V.

Wellington fought his way over this region in 1813, and took San Sebastian,—­took it by storm and thunder-storm,—­took it in fire and hail, at fearful cost, and over the dead bodies of a quarter of his stormers.  The place blocked his northward way to meet the Man of Destiny.  Destiny decreed its fall.  For seven weeks, the siege, octopus-like, wound its long tentacles about its victim, sucking away the life.  On the last day of summer, the assault was let loose.  The attack seemed irresistible; the defence impregnable.  All that furious morning, column after column of British troops swarmed up the river bank, pressed on into the breaches, or hurled themselves to the top of the walls.  Column after column melted back, under the torrent of fire from the parapet and from the batteries in the citadel.  “In vain,” says Napier,[10] “the following multitude covered the ascent, seeking an entrance at every part; to advance was impossible, and the mass of assailants, slowly sinking downwards, remained stubborn and immovable on the lower part of the breach ...

[10] Peninsular War.

“The volunteers, who had been with difficulty restrained in the trenches, ’calling out to know why they had been brought there if they were not to lead the assault,’ being now let loose, went like a whirlwind to the breaches, and again the crowded masses swarmed up the face of the ruins, but reaching the crest line they came down like a falling wall; crowd after crowd were seen to mount, to totter and to sink, the deadly French fire was unabated, the smoke floated away, and the crest of the breach bore no living man.”

The British artillery, from a near elevation, now reinforced the attack with a raking fire, and new regiments plunged across the stream and rushed to join the attack.  “The fighting now became fierce and obstinate again at all the breaches, but the French musketry still rolled with deadly effect, the heaps of slain increased, and once more the great mass of stormers sank to the foot of the ruins, unable to win; the living sheltered themselves as they could, but the dead and wounded lay so thickly that hardly could it be judged whether the hurt or unhurt were most numerous.

“It was now evident that the assault must fail unless some accident intervened, for the tide was rising, the reserves all engaged, and no greater effort could be expected from men whose courage had been already pushed to the verge of madness.  In this crisis, fortune interfered.  A number of powder-barrels, live shells, and combustible materials which the French had accumulated behind the traverses for their defence, caught fire, a bright, consuming flame wrapped the whole of the high curtain, a succession of loud explosions was heard, hundreds of the French grenadiers were destroyed, the rest were thrown into confusion, and while the ramparts were still involved with suffocating