Perhaps few events in the Peninsular war reflect more credit upon Lord Wellington, as a commander, than the admirable manner in which he had thus drawn an overwhelming force of the French into actual famine, in front of works that afforded security and plenty to his own comparatively small force.
In a few weeks after our arrival at Lisbon, I became sufficiently recovered to leave the hospital and was accordingly transferred to Belem, a place much noted amongst us for every species of skulk, but better known to my fellow soldiers as the “Belem rangers.” The chief part of the 58th and 87th regiments, the latter I believe from the severe loss they had sustained at Talavera, were doing duty there.
Belem itself is about two miles from Lisbon, but contiguous to it, or, as the suburbs of London are to the city. I was here, as it were, quite at my ease; and usually spent my time rambling about the quays. The port was thronged with shipping, bringing troops and stores from England, and if I recollect rightly, the ‘Hibernia,’ the ‘Caledonia,’ and the ‘Britannia,’ and other ships of war lay in the bay; at all events, we constantly intermixed with the sailors, and were mostly coupled with them; some recognising old friends—town-mates; and others, nearer and dearer ties, and forming new links and acquaintances; this the peculiarity of our situations naturally tended to strengthen, fighting as we were in the same cause, though on different elements. One day, however, I remember being present at a regular row in a wine-house, between an American and a Lancashire man. They both belonged to the same ship, and from what I could understand, were very quarrelsome fellows, and the most unfair fighters on board.
The Yankee was from Kentucky, and had a precious knack of “gouging” as they termed it, or, screwing his finger into the side locks of his opponent, and so with his thumb poking his eyes out. One or two on board had been “jockied” in this way. The Lancashire man, alias “Tummas,” alias “Lankey,” who had nearly lost one eye by a splinter at Trafalgar, seemed unwilling to risk the loss of the other in any encounter with him.
“But,” said he, “I tell you what, you bl—d cowardly sea sarpent, if it warnt that I fear’d your fingering this ’ere solitary blinker o’ mine, I’d dust your Yankee jacket for you.”
