By 1812, Lawrence was a seasoned soldier who had spent three years campaigning in Portugal and Spain under Wellington. The campaign — the Peninsular War — had been launched by Britain both to liberate Spain from French occupation and to bring diversionary pressure to bear upon Napoleon, who was meanwhile conducting a series of offensives against Britain’s Continental allies, particularly Austria but by 1812 also Russia.
Wellington’s firm base was in Portugal, where he fortified the countryside north of Lisbon, to secure an impregnable position. From these ‘Lines of Torres Vedras’ he then launched a series of probes from Portugal into Spain through the passes in the mountains separating the two countries. One of the most important passes was guarded by the walled city of Badajoz, which Wellington captured in 1811. Forced to abandon it when the French reappeared in strength, he returned to the city in the spring of 1812 with the intention of taking it and breaking through into the Spanish heartland.
Wellington was weak in artillery and so lacked the means to batter Badajoz into submission by bombardment. As a result, he was forced to use his infantry to storm its walls in an old-fashioned escalade — that is, with ladders. It was a dangerous venture and bound to be very costly of the lives of his soldiers.
Lawrence’s account of the attack provides a vivid description of one of the most vicious operations of war, the hand-to-hand struggle for possession of a stronghold. He volunteered for the ‘forlorn hope’, the advance party detailed to seize a foothold which the followers could then exploit. Lawrence makes no bones about his motive, which was loot. The protocol of siege warfare allowed successful besiegers to plunder a city which had refused to surrender when called upon to do so. In this case, the unfortunate inhabitants were caught between two fires, the determination of the French occupiers to resist and the determination of Wellington to conquer at all costs. The French commander, nevertheless, gave those inhabitants who chose to leave permission to do so. Those who stayed would have been well advised to go. Perhaps they calculated that the assault might fail — as it nearly did. Perhaps they hoped that they would be able to deter the British soldiers from despoiling the city even if it succeeded. If so, they were wrong. Lawrence’s comrades who survived the extreme peril of the assault took the normal compensation. It was paid in plunder, female virtue and even the lives of the citizens. The common soldier of Wellington’s army was a rough sort at best, and at worst, when allowed to drink his fill, became a savage brute. Wellington himself preserved no illusions about ‘that article’ who was the instrument of his victories.
Wellington had taken Ciudad Rodrigo, now he had to take Badajoz. The French army of Marshal Soult was tied down besieging Cadiz, and that of Marshal Auguste Marmont (who had superseded Massena) did not have the resources to tackle Wellington’s army alone, despite being urged by Napoleon to do so. It was an opportune moment for Wellington to renew his efforts at Badajoz so he sent his army south to invest it again.
Our stay at Rodrigo was short and we — the 4th Division — along with the 3rd and Light Divisions under Marshal Beresford and General Picton, were ordered south to invest Badajoz, another long and tedious march of over 150 miles.
We arrived at Badajoz at the beginning of March and immediately began work in the trenches, throwing up breastworks and batteries. Heavy rains set in but our troops persevered. A cannonade was kept up from the town and fortunately did little damage, but on 19 March the garrison came out and attacked us. They were driven back but only after we had lost 100 men either killed or wounded. They lost more.
I myself killed a French sergeant. I was in the trenches and he came on the top. Like me, he had exhausted his fire and so made a thrust at me with his bayonet. He overbalanced and fell, and I pinioned him to the ground with mine. The poor fellow expired. I was sorry afterwards and wished I had tried to take him prisoner, but with the fighting going on all around there had been no time to think, and he had been a powerful-looking man. Tall and stout, with a moustache and beard which almost covered his face, he had been as fine a soldier as I had ever seen in the French army. If I had allowed him to gain his feet, I might have suffered for it, so perhaps what I did was for the best? At such times it is a matter of kill or be killed.
In case of another attack, a large number of men afterwards formed a covering party for the 800 of us who were busy in the trenches every night. And still it rained. The trenches were so muddy that our shoes were covered. It poured down so fast that, in places, bailers had to be employed. During the day we were employed finishing off what we had done during the night, for little else could be achieved owing to the enemy’s fire.
After a few days we were within musket shot of a fine fort, situated a little distance from the town. Garrisoned by 400 — 500 of the enemy, they annoyed us during our operations. One night, I was working in the trenches when, just as the guard was about to be relieved, a shell from the town fell amongst us and exploded, killing and wounding about 30 men. The next morning a terrible scene presented itself to us, for the remains of our mangled comrades strewed the ground in all directions. I never saw a worse sight of its kind. Some of them had their arms and legs — and what was worse, their heads - completely severed from their bodies. Working near me at the time was Pig Harding. Like me, he had become hardened to the worst sights on the Peninsula.
‘Lawrence,’ he said, ‘if anyone is in want of an arm or a leg, he’s got a good choice here.’
The fort was very troublesome and had to be dealt with. Suspecting it had been mined, engineers were sent for. In the dead of night, between the fort and the town, they searched for a [powder] train. Finding that the earth had been disturbed, they dug down, found the train and cut it off. On the next night, the 87th and 88th Regiments were ordered up to storm the fort. After a brisk action, they succeeded in gaining it, but most of the garrison escaped into the town.
Next morning, with the rest, I entered the fort. We saw wounded Frenchmen and relieved their pain a little by giving them some of our rum and waterbefore conveying them to the rear. Most of their wounds - they looked like bayonet wounds — were bad, but not mortal.
Having taken this fort, we were able to carry on our works much nearer the town and, by the beginning of April, two batteries were formed within 300 — 400 yards of it. Within five days our twenty-four pounders had made three practicable breaches in the walls.
Lord Wellington asked the town to surrender. The answer was no, so he asked that the inhabitants be allowed to leave, as he intended to take it by assault. Thousands left and he ordered that, on the night of the 6th, the town should be attacked. From each of the 3rd, 4th and Light Divisions, a storming-party was selected and assigned to one of the breaches. I joined our forlorn hope. With me was Pig Harding and another comrade, George Bowden. All three of us had been quartered at Badajoz after the battle of Talavera so we knew where the shops were located. Having heard a report that, if we succeeded in taking the place, three hours’ plunder would be allowed, we arranged to meet at a silversmith’s shop. Pig even provided himself with a piece of wax candle in case we needed to light our way.
Those in the forlorn hope were supplied with ladders and grass bags to carry. We ate our rations and, at about half-past eight, fell in to await the signal for all to advance. Our men were particularly silent. At last the deadly signal was given, and we rushed towards the breach.
I was one of the ladder party. At the breach, a French sentry on the wall cried out three times, ‘Who comes there?’ No answer being given a shower of shot, canister and grape, together with fire-balls, was hurled amongst us. I lost sight of Bowden, poor Pig received his death wound and I received two small slug shots in my left knee and a musket shot in my side. Despite my wounds, I stuck to my ladder and got into the entrenchment. By now, many had already fallen, but on the cry of ‘Come on, my lads!’ from our commanders, we hastened to the breach. There, to our dismay, we encountered a cheval de frise [spiked tree trunk] and a deep entrenchment, from behind which the garrison opened a deadly fire on us. The cheval de frise was a fearful obstacle and although attempts were made to remove it — my left hand was dreadfully cut by one of the blades — we had no success. We were forced to retire for a time and remained in the breach weary with our efforts to pass it.
My wounds were bleeding and I began to feel weak. My comrades persuaded me to go to the rear, but it was difficult because, when I arrived at the ladders, they were filled with the dead and wounded. Some were hanging where they had fallen, with their feet caught in the rungs, and all around I could hear the implorings of the wounded. I hove down three lots of ladders, and on coming to the fourth, I found it completely smothered with dead bodies. I drew myself up over them as best I could and arrived at the top. There I almost wished myself back again, for what greeted me was an even worse sight — nothing but dead lying all around, and the cries of the wounded mingled with the incessant firing from the fort.
I was so weak I could hardly walk; on my hands and knees I crawled out of reach of the enemy’s musketry. I hadn’t gone far when I encountered Lord Wellington and his staff. He wanted to know the extent of my wounds and what regiment I belonged to.
‘The Fortieth,’ I said, and told him I had been one of the forlorn hope. He enquired whether any of our troops had got into the town. I told him no, and that I did not think they ever would, because of the cheval de frise, the deep entrenchment, and the constant and murderous fire from the enemy behind them. One of his staff bound up my leg with a silk handkerchief and, pointing to a hill, told me that behind it I would find a doctor to dress my wounds. And so I did — my own regimental doctor. I was lucky — the musket shot in my side would have been fatal had it not penetrated my canteen first, making one hole going in and one coming out.
After I arrived, Lieutenant Elland was brought in by a man called Charles Filer, who had found him at the breach, lying wounded with a ball in the thigh. The lieutenant had asked to be conveyed from the breach so Filer had raised him onto his shoulders. The night was so dark, and the clamour of cannon and musketry and the cries of the wounded so noisy, that Filer did not notice when a cannon-ball took the lieutenant’s head off, so he was astonished when the surgeon asked why had he brought in a headless trunk? Filer declared that the lieutenant had had a head on when he had found him, for how else could he have asked to be taken from the breach?
Poor Filer. He was hardly composed — the exposure of his person at the breach and the effort of carrying what proved to be a lifeless burden for nearly half a mile, would have unnerved a harder temperament than his. Of course, the story spread through the camp and caused a lot of amusement at his expense. ‘Who took a headless man to the doctor, then?’ was one of the comments.
Lord Wellington realized it was useless to face the breach with the chevaux de frise so, as more success had been achieved in the other breaches, he withdrew the men from ours to reinforce theirs. He ordered the castle to be attacked. For this troops were supplied with long ladders which they raised against the castle walls, but the enemy showered down on them such a mass of heavy substances — trees and large stones, and deadly bursting shells — that the ladders were broken and the men tumbled down, crushing some of their comrades underneath. There was a long delay while more ladders were procured. As soon as they arrived they were quickly hoisted. This time, the precaution was taken to fix them farther apart so that if more beams were rolled over, they would not make such a deadly sweep. This second attempt was more successful. The ramparts were gained and the French driven back. A footing was soon established for others, who succeeded in turning round some guns and firing them along the ramparts, sweeping the enemy from them. The garrison was forced back into the town. The ramparts were scoured, the breaches cleared, the chevaux de frise pulled down, and the main body of the English entered the town. In the streets there was still some opposition, but that was soon cleared away. The French escaped to Fort San Cristoval.
Our troops found the city illuminated to welcome them, but it counted for nothing and they began to engage in the plunder, waste, destruction of property, drunkenness, and debauchery, that usually follow a capture by assault. When the town was taken I was in camp at least a mile off but, after the sound of guns and muskets had ceased, I could distinctly hear the clamour of the rabble. The next morning, with the help of a sergeant’s pike chopped up to form a stick, I hobbled into the town. There I found a pretty state of affairs!
Pipes of wine had been rolled into the streets, tapped by driving the heads in, and then left for anyone to drink. To try to keep order, officers had poured away all they could. The streets therefore were running with all sorts of liquors and some men, already very drunk, lay down and drank out of the gutters.
Throughout the city, doors had been blown open by placing muskets at the keyhole to remove the locks. I saw some of our men launch a naked priest into the street and flog him down it — they had a grudge against him for the way they had been treated at a convent when they were in the town previously. I met one of my company who was wounded in the arm but said he had something which compensated him a little. He showed me a bag of about 100 dollars and said I should not want whilst he had it.
Although some of our soldiers engaged in debauchery, others did everything in their power to stop it. That morning I met many who said how sorry they were that soldiers should go to such excess, ransacking respectable houses with no regard to the entreaties of the inhabitants who had remained, and destroying what could not be taken. Men were threatened if they did not produce their money. Women too. No doubt, some murders were committed. Two or three officers were killed trying to keep order and I understand that some men in the 5th division, having arrived after most places had been plundered, stole from their drunken comrades, and even killed some of them.
Not till the drunken rabble cropped into a sound slumber — or had died of their excesses — did the unhappy city became composed. In the morning, fresh troops were placed on guard and several gallows erected, but not much used. Lord Wellington punished the offenders by stopping their grog, but such scenes were not unusual after a place had been fought for so hard.
The garrison that surrendered numbered about 5,000. 1,200 had been slain in the assault, and the rest made prisoners. Nearly 150 guns, 80,000 shots, and a great quantity of muskets and ammunition were taken. Our loss was severe. Nearly 5,000 of our men — including 300-400 of officers — had been killed or wounded. When you think of what our troops had to contend with, it was a wonder they entered the town at all that night. The storming of Badajoz was one of the worst engagements of the whole Peninsular War.
When everything was over, I remembered Pig Harding, George Bowden, the meeting we had planned, and how it had all come to nothing. Poor Pig had received seven shots in his body, and both George Bowden’s thighs had been blown off. They must have died instantly. We missed Pig Harding more than anyone. He had been a thoroughbred Irishman whose jokes had helped to pass the time pleasantly, and whose roguish tricks had supplied us with many an extra piece of tommy [bread].
I resolved never to make any more arrangements under such fearful circumstances.
Note: The taking of Badajoz was indeed one of the worst engagements of the Peninsular War. Wellington thought the assault a ‘terrible business’, having known before he ordered it what the human cost would be. On the day after the storming, when he stood on the city ramparts and looked out over the carnage, he wept. That same day he wrote to the War Minister: ‘The capture of Badajoz affords as strong an instance of the gallantry of our troops as has ever been displayed, but I greatly hope that I shall never again be the instrument of putting them to such a test.’