Deeds that Won the Empire Part 4

A fight even more dramatic in its character is that fought on August 10, 1805, between the _Phoenix_ and the _Didon_. The _Didon_ was one of the finest and fastest French frigates afloat, armed with guns of special calibre and manned by a crew which formed, perhaps, the very elite of the French navy. The men had been specially picked to form the crew of the only French s.h.i.+p which was commanded by a Bonaparte, the _Pomone_, selected for the command of Captain Jerome Bonaparte.

Captain Jerome Bonaparte, however, was not just now afloat, and the _Didon_ had been selected, on account of its great speed and heavy armament, for a service of great importance. She was manned by the crew chosen for the _Pomone_, placed under an officer of special skill and daring--Captain Milias--and despatched with orders for carrying out one more of those naval "combinations" which Napoleon often attempted, but never quite accomplished. The _Didon_, in a word, was to bring up the Rochefort squadron to join the Franco-Spanish fleet under Villeneuve.

On that fatal August 10, however, it seemed to Captain Milias that fortune had thrust into his hands a golden opportunity of snapping up a British sloop of war, and carrying her as a trophy into Rochefort. An American merchantman fell in with him, and its master reported that he had been brought-to on the previous day by a British man-of-war, and compelled to produce his papers. The American told the French captain that he had been allowed to go round the Englishman's decks and count his guns--omitting, no doubt, to add that he was half-drunk while doing it. Contemplated through an American's prejudices, inflamed with grog, the British s.h.i.+p seemed a very poor thing indeed. She carried, the American told the captain of the _Didon_, only twenty guns of light calibre, and her captain and officers were "so c.o.c.ky" that if they had a chance they would probably lay themselves alongside even the _Didon_ and become an easy prey. The American pointed out to the eagerly listening Frenchmen the topgallant sails of the s.h.i.+p he was describing showing above the sky-line to windward. Captain Milias thought he saw glory and cheap victory beckoning him, and he put his helm down, and stood under easy sail towards the fast-rising topsails of the Englishman.

Now, the _Phoenix_ was, perhaps, the smallest frigate in the British navy; a stocky little craft, scarcely above the rating of a sloop; and its captain, Baker, a man with something of Dundonald's gift for ruse, had disguised his s.h.i.+p so as to look as much as possible like a sloop.

Baker, too, who believed that light guns quickly handled were capable of more effective mischief than the slow fire of heavier guns, had changed his heavier metal for 18-pounders. The two s.h.i.+ps, therefore, were very unequal in fighting force. The broadside of the _Didon_ was nearly fifty per cent. heavier than that of the _Phoenix_; her crew was nearly fifty per cent. more numerous, and she was splendidly equipped at every point.

The yellow sides and royal yards rigged aloft told the "c.o.c.ky"

_Phoenix_ that the big s.h.i.+p to leeward was a Frenchman, and, with all sails spread, she bore down in the chase. Baker was eager to engage his enemy to leeward, that she might not escape, and he held his fire till he could reach the desired position. The _Didon_, however, a quick and weatherly s.h.i.+p, was able to keep ahead of the _Phoenix_, and thrice poured in a heavy broadside upon the grimly silent British s.h.i.+p without receiving a shot in reply. Baker's men were falling fast at their quarters, and, impatient at being both foiled and raked, he at last ran fiercely at his enemy to windward. The heads of both s.h.i.+ps swung parallel, and at pistol-distance broadside furiously answered broadside. In order to come up with her opponent, however, the _Phoenix_ had all sail spread, and she gradually forged ahead. As soon as the two s.h.i.+ps were clear, the _Didon_, by a fine stroke of seamans.h.i.+p, hauled up, crossed the stern of the _Phoenix_, and raked her, and then repeated the pleasant operation. The rigging of the _Phoenix_ was so shattered that for a few minutes she was out of hand.

Baker, however, was a fine seaman, and his crew were in a high state of discipline; and when the _Didon_ once more bore up to rake her antagonist, the British s.h.i.+p, with her sails thrown aback, evaded the Frenchman's fire. But the stern of the _Didon_ smote with a crash on the starboard quarter of the Phoenix; the s.h.i.+ps were lying parallel; the broadside of neither could be brought to bear. The Frenchmen, immensely superior in numbers, made an impetuous rush across their forecastle, and leaped on the quarter-deck of the Phoenix. The marines of that s.h.i.+p, however, drawn up in a steady line across the deck, resisted the whole rush of the French boarders; and the British sailors, tumbling up from their guns, cutla.s.s and boarding-pike in hand, and wroth with the audacity of the "French lubbers" daring to board the "c.o.c.ky little _Phoenix_," with one rush, pushed fiercely home, swept the Frenchmen back on to their own vessel.

On the French forecastle stood a bra.s.s 36-pounder carronade; this commanded the whole of the British s.h.i.+p, and with it the French opened a most destructive fire. The British s.h.i.+p, as it happened, could not bring a single gun to bear in return. Baker, however, had fitted the cabin window on either quarter of his s.h.i.+p to serve as a port, in preparation for exactly such a contingency as this; and the aftermost main-deck gun was dragged into the cabin, the improvised port thrown open, and Baker himself, with a cl.u.s.ter of officers and men, was eagerly employed in fitting tackles to enable the gun to be worked. As the sides of the two s.h.i.+ps were actually grinding together the Frenchmen saw the preparations being made; a double squad of marines was brought up at a run to the larboard gangway, and opened a swift and deadly fire into the cabin, crowded with English sailors busy rigging their gun. The men dropped in cl.u.s.ters; the floor of the cabin was covered with the slain, its walls were splashed with blood. But Baker and the few men not yet struck down kept coolly to their task. The gun was loaded under the actual flash of the French muskets, its muzzle was thrust through the port, and it was fired! Its charge of langrage swept the French s.h.i.+p from her larboard bow to her starboard quarter, and struck down in an instant twenty-four men. The deadly fire was renewed again and again, the British marines on the quarter-deck meanwhile keeping down with their musketry the fire of the great French carronade.

That fierce and b.l.o.o.d.y wrestle lasted for nearly thirty minutes, then the _Didon_ began to fore-reach. Her great bowsprit ground slowly along the side of the _Phoenix_. It crossed the line of the second aftermost gun on the British main-deck. Its flames on the instant smote the Frenchman's head-rails to splinters, and destroyed the gammoning of her bowsprit. Gun after gun of the two s.h.i.+ps was brought in succession to bear; but in this close and deadly contest the _Phoenix_ had the advantage. Her guns were lighter, her men better drilled, and their fierce energy overbore the Frenchmen. Presently the _Didon_, with her foremast tottering, her maintopmast gone, her decks a blood-stained wreck, pa.s.sed out of gunshot ahead.

In the tangle between the two s.h.i.+ps the fly of the British white ensign at the gaff end dropped on the _Didon's_ forecastle. The Frenchmen tore it off, and, as the s.h.i.+ps moved apart, they waved it triumphantly from the _Didon's_ stern. All the colours of the _Phoenix_, indeed, in one way or another had vanished, and the only response the exasperated British tars could make to the insult of the _Didon_ was to immediately lash a boat's ensign to the larboard, and the Union Jack to the starboard end of their cross jack yard-arm.

The wind had dropped; both s.h.i.+ps were now lying a in a semi-wrecked condition out of gunshot of each other, and it became a question of which could soonest repair damages and get into fighting condition again. Both s.h.i.+ps, as it happened, had begun the fight with nearly all canvas spread, and from their splintered masts the sails now hung one wild network of rags. In each s.h.i.+p a desperate race to effect repairs began. On the Frenchman's decks arose a babel of sounds, the shouts of officers, the tumult of the men's voices. The British, on the other hand, worked in grim and orderly silence, with no sound but the cool, stern orders of the officers. In such a race the British were sure to win, and fortune aided them. The two s.h.i.+ps were rolling heavily in the windless swell, and a little before noon the British saw the wounded foremast of their enemy suddenly snap and tumble, with all its canvas, upon the unfortunate _Didon's_ decks. This gave new and exultant vigour to the British. Shot-holes were plugged, dismounted guns refitted, fresh braces rove, the torn rigging spliced, new canvas spread. The wind blew softly again, and a little after noon the _Phoenix_, sorely battered indeed, but in fighting trim, with guns loaded, and the survivors of her crew at quarters, bore down on the _Didon_, and took her position on that s.h.i.+p's weather bow. Just when the word "Fire!" was about to be given, the _Didon's_ flag fluttered reluctantly down; she had struck!

The toils of the _Phoenix_, however, were not even yet ended. The s.h.i.+p she had captured was practically a wreck, its mainmast tottering to its fall, while the prisoners greatly exceeded in numbers their captors.

The little _Phoenix_ courageously took her big prize in tow, and laid her course for Plymouth. Once the pair of crippled frigates were chased by the whole of Villeneuve's fleet; once, by a few chance words overheard, a plot amongst the French prisoners for seizing the _Phoenix_ and then retaking the _Didon_ was detected--almost too late--and thwarted. The _Phoenix_, and her prize too, reached Gibraltar when a thick fog lay on the straits, a fog which, as the sorely damaged s.h.i.+ps crept through it, was full of the sound of signal guns and the ringing of bells. The Franco-Spanish fleet, in a word, a procession of giants, went slowly past the crippled s.h.i.+ps in the fog, and never saw them!

On September 3, however, the _Phoenix_ safely brought her hard-won and stubborn-guarded prize safely into Plymouth Sound.

The fight between the two s.h.i.+ps was marked by many heroic incidents.

During the action the very invalids in the sick-bay of the _Phoenix_ crept from their cots and tried to take some feeble part in the fight.

The purser is not usually part of the fighting staff of a s.h.i.+p, but the acting purser of the _Phoenix_, while her captain was in the smoke-filled cabin below, trying to rig up a gun to bear on the _Didon_, took charge of the quarter-deck, kept his post right opposite the brazen mouth of the great carronade we have described, and, with a few marines, kept down the fire. A little middy had the distinction of saving his captain's life. The _Didon's_ bowsprit was thrust, like the shaft of a gigantic lance, over the quarter of the _Phoenix_, and a Frenchman, lying along it, levelled his musket at Captain Baker, not six paces distant, and took deliberate aim. A middy named Phillips, armed with a musket as big as himself, saw the levelled piece of the Frenchman; he gave his captain an unceremonious jostle aside just as the Frenchman's musket flashed, and with almost the same movement discharged his own piece at the enemy. The French bullet tore off the rim of Captain Baker's hat, but the body of the man who fired it fell with a splash betwixt the two s.h.i.+ps into the water. Here was a story, indeed, for a middy to tell, to the admiration of all the gun-rooms in the fleet.

The middy of the period, however, was half imp, half hero. Another youthful Nelson, aetat. sixteen, at the hottest stage of the fight--probably at the moment the acting-purser was in command on the quarter-deck--found an opportunity of getting at the purser's stores.

With jaws widely distended, he was in the act of sucking--in the fas.h.i.+on so delightful to boys--a huge orange, when a musket ball, after pa.s.sing through the head of a seaman, went clean through both the youth's distended cheeks, and this without touching a single tooth.

Whether this affected the flavour of the orange is not told, but the historian gravely records that "when the wound in each cheek healed, a pair of not unseemly dimples remained." Happy middy! He would scarcely envy Nelson his peerage.

[Transcriber's note: The word "aetat." in the above paragraph is an abbreviation of the Latin "aetatis", meaning "aged".]

THE BLOOD-STAINED HILL OF BUSACO

"Who would not fight for England?

Who would not fling a life I' the ring, to meet a tyrant's gage, And glory in the strife?

Now, fair befall our England, On her proud and perilous road; And woe and wail to those who make Her footprints red with blood!

Up with our red-cross banner--roll A thunder-peal of drums!

Fight on there, every valiant soul, And, courage! England comes!

Now, fair befall our England, On her proud and perilous road; And woe and wail to those who make Her footprints red with blood!

Now, victory to our England!

And where'er she lifts her hand In Freedom's fight, to rescue Right, G.o.d bless the dear old land!

And when the storm has pa.s.sed away, In glory and in calm May she sit down i' the green o' the day, And sing her peaceful psalm!

Now, victory to our England!

And where'er she lifts her hand In Freedom's fight, to rescue Right, G.o.d bless the dear old land!"

--GERALD Ma.s.sEY.

Busaco is, perhaps, the most picturesque of Peninsular battles. In the wild nature of the ground over which it raged, the dramatic incidents which marked its progress, the furious daring of the a.s.sault, and the stern valour of the defence, it is almost without a rival. The French had every advantage in the fight, save one. They were 65,000 strong, an army of veterans, many of them the men of Austerlitz and Marengo.

Ma.s.sena led; Ney was second in command; both facts being pledges of daring generals.h.i.+p. The English were falling sullenly back in the long retreat which ended at Torres Vedras, and the French were in exultant pursuit. Ma.s.sena had announced that he was going to "drive the leopard into the sea"; and French soldiers, it may be added, are never so dangerous as when on fire with the _elan_ of success.

Wellington's army was inferior to its foe in numbers, and of mixed nationality, and it is probable that retreat had loosened the fibre of even British discipline, if not of British courage. Two days before Busaco, for example, the light division, the very flower of the English army, was encamped in a pine-wood about which a peasant had warned them that it was "haunted." During the night, without signal or visible cause, officers and men, as though suddenly smitten with frenzy, started from their sleep and dispersed in all directions. Nor could the mysterious panic be stayed until some officer, shrewder than the rest, shouted the order, "Prepare to receive cavalry," when the instinct of discipline a.s.serted itself, the men rushed into rallying squares, and, with huge shouts of laughter, recovered themselves from their panic.

But battle is to the British soldier a tonic, and when Wellington drew up his lines in challenge of battle to his pursuer, on the great hill of Busaco, his red-coated soldiery were at least full of a grim satisfaction. One of the combatants has described the diverse aspects of the two hosts on the night before the fight. "The French were all bustle and gaiety; but along the whole English line the soldiers, in stern silence, examined their flints, cleaned their locks and barrels, and then stretched themselves on the ground to rest, each with his firelock within his grasp." The single advantage of the British lay in their position. Busaco is a great hill, one of the loftiest and most rugged in Portugal, eight miles in breadth, and barring the road by which Ma.s.sena was moving on Lisbon. "There are certainly," said Wellington, "many bad roads in Portugal, but the enemy has taken decidedly the worst in the whole kingdom."

The great ridge, with its gloomy tree-clad heights and cloven crest, round which the mists hung in sullen vapour, was an ideal position for defence. In its front was a valley forming a natural ditch so deep that the eye could scarcely pierce its depths. The ravine at one point was so narrow that the English and French guns waged duel across it, but on the British side the chasm was almost perpendicular.

From their eyrie perch on September 27, 1810, the English watched Ma.s.sena's great host coming on. Every eminence sparkled with their bayonets, every road was crowded with their waggons; it seemed not so much the march of an army as the movement of a nation. The vision of "grim Busaco's iron ridge," glittering with bayonets, arrested the march of the French. But Ney, whose military glance was keen and sure, saw that the English arrangements were not yet complete; an unfilled gap, three miles wide, parted the right wing from the left, and he was eager for an immediate attack. Ma.s.sena, however, was ten miles in the rear. According to Marbot, who has left a spirited account of Busaco, Ma.s.sena put off the attack till the next day, and thus threw away a great opportunity. In the gloomy depths of the ravines, however, a war of skirmishers broke out, and the muskets rang loudly through the echoing valleys, while the puffs of eddying white smoke rose through the black pines. But night fell, and the mountain heights above were crowned with the bivouac fires of 100,000 warriors, over whom the serene sky glittered. Presently a bitter wind broke on the mountain summits, and all through the night the soldiers s.h.i.+vered under its keen blast.

Ma.s.sena's plan of attack was simple and daring. Ney was to climb the steep front on the English left, and a.s.sail the light division under Craufurd; Regnier, with a _corps d'elite_, was to attack the English left, held by Picton's division. Regnier formed his attack into five columns while the stars were yet glittering coldly in the morning sky.

They had first to plunge into the savage depths of the ravine, and then climb the steep slope leading to the English position. The vigour of the attack was magnificent. General Merle, who had won fame at Austerlitz, personally led the charge. At a run the columns went down the ravine; at a run, scarcely less swift, they swept up the hostile slope. The guns smote the columns from end to end, and the attack left behind it a broad crimson trail of the dead and dying. But it never paused. A wave of steel and fire and martial tumult, it swept up the hill, broke over the crest in a spray of flame, brushed aside a Portuguese regiment in its path like a wisp of straw, and broke on the lines of the third division.

The pressure was too great for even the solid English line to sustain; it, too, yielded to the impetuous French, part of whom seized the rocks at the highest point of the hill, while another part wheeled to the right, intending to sweep the summit of the sierra. It was an astonis.h.i.+ng feat. Only French soldiers, magnificently led and in a mood of victory, could have done it; and only British soldiers, it may be added, whom defeat hardens, could have restored such a reverse.

Picton was in command, and he sent at the French a wing of the 88th, the famous Connaught Rangers, led by Colonel Wallace, an officer in whom Wellington reposed great confidence. Wallace's address was brief and pertinent. "Press them to the muzzle, Connaught Rangers; press on to the rascals." There is no better fighting material in the world than an Irish regiment well led and in a high state of discipline, and this matchless regiment, with levelled bayonets, ran in on the French with a grim and silent fury there was no denying. Vain was resistance.

Marbot says of the Rangers that "their first volley, delivered at fifteen paces, stretched more than 500 men on the ground"; and the threatening gleam of the bayonet followed fiercely on the flame of the musket.

The French were borne, shouting, struggling, and fighting desperately, over the crest and down the deep slope to the ravine below. In a whirlwind of dust and fire and clamour went the whole body of furious soldiery into the valley, leaving a broad track of broken arms and dying men. According to the regimental records of the 88th, "Twenty minutes sufficed to teach the heroes of Marengo and Austerlitz that they must yield to the Rangers of Connaught!" As the breathless Rangers re-formed triumphantly on the ridge, Wellington galloped up and declared he had never witnessed a more gallant charge.

But a wing of Regnier's attack had formed at right angles across the ridge. It was pressing forward with stern resolution; it swept before it the light companies of the 74th and 88th regiments, and unless this attack could be arrested the position and the battle were lost. Picton rallied his broken lines within _sixty yards_ of the French muskets, a feat not the least marvellous in a marvellous fight, and then sent them furiously at the exulting French, who held a strong position amongst the rocks. It is always difficult to disentangle the confusion which marks a great fight. Napier says that it was Cameron who formed line with the 38th under a violent fire, and, without returning a shot, ran in upon the French grenadiers with the bayonet and hurled them triumphantly over the crest. Picton, on the other hand, declares that it was the light companies of the 74th and the 88th, under Major Smith, an officer of great daring--who fell in the moment of victory--that flung the last French down over the cliff. Who can decide when such experts, and actors in the actual scene, differ?

The result, however, as seen from the French side, is clear. The French, Marbot records, "found themselves driven in a heap down the deep descent up which they had climbed, and the English lines followed them half-way down firing murderous volleys. At this point we lost a general, 2 colonels, 80 officers, and 700 or 800 men." "The English,"

he adds in explanation of this dreadful loss of life, "were the best marksmen in Europe, the only troops who were perfectly practised in the use of small arms, whence their firing was far more accurate than that of any other infantry."

A gleam of humour at this point crosses the grim visage of battle.

Picton, on lying down in his bivouac the night before the battle, had adorned his head with a picturesque and highly coloured nightcap. The sudden attack of the French woke him; he clapped on cloak and c.o.c.ked hat, and rode to the fighting line, when he personally led the attack which flung the last of Regnier's troops down the slope. At the moment of the charge he took off his c.o.c.ked hat to wave the troops onward; this revealed the domestic head-dress he unconsciously wore, and the astonished soldiers beheld their general on flame with warlike fury gesticulating martially in a nightcap! A great shout of laughter went up from the men as they stopped for a moment to realise the spectacle; then with a tempest of mingled laughter and cheers they flung themselves on the enemy.

Meanwhile Ney had formed his attack on the English left, held by Craufurd and the famous light division. Marbot praises the characteristic tactics of the British in such fights. "After having, as we do," he says, "garnished their front with skirmishers, they post their princ.i.p.al forces out of sight, holding them all the time sufficiently near to the key of the position to be able to attack the enemy the instant they reach it; and this attack, made unexpectedly on a.s.sailants who have lost heavily, and think the victory already theirs, succeeds almost invariably." "We had," he adds, "a melancholy experience of this art at Busaco." Craufurd, a soldier of fine skill, made exactly such a disposition of his men. Some rocks at the edge of the ravine formed natural embrasures for the English guns under Ross; below them the Rifles were flung out as skirmishers; behind them the German infantry were the only visible troops; but in a fold of the hill, unseen, Craufurd held the 43rd and 52nd regiments drawn up in line.

Ney's attack, as might be expected, was sudden and furious. The English, in the grey dawn, looking down the ravine, saw three huge ma.s.ses start from the French lines and swarm up the slope. To climb an ascent so steep, vexed by skirmishers on either flank, and scourged by the guns which flashed from the summit, was a great and most daring feat--yet the French did it. Busaco, indeed, is memorable as showing the French fighting quality at its highest point. General Simon led Loison's attack right up to the lips of the English guns, and in the dreadful charge its order was never disturbed nor its speed arrested.

"Ross's guns," says Napier, "were worked with incredible quickness, yet their range was palpably contracted every round; the enemy's shot came singing up in a sharper key; the English skirmishers, breathless and begrimed with powder, rushed over the edge of the ascent; the artillery drew back"--and over the edge of the hill came the bearskins and the gleaming bayonets of the French! General Simon led the attack so fiercely home that he was the first to leap across the English entrenchments, when an infantry soldier, lingering stubbornly after his comrades had fallen back, shot him point-blank through the face. The unfortunate general, when the fight was over, was found lying in the redoubt amongst the dying and the dead, with scarcely a human feature left. He recovered, was sent as a prisoner to England, and was afterwards exchanged, but his horrible wound made it impossible for him to serve again.

Craufurd had been watching meanwhile with grim coolness the onward rush of the French. They came storming and exultant, a wave of martial figures, edged with a spray of fire and a tossing fringe of bayonets, over the summit of the hill; when suddenly Craufurd, in a shrill tone, called on his reserves to attack. In an instant there rose, as if out of the ground, before the eyes of the astonished French, the serried lines of the 43rd and 52nd, and what a moment before was empty s.p.a.ce was now filled with the frowning visage of battle. The British lines broke into one stern and deep-toned shout, and 1800 bayonets, in one long line of gleaming points, came swiftly down upon the French. To stand against that moving hedge of deadly and level steel was impossible; yet each man in the leading section of the French raised his musket and fired, and two officers and ten soldiers fell before them. Not a Frenchman had missed his mark! They could do no more.

"The head of their column," to quote Napier, "was violently thrown back upon the rear, both flanks were overlapped at the same moment by the English wings, and three terrible discharges at five yards' distance shattered the wavering ma.s.s." Before those darting points of flame the pride of the French shrivelled. s.h.i.+ning victory was converted, in almost the pa.s.sage of an instant, into b.l.o.o.d.y defeat; and a shattered ma.s.s, with ranks broken, and colours abandoned, and discipline forgotten, the French were swept into the depths of the ravine out of which they had climbed.

One of the dramatic episodes of the fight at this juncture is that of Captain Jones--known in his regiment as "Jack Jones" of the 52nd.

Jones was a fiery Welshman, and led his company in the rush on General Simon's column. The French were desperately trying to deploy, a _chef-de-bataillon_ giving the necessary orders with great vehemence.

Jones ran ahead of his charging men, outstripping them by speed of foot, challenged the French officer with a warlike gesture to single combat, and slew him with one fierce thrust before his own troops, and the 52nd, as they came on at the run, saw the duel and its result, were lifted by it to a mood of victory, and raised a sudden shout of exultation, which broke the French as by a blast of musketry fire.