The spring of the year 1559 found the Guises in marked disfavour with the King. The great services of the Duke, the capture of Calais and Thionville, and the many other feats of arms by which he had reduced the power of the enemy, at moments when it was about to be fatal to France, were insufficient to counterbalance the alarm felt by Henry II. at his and the Cardinal's influence and ambition. The star of the Constable was in the ascendant. Chiefly by his intervention, a disadvantageous peace was concluded, and, at his request, d'Andelot was recalled to court. Montmorency and Coligny triumphed. The efforts of the Protestants combined with court intrigues to ruin the credit of the house of Lorraine. The two brothers were attacked on all sides, and in every manner: epigram and satire furiously assailed them, and they were denounced as aspiring, one to the tiara, the other to the crown of France. However doubtful – or at least remote from maturity – these projects were, they were yet sufficiently probable for their denunciation to produce the desired effect on the mind of Henry, already writhing impatiently under the domination of the Guises, against whom he was further prejudiced by his mistress, the Duchess de Valentinois, (Diane de Poitiers,) still influential, in spite of her threescore winters. Never had circumstances been so menacing to the fortunes of the Guises; and perhaps it was only the subtle and temporising line of conduct they adopted in this critical conjuncture, that saved them from utter disgrace and downfall. Things had been but a short time in this state, and already, from the skilful manœuvres of the Cardinal, their side of the balance acquired an upward inclination, when the whole aspect of affairs was changed by the death of Henry II. With the reign of his feeble successor, there commenced for the restless princes of Lorraine a new epoch of power and renown.
MY PENINSULAR MEDAL
Now for the fight. On the morning of the battle of Toulouse we left Grenade. It was known amongst us that the battle was coming off; and we started in the expectation of passing the night either in the city itself, or in its immediate vicinity. We ascended towards the city by the left bank of the Garonne, but reached a pontoon bridge, which enabled us to cross to the right bank, where the main body of our troops was posted. The fight had commenced. We heard the firing as we advanced; and while we approached the scene of action, it became gradually louder and more distinct. Immediately in the rear of the British lines we halted, not knowing the ground, and withdrew from the road into a field which was close at hand, in order that our numerous party might not prove an obstacle to passing troops, ammunition, or artillery. Our forces held the low ground, and closed, in a sort of semicircle, around the heights occupied by the French. As it so happened that I was not only at this battle, but in it, I here beg leave to relate the circumstances which led to my finding myself in a position where, as a civilian, I was so little wanted, and so much out of my ordinary sphere of duty.
Sancho did it all. We were sitting upon our nags, speculating upon the fight, and seeing all that could be seen, till we began to think we knew something of what was going on. At this moment rode up from the rear, coming across the fields, an old officer of rank, a major-general, well known at headquarters, without aide-de-camp, orderly, or any kind of attendant. He inquired eagerly, "Where are the troops? – Where are the troops?" We pointed forward; little was visible but trees. He looked rather at a loss, but turned his horse's head in the direction we had indicated. That villain Sancho, seeing another horse go on, snorted, and pulled at the bridle. He was tired of standing still. I, ever indulgent to Sancho, followed the old general, and soon overtook him. "I believe I know the position of the troops, sir. Will you give me leave to show you?"
"Thank you, sir, thank you," said he; "I shall really be much obliged."
We rode on till we reached a British regiment, drawn up in line. With renewed acknowledgments he then took his leave. The air was musical above our heads with whistling and humming missiles. I was now fairly upon the ground, and didn't like to go back.
There was a lull in the fight. The spectacle was singular. Some firing was kept up on both sides, but not sufficient to obscure the view of the French position, which rose immediately in front, a bare range of hills, crowned by their redoubts. The atmosphere was bright; and though the skirmishers on the declivity were discoverable only by small white jets of smoke, as they fired from time to time, every movement of the enemy on the summit, with the sky for its background, was perfectly visible. I noticed a single horseman, probably an aide-de-camp bearing orders, as distinct and diminutive as if seen through the wrong end of a telescope. You might perceive the very action of his horse, that laborious up-and-down gallop of the French manége, which throws away so much of the animal's strength, and sacrifices speed without securing elegance.
The combat, at this moment, was renewed, and our troops went to work in earnest. The Spanish army ascended the hill to assault the enemy's redoubts. This movement, at first, had all the regularity of a review. But the redoubts opened their fire; as the Spaniards moved up, the smoke rolled down; and, when the wind swept it away, their broken bands were seen in precipitate retreat, followed by a large body of the French, who swarmed out from their intrenchments. Instantly, and just in front of me, our artillery opened upon the pursuing foe. The round-shot plumped into their columns, knocking up clods as high as a house; and the enemy, not relishing this salutation, hastily fell back to their former position. Sancho now became a dreadful plague. He had for some time been getting unquiet, and, with the continual firing, he grew worse and worse. I believe this was his first battle, as it was mine. Not content with a little extra restiveness at every fresh discharge of artillery, he had worked himself into a state of chronic excitement, and, at intervals, attempted to bolt. It was clear I must get rid of Sancho, or see no more of the fight; so I deposited him in a stable, under care of a cottager, in the adjoining village.
Still moving towards the left, along the base of the hill, I reached a part of the British position, where a number of our troops were waiting to storm the heights, when the flank movement against the enemy's right, which was his weakest point, should be sufficiently advanced. All at once I plumped upon "Cousin Tom," whom I had not met since he embarked, three years before, a raw subaltern, at Portsmouth. There he now stood, as large as life, rough and ugly, at the head of his regiment, a regular "Old Peninsular;" and on him had devolved the duty, as he gave me to understand, of "taking those fellows up the hill." This service, I thought, would have fallen to some officer of higher rank; but Tom explained. The regiment having been reduced, either by losses or detachment, its numbers in the field were small, and he, being the senior officer present, of course had to "carry them up." "Come," said he, "we are going to take a look at those monsieurs above there; you may as well go with us."
The proposal was coolly made, so I took it coolly. "With all my heart," said I. "You know what is the feeling towards an amateur. If he makes an ass of himself, he's laughed at; and if he gets hit, they only say, it serves him right. If it's of any use, I'll go with pleasure."
"Use?" said Tom; "the greatest use. Why, I want to ask you twenty questions about friends in England. Besides, you know, if I am knocked over, you can pick me up."
"Very well, then; and you can do the same for me."
"No, no," said cousin Tom; "I don't promise that. Got my men to attend to. If I am hit, you must take care of me. If you are hit, you must take care of yoursel – Oh, that's the signal. Come along." Away we went, up the hill.
Rank and file – double-quick time – a capital pace for opening the chest. Tom took it easy, trotting on at a steady pace, and assailing me with a running fire of questions; while the row that had already commenced above prevented my returning categorical replies. "Is your father at sea now?" – Bang! from one of the big guns in the French batteries right over our heads. "Got any brandy?" – A shout from a thousand throats, in the rush and shock of a charge with bayonets. "Had breakfast this morning?" – Pop! pop! pop! a running fire of musketry. Pop! pop! pop! "Got any cigars?" – Bang! bang! the big guns at it again. "When did you hear from your mother?"