Great Britain. Army. Regiment of Foot, 95th; Kincaid, J. (John), 1787-1862; Peninsular War, 1807-1814 -- Personal narratives, British
One of our head-quarter staff-officers came to take a look at them in
the early part of the morning, and, assuming a superior knowledge
of all that was passing, said that they had nothing there but a
rear-guard, and that we should shove them from it in the course of the
day--upon which, our brigadier, (Sir Sidney Beckwith,) who had already
scanned every thing with his practised eye, dryly remarked, in his
usual homely but emphatic language, "It was a gay strong rear guard
that built that abbatis last night!" And so it proved, for their whole
army had been employed in its construction, and there they remained for
the next four months.
The company to which I belonged, (and another,) had a deserted
farming establishment turned over for our comfort and convenience
during the period that it might suit the French marshal to leave us
in the enjoyment thereof. It was situated on a slope of the hill
overlooking the bridge of Santarem, and within range of the enemy's
sentries, and near the end of it was one of the finest aloes I have
ever seen, certainly not less than twelve or fourteen feet high. Our
mansion was a long range of common thatched building--one end was
a kitchen--next to it a parlour, which became also the drawing and
sleeping room of two captains, with their six jolly subs--a door-way
communicated from thence to the barn, which constituted the greater
part of the range, and lodged our two hundred men. A small apartment
at the other extremity, which was fitted up for a wine-press, lodged
our non-commissioned officers; while in the back-ground we had
accommodation for our cattle, and for sundry others of the domestic
tribes, had we had the good fortune to be furnished with them.
The door-way between the officers' apartment and that of the soldiers
showed, (what is so very common on the seat of war,) when "a door
is not a door," but a shovel full of dust and ashes--the hinges had
resisted manfully by clinging to the door-post, but a fiery end had
overtaken the timber, and we were obliged to fill up the vacuum with
what loose stones we could collect in the neighbourhood; it was,
nevertheless, so open, that a hand might be thrust through it in every
direction, and, of course, the still small voices on either side of
the partition were alike audible to all. I know not what degree of
amusement the soldiers derived from the proceedings on our side of the
wall, but I know that the jests, the tales, and the songs, from their
side, constituted our greatest enjoyment during the many long winter
nights that it was our fate to remain there.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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