CHAPTER XVIII.
A NIGHT ATTACK.
We were encamped at Warburg, when, in September, we received orders to hold ourselves in readiness to move on particular service, and at an hour's notice—a troublesome communication, for we could scarcely unharness by day or by night, and had to keep our horses almost constantly saddled. At last came instructions to march, about nightfall, on a dull and gloomy evening, the 5th of September, when, with two regiments of foot (Maxwell's and the famous old 20th), the Inniskilling, and Bock's Hanoverian Dragoons, Bulow's Jagers, and one hundred and fifty Highlanders, we left the camp with all our tents standing to make a night attack upon the town of Zierenberg, which had been reinforced, and where Bourgneuf still commanded.
The forces there consisted of the Volontaires de Clermont and the regiments of Dauphiné and Bretagne—in all about three thousand men. Luckily, we were furnished with the password for the 5th September—Artois; it had been brought over by a deserter, who proved to be no other than the rascal Arnaud de Pricorbin, who had come into Warburg about noon, and thus betrayed his comrades, who passed their time almost careless of security, and having but slender guards and outposts.
The town, he informed us, was still a place of no strength; and, though surrounded by a dry ditch, that was shallow, and the wall within it was crumbling with age and decay.
Led by Colonel Preston, the Scots Greys were to head the attack.
As we marched, the dark and obscurity of the autumn evening deepened on the scenery. The duty was an exciting one, for the whole French army was encamped at a short distance from the point of attack, and we knew not the moment when we might find ourselves in a snare or ambush; for the story of the deserter, as to the password, the real strength of the force under Bourgneuf, and his dispositions for defence, might all be a lure, though the fellow remained in the hands of our quarter-guard as a hostage for the truth of his statements.
We crossed the river Dymel near the Hanse Town of Warburg, and saw the brown chesnut-groves that border its banks, the clear stars, and the crescent of the waning moon reflected in its current.
Ere long we saw the lights in Zierenberg and the fires of the French, whole companies of whom were bivouacked in the streets of the little town, where they made fuel of the furniture, the rafters, and floors of such houses as shot or shell had previously made too ruinous for occupation.
When within two miles of the place, the grenadiers of Maxwell, the 20th Regiment, and the little band of Highlanders, made a detour, taking three separate routes, while we, the cavalry, took a fourth, thus completely surrounding and cutting off those who were cantoned in Zierenberg.
According to Pricorbin's information, which proved to be correct, a regiment of French dragoons were bivouacked outside the town wall and in front of the principal gate; and it was with them we had first to deal. We continued to advance in silence, all orders being passed in whispers, and thus not a sound broke the stillness of the night, but the monotonous tramp of our horses' hoofs, the occasional rattle of our accoutrements, the clatter of a steel scabbard or a chain bridle, till, unluckily, some of our horses began to neigh, and we could distinctly hear some of the French chargers responding, for the air was calm, still, and clear.
"Push on—push on!" was now said by all; "the alarm is given, and we have no time to lose!"
The moon, which occasionally gave out weird gleams of silver light between the masses of dark cloud that floated slowly on the upper currents of air, was now luckily enveloped, and all the scenery was intensely dark. Yet we could distinctly see the lights twinkling in the town, and the glare of the night fires, which cast flashes of lurid and wavering radiance upon the steep gables, the spire of a church, and the undefined outlines of masses of building. The French could see nothing of us; but the neighing of our nags was sufficient to give them all an alerte, consequently, when we came within four hundred yards of the town gate, the whole regiment of horse were in their saddles to receive whatever might be approaching.
We were advancing in close column of troops as the way was broad and open. The Inniskillings were in our rear; the light troop of ours was in front of the whole, with Colonel Preston riding between Douglas and me.
On the roadway, as we approached, we could see the black figure of a single horseman posted.
"When he challenges, Gauntlet, reply in French," whispered the Colonel; "say something to deceive him."
Preston had scarcely spoken, when the voice of the vidette rung out clearly on the night—
"Qui vive?"
"Artois," I replied, while we all pressed forward at a trot.
"A quel regiment?" shouted the vidette, in great haste.
"Les Hussards de la Reine," said I, giving the name of Boisguiller's well-known corps, which was in the camp at Corbach.
"Très bien! replied the soldier, but the next moment he could hear Preston's words of command, given sternly and low—
"Prepare to charge—charge!"
The Frenchman's carbine flashed redly through the gloom, almost in our faces; the bullet whistled over our heads to the rear, where a fearful cry told that it had found a fatal billet among the Inniskillings; then wheeling round his horse, he galloped to the rear, where his comrades were formed in column of squadrons.
Ere the echoes of his shot had died away on the night wind, we heard the cheers of the 20th and the sound of the Highland bagpipe mingling with the hoarse hurrah of Bulow's light troop, as the town was assailed on three other points at once. Then the opening musketry flashed redly in various quarters, and the gleam of sudden fires shot upward in the murky air.
Sword in hand we burst, with the weight and fury of a landslip, among the French cavalry, and drove them back, not so much by dint of edge or point, as by the sheer weight of our men and horses. So sudden was the shock, so irresistible our charge, that they scarcely made any resistance, but were thrust pell-mell into the town, in the narrow streets of which they were so intermingled with our men and the Inniskillings that in many instances neither of us could use our swords. For some minutes, at this crisis, I found myself completely isolated and wedged among the French, some of whom actually laughed at the whole affair.
Captain Cunninghame, of our first troop, in consequence of a blow which had penetrated the back of his grenadier cap, fell backward on his horse's crupper insensible, but could fall no further so dense was the living press around him; and thus he remained until the place surrendered.
Colonel Preston, whose horse was possessed of great spirit and fire, pressed far beyond any of us; but before he could reach the town-gate, it sprang over the bridge with him into the ditch—where the brave old boy remained up to his thighs in mud, swearing and sputtering, but in safety, until we extricated him about daybreak.
Some of the houses being set on fire lit up by their lurid glare the horrors of the night attack. Taken completely by surprise, many of the French were fighting in their shirts and breeches, and were mingled in wild mêlée with the 20th and Highlanders, using their bayonets and clubbed muskets, without time to load or fire, so closely were they wedged together; but some who were in the houses opened an indiscriminate fusilade on friends and foes. This so greatly exasperated the nimble Highlanders, that in several instances they stormed these mansions, and with dirk and claymore slew without mercy all within.
Every inch of ground was disputed by death and blood. The yells, cries, and hurrahs of the opposing combatants mingled with the clash of weapons that glittered in the fires around them—fires that reddened all the air; but the shouts of the French grew weaker as the cheers of the British increased.
"Hurrah lor the Inniskillings!" cried we.
"Hurrah for the Scots Greys!" cried the Irish.
"Hurrah for Bulow's wild Jagers!" cried both regiments.
A French officer, minus hat, wig, and coat, was dragged roughly out of a house by two furious Celts, who were jabbering and swearing in their native Gaelic, as if they had not made up their minds whether to kill or capture him, when he clung to my stirrup-leather, and without attempting to use the sword in his hand, breathlessly implored quarter.
I regarded his pale face with sudden and stern interest, for this despairing suppliant was the commandant of the town, the Comte de Bourgneuf.
I lost no time in disarming him, by snapping his sword across my saddle-bow, contemptuously as he had snapped mine, and desired the Highlanders to keep him prisoner. He was dragged away, and I never saw him again. It was enough; he had recognised me!
His whole force, being completely surrounded and hemmed in, capitulated, but so many had perished in the attack that we brought off only forty officers and four hundred rank and file, with the colours of the regiments of Dauphiné and Bretagne, one of which I captured in the count's quarters. These trophies we lodged in the camp at Warburg, after losing but few men in the whole affair.
It was on that night's duty that I last saw powder burned in the Seven Years' War.
Our infantry were encamped under canvas in the immediate vicinity of Warburg, the quaint old German streets of which presented a lively picture of campaigning life, for every house had been converted into a barrack; soldiers in British or Hanoverian uniforms appeared at all the windows, lounging, laughing, and smoking, or pipeclaying their belts or gaiters. Piles of muskets stood in long rows upon the pavements. Here and there a sentinel trod to and fro upon his post, indicating the quarters of a colonel or where the colours of a regiment were lodged.
In the church were stalled our horses, and there stable duty and religious service went on together; for, as wounded men died every day in our hands, one seldom passed without a body being laid before the altar muffled in a cloak, greatcoat, or rug, prior to interment in the trench outside the gates.
After our return from the night attack at Zierenberg, I slept profoundly on the bare floor of my billet, which was in an empty house. I think one does generally sleep sound after enduring great excitement or great calamity, for it is the waking alone that brings back the sense of grief or danger. Prior to that came dreams, and again I seemed to hear the bayonet and sabre clashing, the shouts and the wild work of last night: but from these I was roused about raid-day by Tom Kirkton, our adjutant, who as yet was still accoutred.
"Well, Gauntlet, old friend," said he, with a peculiar smile; "so you and I are to part at last?"
"How—what do you mean, Tom?"
"You have been chosen by the Commander-in-chief, on Colonel Preston's recommendation (a dear old fellow, isn't he?) to convey to London, and to the king's own hand, his despatches and the colours taken last night; and his orders say, you must start in an hour."
"And I am to proceed—"
"By our rear. See, here is your route; by Arensburg to Wesel, and thence down the Rhine to Nimeguen on the Waal; thence by boat to the mouth of the West Scheldt, where some of our gun-brigs are sure to be lying."
"Zounds! Tom—a long and tiresome journey; alone too! and the money?"
"Old Blount, the Paymaster-General, furnishes that. So come, rouse thee, friend Basil—let us have a parting glass ere you go, my dear boy."
There was an unmistakeable moisture and sad expression in Tom's clear and usually merry eye as he spoke, for we had ever been the best of friends and comrades.
Within an hour after this I had packed my valise, secured the French colours and the Prince's despatches in a large saddlebag—had bade adieu to our good old colonel,* to Tom Kirkton, Douglas, and others, and departed with sincere regret. Hob Elliot and many of the Greys—braver good, honest fellows—accompanied me to the town gate, and the farewell cheer they gave me as I passed through the Infantry camp rings yet in my ear and in my heart, as it did then when I waved my cap, and said "God bless you!"
* He died at Bath, in 1785, a Lieutenant-General, and still Colonel of the Scots Greys.—Regimental Record, p. 127.