Edward Gilliat - The Romance of Modern Sieges

In the fourteenth assault General Kleber led his victorious troops to the breach. It was a grand and terrific spectacle. The Grenadiers rushed forward under a shower of balls. Kleber, with the gait of a giant, with his thick head of hair and stentorian voice, had taken his post, sword in hand, on the bank of the breach. The noise of the cannon, the rage of the soldiers, the yells of the Turks, were all bewildering and awful.

General Bonaparte, standing on the battery of the breach, looking rather paler than usual, was following the progress of the assault through his glass, when a ball passed above his head; but he would not budge. In vain did Berthier ask him to quit this perilous post – he received no answer – and two or three officers were killed close to him; yet he made no sign of moving from the spot. All at once the column of the besiegers came to a standstill. Bonaparte went further forward, and then perceived that the ditch was vomiting out flames and smoke. It was impossible to go on. Kleber, in a great rage, struck his thigh with his sword and swore. But the General-in-Chief, judging the obstacle to be insurmountable, gave a gesture and ordered a retreat. After this failure the French Grenadiers absolutely refused to mount the breach any more over the putrid bodies of their unburied companions. Bonaparte for once seems to have lost his judgment, first by sacrificing so many of his best men in trying to take a third-rate fort; and, secondly, because, even if he had succeeded in taking the town, the fire of the English ships must have driven him out again in a short time.

One last desperate throw was made for success by sending an Arab dervish with a letter to the Pasha proposing a cessation of arms for the purpose of burying the dead. During the conference of the English and Turkish Generals on this subject a volley of shot and shells on a sudden announced an assault; but the garrison was ready, and all they did was to increase the numbers of the slain, to the disgrace of the General who thus disloyally sacrificed them. The game was up after a siege of sixty days: in the night following the 20th of May the French army began to retreat. But as they could not carry their guns and wounded with them, these were hurried to sea without seamen to navigate the ships, in want of water and food. They steered straight for the English ships, and claimed and received succour. Their expressions of gratitude to Sir Sidney were mingled with execrations on their General for his cruel treatment of them. English boats rowed along the shore and harassed their march south. The whole track between Acre and Gaza was strewn with the dead bodies of those who had sunk under fatigue or from their wounds. At Gaza Bonaparte turned inland, but there he was much molested by the Arabs. The remnant of a mighty host went on, creeping towards Egypt in much confusion and disorder.

Sir Sidney Smith had thus defeated the great General of France, who grudgingly said: “This man has made me miss my destiny.” In the hour of victory Sir Sidney was generous and humane, for he had a good heart, good humour, and much pity. Nor did he forget the Giver of all victory, as the following extract from a letter testifies:

“ Nazareth, 1799. – I am just returned from the Cave of the Annunciation, where, secretly and alone, I have been returning thanks to the Almighty for our late wonderful success. Well may we exclaim, ‘the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong.’ – W. S. S.”

Talavera between two fires – Captain Boothby wounded – Brought into Talavera – The fear of the citizens – The surgeons’ delay – Operations without chloroform – The English retire – French troops arrive – Plunder – French officers kind, and protect Boothby – A private bent on loot beats a hasty retreat.

Captain Boothby, of the Royal Engineers, left behind him a diary of his experiences in Spain during part of the Peninsular War in 1809. It will help us to understand how much suffering war inflicts, and how much pain we have been saved by the inventions of modern science.

He tells us he had been provided with quarters in Talavera, at the house of Donna Pollonia di Monton, a venerable dame. She was the only person left in the house, the rest having fled to the mountains in fear lest the French should come and sack the city; for in the streets those who remained were shouting in their panic, “The French have taken the suburbs!” or “The British General is in full retreat!” or “O Dios! los Ingleses nos abandonan!” (“O God! the English are deserting us!”). The fact was that Wellesley was not sure if he could hold his ground at Talavera.

Captain Boothby went out one morning towards the enemy’s position; he was brought back in the evening on a bier by four men, his leg shattered by a musket-ball. The old lady threw up her hands when she saw him return.

“What!” she exclaimed, while the tears ran down her cheeks. “Can this be the same? This he whose cheeks in the morning were glowing with health? Blessed Virgin, see how white they are now!”

She made haste to prepare a bed.

“Oh, what luxury to be laid upon it, after the hours of pain and anxiety, almost hopeless, I had undergone! The surgeon, Mr. Bell, cut off my boot, and having examined the wound, said:

“‘Sir, I fear there is no chance of saving your leg, and the amputation must be above the knee.’

“He said the operation could not be performed until the morning, and went back to the hospital.

“I passed a night of excruciating pain. My groans were faint, because my body was exhausted with the three hours’ stumbling about in the woods. Daylight was ushered in by a roar of cannon so loud, so continuous, that I hardly conceived the wars of all the earth could produce such a wild and illimitable din. Every shot seemed to shake the house with increasing violence, and poor Donna Pollonia rushed in crying:

“‘They are firing the town!’

“‘No, no,’ said I; ‘don’t be frightened. Why should they fire the town? Don’t you perceive that the firing is becoming more distant?’”

So the poor lady became less distraught, and watched by him with sympathizing sorrow. But at length, finding the day advancing, his pains unabating, and no signs of any medical help coming, he tore a leaf from his pocket-book, and with a pencil wrote a note to the chief surgeon, Mr. Higgins, saying that, as he had been informed no time was to be lost in the amputation, he was naturally anxious that his case should be attended to. The messenger returned, saying that the surgeon could not possibly leave the hospital. He sent a second note, and a third, and towards ten o’clock a.m. the harrassed surgeon made his appearance.

“Captain Boothby,” said he, “I am extremely sorry that I could not possibly come here before, still more sorry that I only come now to tell you I cannot serve you. There is but one case of instruments. This I cannot bring from the hospital while crowds of wounded, both officers and men, are pressing for assistance.”

“I did but wish to take my turn,” said the Captain.

“I hope,” he added, “that towards evening the crowd will decrease, and that I shall be able to bring Mr. Gunning with me to consult upon your case.”

“Will you examine my wound, sir,” said Boothby, “and tell me honestly whether you apprehend any danger from the delay?”

He examined the leg, and said:

“No, I see nothing in this case from which the danger would be increased by waiting five or six hours.”

There was nothing for it but patience.

“I taxed my mind to make an effort, but pain, far from loosening his fangs at the suggestion of reason, clung fast, and taught me that, in spite of mental pride, he is, and must be, dreadful to the human frame.”