Recollections of the Peninsula

A finely written account of the war in Spain by a serving British officer

Moyle Sherer, a young officer of the 34th Regiment of Foot—The Cumberland Gentlemen—has brought a writers eye and pen to his experiences of life on campaign and on the battlefield as a member of Wellington's Army fighting Napoleon's French during the Peninsular Campaign of the Napoleonic Wars. The reader will be treated to rare detail of action, countryside, friends, foes and uniform often missing from the works of less able authors. Sherer was present at Busaso and Albuera among other engagements and his descriptions of the actions and their aftermaths are graphic, riveting and chilling. This red-coated infantryman's chronicle of the war in Spain has long been highly regarded as one of the best memoirs of the period making it essential for serious and casual students alike.

I remember well, among the events of this day, having remarked one fine manly corpse very particularly; it lay a few yards from the road-side, alone, naked, the face and breast downwards, and on the back of the head a deep and frightful cleft, inflicted by the sabre; all round the spot where it lay the ground was deeply indented with the print of horses’ feet, who appeared to have gone over it at a furious pace. The sky was cloudy, and the wind high; the body was cold, and pale, the fine formed limbs stiff and motionless; the spirit, which had animated it, not an hour before, had indeed fled: yet I know not how it was; the very corpse made a forcible appeal to the feelings, and seemed to suffer, it looked so comfortless, so humbled, so deserted.<br>
An English dragoon, leading a wounded horse, and conducting two prisoners, one of whom had sabre-cuts on the cheek and shoulder, passed me while I was contemplating this scene. “Do you recollect,” said I, “friend, what took place here?”<br>
“Yes, sir; they shewed us a front here, and we charged and drove them; but this man, who was an officer, tried to rally them, and was cut down by our adjutant, as I think.”<br>
At this moment, one of the French horsemen, leaning down, exclaimed, “C’est le colonel.” “Comment diable,” said the other.<br>
“C’est bien lui,” said his comrade; “il est mort. Ah! qu’il étoit brave soldat, ce vilain champ de bataille n’est pas digne d’un tel victime.” <br>
They passed on. What! this carcass, on which the flies were already settling, which lay, all spurned and bloodstained, on the rude and prickly heath, had been, but one short hour before, a man of rank, perhaps also of talent, fortune, courage, whose voice breathed command, whose eye glanced fire, whose arm shook defiance;—even so, such is war!<br>
The same day a young French officer was taken by the falling of his horse; he was of the compagnie d’élite of the Twenty-Sixth Dragoons; a handsome youth, with a fine fair complexion; a serjeant escorted him past our column, which was, at the time, halted. I shall never forget the mortified and mournful dejection of his countenance: he suffered the bridle of his horse to hang on its neck, and sat in the saddle, thoughtfully careless. As he passed us, some of our officers moved their hats to him; he returned their salute, taking off his large bearskin cap with much grace, but I could see that his eyes were filled with tears. A very few yards behind us, he had to pass a Portuguese column, whose officers crowded forward to look at him, with a sort of triumphant curiosity; though his back was to me, I saw that this awakened all his pride and spirit, for he placed himself erect in his seat, spurred and reined up his horse, and rode slowly and haughtily by them.<br>
Two days after the affair, a flag of truce came to Elvas, to bring this young man some baggage and money. The French captain who came, remained with his young friend for half an hour, in the officers’ guard room, at one of the barriers. The trumpeter, who accompanied the flag, was a vieux moustache, of about forty, with the chevrons of twenty years’ service on his arm. This man, when the two friends came out, and the captain mounted, rode up to the young officer, and cordially grasping his hand, put into it a purse of money, and rode off. The purse, I found, had been made up among the privates of the compagnie d’élite, who had charged the old trumpeter with its delivery.<br>