A little bit of context regarding why I read this book is necessary. Currently in Madrid, I have been dipping into Hugh Thomas’ Madrid, A Reader’s Guide, a lovingly edited anthology of pieces on the city through the ages. As a result, I came across the events of 1812, when Wellington’s army arrived in Madrid during the Peninsula Wars (to be received it would appear with enthusiasm by the locals, as they had succeeded in pushing the French out). I possessed the vaguest understanding of the Peninsula Wars, knowing not much more than they proceeded the battle of Waterloo and established Wellington’s military reputation. The detail about the occupation of Madrid intrigued me. I began, as one does, to dabble in the writing of a tale about a psychic soldier who meets some Spaniards who have fled Colombia in the wake of Bolivar’s liberation wars and returned to Madrid. However, they’ve returned with a small item of gold from the fabled lake of El Dorado, looking for allies to help them now return to the Americas in a bid to recapture the remainder of the gold haul from the lake, which ties in with another true story of the botched attempt to drain Lake Guatavita,
As a result of all of the above, which is undoubtably the result of having too much time on my hands, as they used to say, I did some research on contemporary accounts of Wellington’s wars and came across this book. Stuart Reid’s useful introduction informs that the book, published originally in 1819. “deservedly caught the public imagination and soon went through the first of a succession of book editions”. Ostensibly written by one Joseph Sinclair, Reid states that the book is probably the result of more than one first-hand account, edited by John Howell. There is an additional layer of interest for me in that in the first part of the book, before the Peninsula Wars, the narrator is part of the British expedition to the River Plate, spending several months in a Montevideo he seemed to enjoy, in spite of the heat, with descriptions of the “native” population.
Thereafter the narrator spends many years fighting his way around Portugal and Spain. The depiction of life is one of hardship, violence and a kind of weary, masculine companionship. The second part of the book becomes a succession of battles with the French, with the odd anecdote thrown in. If anything, the book highlights the importance of the figure of the writer. Whilst not negating the value of the first-hand account, it reveals the prime importance of an ability to shape, condense, editorialise events in order to convey their significance. Or perhaps this is line between journalism and literature. One imagines that the contemporary success of the book is down to the fact that this was the journalism of the day, a way for people to vicariously experience political events that shaped their world, most famously in this case, the battle of Waterloo. As the significance of these events diminishes, superseded by the onrushing tide of history, Sinclair’s account loses its capacity to absorb the reader.
What we are left with is the petty savagery of 19th century war. Men holed up in appalling conditions in an alien society for years at a time. The physical endurance demanded by the job, which only luck and a robust constitution could help you survive. Perhaps sensitivity too: there’s nothing gung-ho about this soldier. He doesn’t enjoy killing or violence. He’s a fly caught up in the geo-political whirlwhind of his days. On the front line, which is the worst possible place to be.
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