It was fortunate Salamanca was so near. The village of Las Torres, such as it was, provided the first habitations in rear, and became a natural focus for casualties, along with the rather battered hovels of Arapiles. The latter being five miles from Salamanca, where hospitals were being prepared, a flow soon commenced on Spanish carts, wagons and traps driven by sightseers and the more charitably minded, with generous stocks of water, food and dressings. The main hospital was the Irish College at the university, presided over by Dr Patrick Curtis, Regius Professor of Astronomy and Natural History, and an invaluable informant into Wellington’s personal ear. He had the ready help of many citizens who, as Leith Hay reported, ‘Showed their gratitude . . . by sincere and zealous exertion to provide for the wants of the wounded, and assistance in furnishing the large hospitals.’ The inhabitants, said John Aitchinson:
Came forward after the battle both high and low as became them, and even ladies of birth went to the field of battle and lent all their delicate assistance at removing the wounded into their houses and administering every comfort in their power – this lasted the whole night and they have since assisted at the hospitals.
Grattan too recorded the Spanish help:
The inhabitants of Salamanca, who had a clear view of what was passing hastened to the spot, to afford all the relief in their power. Several cars, most of them loaded with provisions, reached the field of battle before morning; and it is but due to those people to state, that their attentions were unremitting, and of the most disinterested kind, for they sought no emolument. They brought fruit, and even quantities of water, well knowing how distant the river was from us, and how scantily the countryside around was provided with so necessary a relief to men who had not tasted a drop for so many hours, under a burning sun, and oppressed with the fatigue they had endured during the fight.
The individual regimental hospitals, or aid posts, were under cover in the villages, each manned in theory by the regiment’s three surgeons and their mates. Company commanders detailed search and carrying parties, whose job it was to get the casualties back to the aid posts, as Green of the 68th tells us:
We encamped on that part of the field where the carnage had been most dreadful, and actually piled our arms amongst the dead and dying. We immediately sent six men from each company to collect the wounded, and carry them to a small village, where doctors were in attendance to dress their wounds.
Charity beginning at home, the losers were not top priority. William Warre, ADC to Beresford, and who got his wounded boss to Salamanca by 11pm: ‘After having his wounds dressed on the road’, expressed a common morale dilemma:
Owing to the Army having advanced and the few means of transport, many of the wounded, particularly of the French, have suffered horribly, for, three days after, I saw a great many still lying, who had received no assistance or were likely to till next day, and had lain scorching in the sun without a drop of water or the least shade. It was a most dreadful sight. These are the horrid miseries of war. No person who has not witnessed them can possibly form any idea of what they are. Many of the poor creatures have crawled to this. Many made crutches of the barrels of the firelocks and their shoes. Cruel and villainous as they are themselves, and even were during the action to our people, one cannot help feeling for them and longing to be able to assist them. But our own people have suffered almost as much, and they are our first care.
Lieutenant John Cooke was another man who had misgivings, especially for the treatment doled out by the Spanish to the vanquished French. During the pursuit, he says:
As we passed onwards, lying by the side of the road were numerous objects to remind us of the miseries of war in all its horrors: many French soldiers lay dead. The scorching rays of the sun had so blistered their faces and swelled their bodies that they scarcely represented human forms; they looked like huge and horrible monsters. It is impossible to convey an adequate idea of such spectacles. These now inanimate objects had marched over sandy plains without a tree to shelter them, suffering from fatigue, sore feet, and want of water. Crowding into the battle under a scorching sun, covered with dust, they had received severe wounds. Enduring excruciating torture, they were finally dragged, or carried from the scene of action on rudely-constructed bearers then left to perish by the side of the road, or on stubble land, with their parched tongues cleaving to the roof of their mouths. And then, before breathing their last sight, they would behold, with glazed and half-closed eyes, the uplifted hand of a Spanish assassin, armed with a knife to put an end to their existence. These dreadful fates awaited the defeated French soldiers in Spain, and it was impossible to gaze on their mutilated bodies without feelings of deep commiseration for fellow-creatures who, a day or two previously, had been alive like ourselves, and perhaps the admiration of their comrades.
On Salamanca field any prisoner or casualty, of either side, was liable to be plundered or worse, whether by men in blue or red or brown, or by civilians or by the wives. The search was for drink, food, clothing, boots, coin, gold or silver or, occasionally from an officer, the chance of a rich keepsake – a watch, or ring, a fancy sword or bullion epaulettes. That worthy man of the 51st, William Wheeler, nonchalantly noted:
Having examined a few dead French men for money etc. we collected what dead bodies were near and made a kind of wall with them. We did this to break the wind which was very cutting as we were very damp with sweat. Under this shelter we slept very sound until morning.
Apart from the practical use of corpses, we notice the ‘etc.’ added to the search for money, and which presumably stood for just about any item of value, in bodily comfort or profit.
Douglas of the 1st got something for his stomach, boiling in a kettle, and then nearly got a lead ball in the same place:
We halted for the night on the ground occupied by the enemy during the morning and sent out parties for water, having nearly 5 miles to travel before it was found, and then it was as green as the water you may have seen during the heat of summer in a stagnant pond. However, it went down with a fine relish. The only piece of plunder either I or my comrade had got happened to be a leg of mutton off a Frenchman’s knapsack, which I put down in a kettle to boil, having made a fire of French firelocks. I was sitting on a stone watching the fire, musing over the day’s work, when, rising up to look into the kettle, one of the pieces went off, the ball passing between my legs. This was the nearest visible escape I had, for if providence had not so ordered it that I rose at the instant, the contents would have been through my body. The breaking up of the ammunition wagons might be heard at a great distance as the men wanted firewood for cooking.
Douglas’s references to water parties having to march long distances is repeated frequently elsewhere; the extreme heat of the day, combined with the saltpetre in the black powder of their cartridges, and the dust of the plain, created a furious thirst – another reason to search all knapsacks, and rattle all canteens.
The stripping of bodies, alive or dead, was partly to acquire the clothing, especially trousers and boots, as replacements – and boots often held money; it was also done to search for body belts and what lay therein. Greene of the 68th:
It really was distressing to hear the cries and moans of the wounded and dying, whose sufferings were augmented by the Portuguese plunderers stripping several of them naked. We took a poor Frenchman who had been stripped by an unfeeling Portuguese: the adjutant gave him a shirt, an old jacket and trousers, and sent him to the village hospital.
Another witness to Portuguese opportunism was Lieutenant Frederic Monro: ‘I found myself amongst the dead and dying, and to the shame of human nature be it said, both stripped, some half naked, others quite so; and this done principally by those infernal devils in mortal shape, the cruel, cowardly Portuguese camp-followers, unfeeling ruffians.’
And our own camp-followers were not far behind and were rated highly by his Lordship in the plundering way: ‘It is well known that in all armies the women are at least as bad, if
not worse, than the men as plunderers!’ Murder, too, according to Lieutenant Thomas Browne, DAAG:
All ideas of conduct or decency had disappeared – plunder & profligacy seemed their sole object, & the very Soldiers their Husbands evidently estimated them in proportion to their proficiency in these vices. They covered in number the ground of the field of battle when the action was over, & were seen stripping & plundering friend and foe alike. It is not doubted that they gave the finishing blow to many an Officer who was struggling with a mortal wound; & Major Offley of the 23rd Regiment, who lay on the ground, unable to move, but not dead, is said to have fallen victim to this unheard of barbarity. The daring & enterprise of these creatures, so transformed beyond anything we have heard of in man, is not to be described.
Walking wounded stood a chance, of course. It was those with leg injuries who became immobile attractions, easy meat. Charles Synge, Pack’s ADC, had a broken thigh bone and lay under the rocky ledge of the Greater Arapile. In rich Hussar trappings, he had been rapidly stripped by the 120th Ligne as they briefly charged past; he then decided his death was imminent:
I could not perceive that any near me were alive. It was some time too before I could realise the particulars of my own situation. I was a prisoner. I was wounded. I was naked. An open artery was bleeding fast. I was drying. Could this be death? There could be no doubt about it, and in a few moments I should be dead. Having come to that conclusion I lay down to die, and, having said my prayers, waited with composure for the last struggle. After lying some little time expecting faintness and some of the usual symptoms of death, my attention was attracted by some cannon shot. The balls were literally ploughing the ground all about me. They were from our own Artillery, who were in reserve on the other hill of the Arapiles, and who had opened their guns on those with whom my body lay. I thought it probable that one of those balls must hit me, and I am afraid I must acknowledge that I sat up and stretched my head as high as I could in the hope of a friendly ball ending my misery. But it was not to be. God in His mercy willed it otherwise. I began to think that I should be a long time dying, for, though I had lost much blood, I still felt no faintness. Then, for the first time, it came into my head that somehow I might have ‘a chance’, and I have often since thought of that ‘trying to put my head in the way of a friendly ball.’
Poor Harry Ross-Lewin, hit later in the day on Ferey’s ridge, could walk (his wound was to his left arm and shoulder) but got lost in the dark – and was found, miraculously, by his own servant:
I had nearly reached the French position when a musket ball struck me, and, from the loss of blood, I soon found it requisite to go to the rear for surgical assistance; but, as it was already dusk, I wandered about, ignorant whether I was or was not taking the right direction for a village. I had walked for some time in this state of perplexity, when I suddenly heard the trampling of horses, and, on calling out to know who went there, I found, to my great satisfaction, that the party belonged to my own regiment, and that my batman was one of their number. They conducted me to the village of Arapiles, where we found the men breaking open the houses for the admittance of wounded officers, seven of whom were of my regiment. All the habitations and outhouses, even to the very pigsties, were speedily filled with wounded men, whose cries to have the dead taken away from them were incessant throughout the whole night.
It is not clear if Marshal Beresford was treated in Arapiles village or Las Torres – or even back in Salamanca. William Warre just said he had his wound ‘dressed on the road’ there. The following surgeon’s account does not sound quite like a mere dressing for poor Beresford:
The Marshal was lying on his back dressed in a blue frock coat with a white waistcoat. Just below the left breast was a star of blood, bright and defined as a star of knighthood. It was about the size of that chivalrous decoration, and occupied the exact spot where it is usually fixed. There was a small rent in its centre, black and round. The eyes were half closed; the countenance in perfect repose, perhaps a little paler than when I had last seen it. In an instant the marshal’s dress was torn open, and my forefinger, that best of probes, was deep in his side. Not a muscle moved, not a sound was uttered. I felt the rib, smooth and resisting below, while the track of the bullet led downward and backwards, round the cavity of his ample chest. I now spoke for the first time, and said, ‘General, your wound is not mortal.’ This observation of mine seemed to have been heard with perfect indifference; for without taking the slightest notice, he looked up and asked, ‘How does the day go?’ ‘Well,’ I replied, ‘the enemy has begun to give way.’ ‘Hah!’ rejoiced the marshal, ‘it has been a bloody day.’ I proceeded to cut out the bullet. My knife was already buried deep in the flesh, its point grating against the lead, when the marshal, feeling I had ceased to cut, and calculating, perhaps, that my steadiness as an operator might be influenced by the rank of my patient, again turned round and with as much sang-froid as if he had been merely a spectator, said in an encouraging tone, ‘Cut boldly, doctor; I never fainted in my life’: almost at the same moment I placed the bullet in his hand.
Ned Costello, 95th, was in the overcrowded Salamanca hospital, not from a new wound, but from a worsening in the one he got at Badajoz. His ward was in the charge of Sergeant Michael Connelly, an Irishman much concerned that all those dying in his care should depart quietly, and not disgrace either their regiment or their country in front of the foreigners present – Johnny Frog. Connelly fatally over-anaesthetised himself on drink, and although his funeral has nothing to do with our battle, it is a nice story:
While lying in hospital – at all times a wretched place, from the groans of the numerous sufferers – I was placed under the immediate attendance of Sergeant Michael Connelly who, having recovered sufficiently from a slight wound, had been appointed sergeant to the hospital, and was in charge of our ward. He was one of the most singular characters I ever met with. If an awkward person and uncouth face had gained him the preferment, then his match could not be found anywhere.
Mike was exceedingly attentive to the sick, and particularly anxious that the dying British soldier should hold out a pattern of firmness to the Frenchmen, who lay intermixed with us. ‘Hold your tongue, ye blathering devil,’ he would say, in a low tone. ‘Don’t be after disgracing your country in the teeth of these ’ere furriners by dying hard. You are not at Elvas to be thrown into a hole like dog. You’ll be buried in a shroud and coffin; you’ll have the company at your burial, won’t you? You’ll have the drums beating and the guns firing over you, won’t you? Marciful God! what more do you want? For God’s sake, die like a man before these ‘ere Frenchers.’
Mike, however, had a great failing – he drank like a whale, and as he did not scruple to adopt as gifts or legacies, the wine rations of the dying and the dead, he drank himself out of the world. As his patients remarked, he died like a beast.
The news of Mike’s death spread like wildfire, and all his old friends, and the convalescents, crowded around to do honour to his remains. The funeral of the Duke himself could not have made a greater stir. The coffin carrying the deceased sergeant, borne by four bearers, and with the usual complement of soldiers with the arms reversed, slowly wound its way through the city of Salamanca. Cavalier and foot soldier, drum boy and trumpeter, and all the women, children and camp followers in the locality, flocked to follow his remains. The town became unusually alive with the variegated throng, and many a jest made the streets ring with laughter. They reached the burial ground, near the French battery, which had been taken by us some time previously. The bearers were about to enter the gateway, when they were suddenly aroused by a slight cry. It came from within the coffin, and was accompanied by the kind of scraping noise. They halted, paused, and listened. Surely it was Mike scraping! On they moved again doubtfully, but for the second time they heard the voice.
‘Whist!’ ejaculated the bearers, their caps moving almost off their heads.
‘Oh blood and guns!’ said the voice. ‘W
here am I? Oh, bad luck to yer souls! Let me out, won’t you? Oh, merciful Jasus, I’m smothered.’ The bearers bolted out from under the coffin, and in an instant a dozen bayonets were sunk under the lid to lift it. The crowd crushed forward to take a look. There lay Sergeant Michael Connelly, as stiff as a fugleman, but somewhat colder. One of the bearers was that blackguard Josh Hetherington, the cockney ventriloquist, and he joined in the astonishment as ‘innocent’ as you please! He winked at me, and I winked back. ‘Ned,’ he said, ‘I’m blessed if I think he’s dead. Why don’t some of them there chaps go for a doctor?’ ‘To be sure,’ cried the crowd, ‘send for the doctor.’
Meanwhile a regular rush was made to press Mike to swallow some of his favourite liquor, but his teeth so obstinately opposed the draught, that when the doctor arrive, they pronounced that poor Mike was ‘not himself’.
Costello and many others who survived their wounds stayed in Salamanca to convalesce, and to regain their strength. He was there for two months, rejoining the 1st/95th near Madrid. About the same time, Harry Ross-Lewis visited the field of Salamanca and
Salamanca 1812- Wellington’s Year of Victories Page 41
