Mémoires du Général Baron de MARBOT
“During our stay at Sobral, I was again witness to a tactic employed by the English, which is of such importance that I believe I should recount it here. It is often said that thoroughbred horses are useless in war, because they are so scarce, so costly, and that they demand so much care, that it is almost impossible to form a regiment from them, or even a squadron. Thus the English do not use them in that way on campaign; but they do frequently send lone officers mounted on thoroughbreds, to observe the movements of the army that they have to fight. These officers penetrate the cantonments of the enemy, cris-cross his line of march, station themselves on the flanks of his columns for days, and all just outside rifle-shot, until they have a precise indication of his number and the direction that he takes.
From our earliest entry into Portugal, we saw several observers of this kind flying around ourselves. In vain we tried to give chase by launching after them our best mounted riders. As soon as the English officer saw them approach, he would set his excellent steed to the gallop, and, nimbly crossing ditches, hedges and even streams, move off with such a rapidity that our horsemen, not being able to follow him, would lose him from view and then catch sight of him some little time later at a distance on the top of some knoll from which, notebook in hand, he would continue his observations. This action, which I never saw so well employed as by the English, and which I tried to imitate during the Russia campaign, maybe would have saved Napoleon at Waterloo, for if he had been warned by this means of the arrival of the Prussians… However that may be, the English “gallopers”, which since our crossing the borders of Spain were the despair of the French generals, gained fresh audacity and cunning when we were in front of Sobral. We would see them coming out of the lines, swift as stags through the vines and the boulders, to examine the locations occupied by our troops…
But one day, when there had just been a light skirmish between the advance guard of the two parties in which we remained masters of the field, an infantryman who for some time had spied one of the better mounted and more enterprising of the enemy “gallopers” whose habits he had noticed, feigned death, certain that as soon as his company had moved away, the Englishman would come to visit the small battlefield. He did come there in fact, and was very unpleasantly surprised to see the supposed corpse raise himself to the firing position, kill his horse with a rifle shot, and, running at him with fixed bayonet, force him to surrender, which he was constrained to do..,
This prisoner, presented to Masséna by the conquering infantryman was discovered to be one of the great English lords, a Percy, a descendant of one of the more illustrious Norman barons, to whom William the Conqueror gave the dukedom of Northumberland and which his descendants possess to this day.
Lord Percy, received with distinction by the French general staff, was taken to Sobral, where he was seized by the desire to climb the bell tower to see how our army was established. Authorisation was granted him, and from this elevated position, telescope in hand, he was witness to an amusing scene, at which he could not prevent himself from laughing, despite his own misadventure; this was the capture of another English officer.
This officer, returned from the Indies after twenty years of absence and, having learned when arriving in London that his brother served in Portugal under the duke of Wellington, had embarked for Lisbon, and from there hurried on foot to the outposts where his brother’s regiment was located, to greet him. The weather on that day was magnificent; the newly landed traveller was able to admire the beautiful countryside and to view the fortifications and the Anglo-Portuguese troops that occupied them so easily that while making his journey with all these distractions, he passed the outposts without noticing them.
He found himself between the two armies when, noticing superb figs, and not having eaten European fruit for a long time, there came upon him the whim to climb into the fig tree. There he was quietly eating his light meal, when soldiers from a French post situated not far away, astonished to see a red tunic in a tree, approached, learned the truth and apprehended the English officer, which made all those, near and far, who were witnesses to this capture laugh heartily. But this Englishman, better advised than Mr. Percy, implored its captors to keep him on the outside of the French army, of which he did not wish to see the interior in the hope of being exchanged. This foresight had a good outcome, for Masséna, not fearing that this officer was able to give away any information, returned him to the English…
The sport of hunting was in great favour with the officers of the peninsular Army, particularly when it lay behind the Lines of Torres Vedras.
Throughout the campaign Viscount Wellington hunted a pack of hounds which he had sent out from England. The pack provided excellent sport for the Headquarters Staff, and those who cared to join in. In addition to his, most divisions kept a scratch pack of hounds – and were encouraged to do so.
“The Lord” like many famous soldiers of later years, regarded hunting both as an excellent sport, and as admirable training for teaching a soldier to learn how to find his way about a country as quickly as possible, and also to improve his horsemanship.
The period spent behind the Lines of Torres Vedras saw, perhaps, the peak of Peninsular hunting achievement. On an average three days a week hounds were out hunting fox, and all who could get near the meets were out too, some simply because it was “the thing”, and others for the love of it. The fields were therefore large.
All rode in uniform – all arms being represented. The red coats, grey overalls, and furred casquets of Dragoon Officers were well to the fore, and with them went the thrusters of the Horse Artillery, infantrymen of every regiment of the line, in every conceivable kit, and on every sort of horse, joined the main body of the field, whilst plainly turned-out Officers of the Staff took pains to keep their cocked hats within view of “Old Douro” as he cantered tirelessly in the van. Civilian commissaries, anxious to keep in the limelight and break down some of the unpopularity which was their lot, bumped along as best as they might in the rear. His lordship liked to be well in front, and near hounds – too near sometimes for the peace of mind of his huntsman, since, by emulation, the somewhat unwieldy field thus became inclined to press too closely for comfort.
Tom Crane was Wellington’s huntsman. He had been a private in the Coldstream, and before that a huntsman to a border pack. Wellington had obtained his release from the shackles of marching and musket, and now, clad in a different kind of red coat, he pursued his legitimate occupation across the Plains of Portugal and Spain.
The country behind the Lines of Torres Vedras was open, and free from too many obstacles, with enough cover to provide accommodation for foxes. The only forbidden terrain was past the Allied lines, and in the direction of the French. It was an understood thing that they were whipped off and the field stopped if “Charles” elected to seek safety for any appreciable distance beyond our outposts – a limitation that no professional huntsman could be expected to view with anything but distaste. In this respect Tom was no exception.
One Autumn day in 1810 a by-day was proclaimed. Foxes had been running badly of late, nor had they been too plentiful. But a copse behind one of the redoubts held what was required, and, what was more, it was stout fox who meant business that broke away in the face of the heterogeneous field. The sight of the many-coloured mass before him, however, soon caused him to change his direction; unable to get into cover with hounds close on his brush, he bore away to the Northward, and slipping almost under the belly of the first whip’s horse, set his head for the open country that lay in that direction, and which led to hills beyond.
With the aid of much blasphemy the General Officer, who was acting as Field-Master of the day, succeeded in stemming the rush of the over-eager until Tom had emerged from the wood and collected his hounds on the line of the fox, then away went this representative gathering of the British Army of the Peninsular – all intent upon keeping within sound of Tom Crane’s horn, and the music of his hounds.
The pace was a cracker in the wake of hounds with a roaring scent to set it, and, after a mile or so, the field was strung out over the plain like the flight a routed army.
Still well ahead of hounds went the fox, until he saw in front of him a working party of infantry returning from the redoubts. At the same time they saw him, and in common with the general action of footmen who find themselves mixed up in a fox-hunt, they shouted and waved their picks and spades in his face, causing him to swing right handed towards the front line, and “no mans land”.
