. "Cease firing, lads, and let the French retreat. Poor devils! we have mauled them sadly. They are lying as thick as blackberries on the hill-side." In less than half an hour the French had disappeared, and the block-house was surrounded by the bold guerillas, their appetite for blood and plunder having been keenly whetted by the report of the musquetry.

"Let those who have watches and any loose pesetas in their purses, look well to them," said Chisholm, laughing. "Here come the honest soldiers of General Mina, who is said to be often a little upon the _picaro_ himself."

"The licht-fingered loon will be waur than ony warlock, gin he gets his neive into my _sporran molloch_!" said Iverach, clasping the fox's mouth of his Highland purse.

"Or mine," said Sergeant Macrone. "Ta will pe gettin' plenty cauld iron, but no a prass podle frae me, Got tam!"

"The bonnets! the bonnets! Gude guide us, look at the blue bonnets!" exclaimed the Highlanders, astonished at the head-dress of the Biscayan guerillas, who wore flat blue caps, like those of the Scottish peasantry. Daylight had now dawned, and withdrawing the barricading from the door of the picquet-house, Stuart issued forth amidst the guerillas, who were busy stripping the French; and long practice had rendered their fingers so nimble, that in ten minutes the numerous bodies lying strewed around the position were, like those at Maya, denuded of every article of clothing. Many of the wounded were also stripped, and perished miserably on the frozen snow. Like all the Spanish peasantry, the guerillas were stout and handsome men, from Guipuscoa, Alava, and Biscaya. Nearly all wore the _zammarra_, or jacket of black sheep-skin, knee breeches, and _abarcas_, or shoes of hog-skin tied to the feet like sandals. All wore the broad Basque cap, and were armed to the teeth with musquets, pistols, pikes, poniards, and offensive weapons of every kind, which, with their huge whiskers and moustaches, gave them the appearance of a desperate horde of bandits. Their language, the _Lingua Bascongado_, or _Bascuence_, as the Spaniards name it, sounded strange to the ear of Ronald, who had been accustomed to the pure and sonorous language of the Castiles. That of the Basques, according to their own account, existed before the building of the tower of Babel, and was brought into Spain by Jubal,--an assertion somewhat difficult to prove.

Coming from amidst his plundering followers, the celebrated Mina advanced towards Ronald Stuart. His dress was in no way different from that of his followers, save that a pair of gay French epaulets adorned his sheep-skin jacket, and a black ostrich feather floated from the band of his sombrero over his left shoulder. Pasted upon his shoulder-belt was a picture of the Virgin Mary, and a golden image of the same personage hung round his neck. He was accoutred with sword and dagger, and carried a short carbine in his hand, the ammunition for which was in a cartouch-box on his left side, balanced on his right by a copper bugle for summoning his followers. He had a fine open countenance, of a very mild and prepossessing expression, quite different from what Stuart expected to find in the leader of many thousand guerillas.

The following description (taken from a journal of the period of which I write) will best illustrate his character to the reader. "Espoz y Mina was at this time between twenty and thirty years old, and his frame, both of body and mind, had received the stamp which the circumstances of his country required. When he lies down at night it is always with his pistols in his girdle; and on the few nights that he ever passes under a roof, the door is well secured. Two hours' sleep is sufficient for him. When his shirt is dirty, he goes to the nearest house, and changes it with the owner for a clean one. He makes his own powder in a cave among the mountains, and has his hospital in a mountain village, which the French have repeatedly attempted to surprise, but always unsuccessfully, for the hearts of the whole country are with Mina. He receives intelligence of every movement of the enemy, and on the first tidings of danger the villagers carry the sick and wounded upon litters on their shoulders into the fastnesses, where they remain in perfect security till the baffled enemy retires. The alcaldes of every village, when they are ordered by the French to make any requisition, must instantly inform Mina; if they fail in this duty, he goes himself in the night, seizes them in their beds, and shoots them."

Although not above five-and-twenty, the hard service he had seen, in this irregular mode of warfare, made him seem much older. Mina was the idol of the Spanish people, who styled him the king of Navarre, and extolled his deeds beyond those of the Cid, or the most famous knights of Spanish chivalry and romance. Mina was a true patriot, and the Hoffer of the Spaniards. Although his guerillas were well drilled, and consisted of ten or twelve battalions, which he ruled with a rod of iron, he never restrained them from plundering the French. On his approach, Ronald raised his bonnet in greeting the great guerilla chief, for though he was originally but a humble farmer of Pampeluna, yet Francisco Mina had the heart of a hero, and was brave as a lion.

"_Senor Capitan_," said he, bowing profoundly, after the most approved Spanish manner, "we have been somewhat late in coming to your rescue; but the fire of your soldiers has told superbly, and the base _ladrones_ lie here pretty thick. The old proverb should be changed to--"the more French, the more gain for us."[*] However, I never put my own hands to a man after he is dead: the plunder I leave to my followers,--'tis all their pay, poor fellows! and Our Lady del Pilar knows that they earn it hard."

[*] A very old Spanish proverb, still universally current in Spain, says, "The more Moors, the more gain."

"A mode of payment I very little admire," said Stuart with a smile. "But I trust, Senor Francisco, that your people will see them buried after this unharnessing is over?"

"_Satanas_ seize us if we bury a hair of their heads!" exclaimed the guerilla vehemently. "Pho! Senor Cavalier, you forget yourself. They are only Frenchmen; and what say the priests every day,--'Love all mankind _but_ Frenchmen, who are the spawn of hell!' They lie under the ban of his holiness the Pope, and with this excuse three hundred unfrocked friars serve in my band,--and brave fellows they are as ever grasped hilt! But as for the soldiers of the Corsican tyrant, they may feast the wolves of the mountains or the birds of the air, for aught that Mina cares about the matter."

He now unslung a huge leathern flask of _aguardiente_ from his sash, and after giving Stuart and his subs each a draught, he handed the rest to Sergeant Macrone, to distribute among the light company. Macrone gave his best bow and carried off the flask, with many a wish that "Got might pless her honour's ainsel, and gie her lots o' ta sneeshin and ta gude Ferintosh!" To the good wishes of Macrone, Mina replied only by a stare, without comprehending a syllable. He next gave some cigars to each of the officers, saying, at the same time, it was no compliment to present them with what cost him nothing, one of his guerillas having found them in a Frenchman's havresack.

"But they are prime cigars, senores, and from the manufactory at Guadalaxara, in Mexico," said he, lighting one adroitly by means of flashing powder in the pan of one of his pistols. "Excellent!" continued he, puffing away with an air of satisfaction, which would have driven the royal author of the 'Counter-blaste' to his wit's-end. "Excellent indeed, _par Diez_! And I ought to be a judge, senores, having smoked some hundred thousands in my time, and though but a poor peasant who dug the earth and planted cabbages at Pampeluna, I am descended in a direct line from the noble cavalier Don Hernandez de Toledo, who in 1559 introduced the famous leaf into Europe, from the province of Tabaca in San Domingo."

"Truly, Senor Espoz y Mina, your worthy ancestor deserves the gratitude of his countrymen," said Chisholm, in a tone of raillery. "He contrived a very agreeable amusement for them. From day-dawn till sunset they do little else than draw smoke into their mouths, and watch it curling out again."

Mina fixed his keen dark eye with a glance of displeasure upon Chisholm's good-natured countenance, but made no reply to him.

"Juan de la Roca!" cried he, in a voice like thunder, while he struck his foot impatiently on the frozen snow.

"Senor?" answered a childish voice; and a tall Spanish boy about sixteen years of age stood before him. This mere child fought in the band of Mina.

He was esteemed the bravest among them and always led their advanced guard, and his name had been blazoned forth in all the _Gacetas_ of the country.

"Bring the spy before us."

The boy, Juan de la Roca, who was armed like his comrades with pistols and carbine, dragged forward a peasant, whose arms were bound with cords behind him. The poor wretch trembled violently when the proud stern eye of Mina fell upon him.

"This is a notorious spy, senores," said he, "whom we captured on our way up the mountains. Now, _Senor Picaro_, what have you to say that you should not die?"

The spy never raised his eyes, and maintained a dogged silence.

"Brand him, Juan!" exclaimed Mina. "Place the mark of Cain upon his forehead, that every true Spaniard may shun, abhor, and shrink from him!"

The young savage, whom practice had rendered expert at the operation, unsheathed his dagger, and cut off the ear of the captive, from whom a deep imprecation escaped. Juan then thrust into the picquet-fire in the block-house, an iron brand, just such as those used for marking barrels, &c. It bore the words "VIVA MINA!" in letters half an inch square. Four powerful guerillas grasped the head of the spy, holding him so that it was impossible he could move. When the brand was red-hot La Roca pressed it upon his brow, the flesh of which was roasted and scorched, under the terrible operation, in a moment. The miserable being writhed and shrieked in agony. He burst from his torturers, and buried his face in the snow; then starting up with the yell of a fiend, he rushed down the mountains like a madman, and disappeared.

"Now, senores," said Mina, "I have inflicted upon him a punishment worse than death, because these marks can never be effaced. I mark every traitor thus, that my countrymen may know and despise them. Those who are thus branded are ashamed to look a Spaniard in the face, and, being compelled to dwell in solitary places, are often found dead of want among the mountains. But I must now make my adieus, and return to Roncesvalles, where my five thousand followers are to be reviewed to-day by Lord Wellington and General Morillo."

He blew a blast on his horn to collect his people, and taking farewell of the _Capitan de Cazadores_ (as he named Stuart), withdrew in the direction of the famous pass of Roncesvalles, leaving the bodies of the French lying stripped to the skin amidst the snow. As soon as they had departed, Stuart ordered out the light company with shovels, to entomb the bodies; but so deep was the snow, that temporary graves in its frail substance only could be given, as there was not time to dig down to reach the earth. Many were found on the point of death, the intense cold finishing what the bullet had begun, and their grave-diggers had to await, shovel in hand, the moment of dissolution; after which they buried, and heaped the snow hurriedly over them. But a thaw came a short time before the position on the heights was abandoned, and the remains of the unfortunates were again exposed, and at a time when no interment could be given them, as the British forces were on the march to invade the "sacred territory" of _la belle France_.

The success of Sir Thomas Graham at San Sebastian, which he boldly won by storm on the 31st of August, the fall of Pampeluna, which on the 31st of October surrendered to Don Carlos de Espana, and the successful passage of the Bidassoa, infused the highest ardour into the heart of every soldier in the allied army, and every regiment longed to unfurl its triumphant banners to the winds of France. Although the French maintained their ancient renown in arms by fighting to the last, yet they were driven from all their intrenched camps on the Lower Pyrenees, and combating every rood of ground, retired on the 16th of November to the left bank of the Nive, and there encamped, after blowing up the bridge to prevent the British crossing the river, which at that time was swollen to thrice its usual size by the melting of the snow on the hills, and by a long continuance of rain.

The allies encamped on the Spanish side of the river, and hostilities ceased for a time. The Gordon Highlanders occupied the French village of Cambo, in the department of the Lower Pyrenees, and close to the river Nive. Its inhabitants had all fled on the advance of the allies, crossing to the left bank with the retiring forces of their emperor. The camps and bivouacs of the French lay close to those of their enemies, divided only by the narrow space of the river, and the sentries on each side were but ten or fifteen yards distant from each other. From dawn until sunset the French Serjeants were heard continually drilling their squads of conscripts, twenty thousand of whom Buonaparte had dragged away from their quiet homes, and marched to the Nive to be drilled in the view of that veteran army, which had driven the flower of the soldiers of France from one end of the Peninsula to the other. Day after day the French non-commissioned officers were seen, cane in hand, getting the poor peasant-boys into some state of discipline. The British used to crowd to the river's edge to view the novel sight of French regiments on their parade, and beholding them go through the _maniement des armes_, or manual exercise, with all the minuteness common to the French,--the adjutant giving, after every word of command, the continual cautions, "_un, deux, trois, quatre!_"

At one part where the river was very narrow, a soldier of the 3rd Buffs, when on sentry one day, found himself immediately opposite to a French grenadier, placed on the same duty on the left bank of the river. The Gaul was a rough-whiskered fellow, wearing the usual service-like great coat, red epaulets, and high fur cap of the Imperial Guard. The sentinels had been staring steadily at each other for some time, and the Buff who had begun to imagine the face of the Frenchman was not unknown to him, was considerably astonished to hear him ask the question,--

"Well, Tom, old fellow! How are the dirty old Buffs coming on?" This rogue was a comrade of his own, who, a year or two before had deserted to the enemy, and had the cool impudence to hail his old friend thus from the French side of the Nive.