by David Rooney
On 9 October 1858, Harry inspected, for what was to be the last time, the 1st Battalion of the Rifle Brigade. He had them drawn up into a square and told them of his lifelong affection for the Regiment, what outstanding soldiers they were and, no doubt, a few soldier-like anecdotes, without deleting the expletives. There can have been few dry eyes on his departure.
Early the following year, Harry fell badly, cutting his knee. This was serious at his age – medicine being what it was in those days – and, understandably, caused Juana considerable anxiety. Beckwith, typically, made light of it and told him: ‘he would have profited from this martyrdom which would fit him better to fall in with the ranks of the celestial army.’ In fact, he very nearly lost his leg. The irony was not lost on him – it was the one the surgeons nearly removed after the Coa.
In September 1859, Harry’s five-year posting in Manchester came to an end and, despite pleading with the Duke of Cambridge for a further appointment, he finally retired. There were many friends who wrote farewell letters to him and he, of course, replied with his customary punctiliousness. But there was one parting which was the saddest of all – from his beloved horse, Aliwal, now twenty-two. Harry had ridden him at Maharajpore and all the Sutlej battles; he had been transported to England, then to South Africa and back again. A sad account comes from the daughter of Harry’s ADC, Major Payne:
My sister and I have a vivid recollection of the lovely horse, and how, when we used to meet Sir Harry when we were out walking and he was riding, he would call out, ‘Stand still, children,’ and then come galloping up at full speed, and Aliwal would stop at our very feet; and my mother used to tell us that on the anniversary of the Battle of Aliwal, when there was always a full-dress dinner at the General’s house, some one would propose Aliwal’s health, and Sir Harry would order him to be sent for. The groom would lead the beautiful creature all round the dinner-table, glittering with plate, lights, uniforms, and brilliant dresses, and he would be quite quiet, only giving a snort now and then, though, when his health had been drunk and the groom had led him out, you could hear him on the gravel outside, prancing and capering. The horse was now old, and Sir Harry, in his new house in London, would not be able to keep him; and though Sir Robert Gerard (now Lord Gerard) kindly offered him a home, Sir Harry feared that his old age would perhaps be an unhappy one, and he resolved to shoot him. My father and the faithful groom were with Sir Harry when he did so, and I believe they all shed tears.
On leaving Manchester, Harry and Juana took up residence in London. Harry was not, however, prepared to accept the quiet life. He immersed himself in Home Defence matters, wrote letters to The Times and exchanged forthright views with anyone who was prepared to listen. Even in February 1860, he was encouraging his old friends in Glasgow to establish a call-up system for home defence volunteers. Despite being seventy-two years old, he wrote: ‘Should any enemy have the audacity to attempt our shores, could he avoid our ever invincible Navy, I as a General of some experience in war, would be proud to command a combined force.’ In his heart of hearts, he knew this was not to be so. He disliked London and hated eking out an existence, counting his pennies. He worried about Juana when he had gone and wanted to ensure she had a pension appropriate to his rank. On 12 October 1860, his courageous old heart gave out. He was aged seventy-three.
Harry wanted to be interred at St Mary’s, Whittlesey, but it was now closed to further burials. However, his body was taken there and in a corner of the new cemetery he was laid to rest on 19 October. All business in the little town was suspended for the day, and some thousands of the inhabitants and those of the outlying district lined the route of the procession. The Rifle Corps of Ely, Wisbech, March, Ramsey and Whittlesey were represented at their own request, and with arms reversed preceded the hearse from the station to St Mary’s Church, and then to the cemetery. The coffin was borne by eight old soldiers who had all served under Harry and all wore their medals; the pall-bearers were six Whittlesey men, most of them his schoolfellows. Among the mourners were his surviving ‘Waterloo brother’, Tom, his nephew Hugh, Colonel Garvock, his Military Secretary in the Cape, and senior military officers. Three volleys were fired over the grave by the Volunteers. Over £700 was subscribed to found a memorial to his memory, and was spent on the restoration of the chapel at the end of the south aisle of St Mary’s Church, where he had received his early education when it was used as a schoolroom. It is now known as ‘Sir Harry’s Chapel’. On the south wall was erected a monument of white marble surmounted by a bust of Sir Harry (see plate section, photo 20). It bears the inscription:
This monument was erected and this chapel restored in 1862 by public subscription to the memory of Lieutenant-General Sir Harry G.W. Smith, Baronet of Aliwal, Knight Grand Cross of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, Colonel of the 1st Battalion, Rifle Brigade. He entered the 95th Regiment in 1805, served in South America, Spain, Portugal, France, North America, the Netherlands, India, and at the Cape of Good Hope, of which he was Governor and Commander-in-Chief from 1847 to 1852, and on the Home Staff to 1859, when he completed a most gallant and eventful career of fifty-four years’ constant employment. He was born at Whittlesey, 28th June, 1788 [sic – it was actually 1787], and died in London 12th October, 1860. Within these walls he received his earliest education, and in the cemetery of his native place his tomb bears ample record of the high estimation in which his military talents were held by his friend and chief, the great Duke of Wellington.
Coruna, Busaco, Fuentes d’Onoro, Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajoz, Salamanca, Vitoria, Pyrenees, Nivelle, Nive, Orthez, Toulouse, Waterloo, Maharajpore, Ferozeshuhur, Aliwal, Sobraon, South Africa.
O Lord, in Thee have I trusted; let me never be confounded.
After her husband’s death, Juana lived in Hastings for a time, and then later at 79 Cadogan Place, London. Passionately cherishing her husband’s memory, she was much loved by all the members of his family and their many friends. Finally, on 10 October 1872, she died aged seventy-four, and she was laid together with her beloved husband in his last resting place at Whittlesey (see plate section, photo 27).
Throughout their lives, Harry and Juana appeared to be hard up, and Harry always seemed to miss out on the lucrative rewards which could descend on successful commanders. He had been particularly incensed when Napier – far junior to him – received £50,000 for the capture of Sind. To his dying day, Harry’s concern was for Juana, and he did all he could to ensure that if she outlived him, as was likely, she would be able to live in suitable style. Fortunately, both their wills have survived and they throw an interesting light on the true financial situation. Harry’s will, signed on 30 July 1860, and full of the legal jargon of the day, left everything, ‘all and singular, whatsoever and wheresoever’, and including all his military medals, ‘to my dear wife Juana’. Then, surprisingly, the next item is given to an Ellen Hermann – thought to be their housekeeper in Manchester – his gold watch and chain, together with twelve silver spoons and forks and a large gravy spoon. In addition, Ellen was to receive £500 if she outlived Juana. The will was witnessed by their old friend John Bell.
This gave little indication of the value of the estate, but Juana’s will, made in October 1872, is full of more interesting detail – which proved that she had indeed been well provided for. Juana appointed as Executors, General Holdich, who had been Harry’s ADC, and her nephew, Captain Lambert. Her main bequest of £1,500 went to the wife of Captain Lambert, who also received ‘my household linen and my Indian and other diamonds’. Juana, who had no direct relatives of her own, had always been warmly welcomed into the large Smith family in Whittlesey, and she had become a firm favourite to large numbers of nephews, nieces and godchildren. Her will includes £100 to her servant; £25 to each of five godchildren; £50 to her brother-in-law Tom; bequests of £50 or £25 to ten nephews and nieces, but ‘not to Eleanor because she is well provided for’. Finally, she divided the residue of her estate between six named nephews and nieces.
Of the other close friends and companions of Harry’s, Charlie Beckwith died in July 1862, among the Piedmontese whom he had served so devotedly, and Sir John Bell in 1876, having lived to the age of ninety-four. Of his family, Harry’s sister, Jane Alice, later Mrs Sargant (of whom it has been said that she was ‘the only person in the world of whom he was afraid’) – to whom he wrote copious letters, particularly from South Africa and India, many of which are in the National Archives at Kew – died in 1869. His youngest sister, Anna Maria, died in 1875. His brother, Tom, born in 1792, was commissioned into the 95th in 1808, and took part in Sir John Moore’s expeditions and the Battle of Corunna. Like Harry, he served with the Light Division throughout the Peninsula War up to the Battle of Toulouse, being badly wounded at the Coa. He was recommended for promotion for his conduct at Waterloo. He proceeded with his Regiment to Paris, and, riding as Adjutant at the head of the 2nd Battalion, was the first British officer to enter the city on 7 July 1815. On retirement he was made a Companion of the Order of the Bath and granted a special pension. He died in London on 6 April 1877 and was buried in the cemetery at Aldershot. His medals are currently in possession of his great-grandson. Another brother, Charles, born in 1795, fought as a Volunteer (he was actually too young to enlist properly) with the 1st Battalion of the 95th at Quatre Bras and Waterloo, after which he received a commission as Second Lieutenant. Two or three years later he retired from the Army and settled at Whittlesey. He was a stalwart of local society becoming a JP, Deputy Lord Lieutenant for Cambridgeshire and a Lieutenant Colonel in the Yeomanry, dying at Whittlesey on 24 December 1854. Tom’s daughter, Annie, married Wellesley Robinson. They had a son, Annesley, who in turn had a son, Christopher, born in 1930, who, as Harry’s great-great-nephew happily survives to this day.
So, what of the character of these two people? Harry was impetuous, headstrong and, without a doubt, courageous. So was Juana, which was extraordinary for a young girl of her sheltered and convent-educated background. They were both fiery tempered but resilient in adversity and able to put up with significant physical hardship. They leant on each other physically and emotionally to an unusual extent for their times.
Harry was also intolerant and arrogant, almost to the point of insolence – take, as examples of this, his treatment of General Lowry Cole in the Peninsula and his remarks to General Pakenham at New Orleans. He was self-opinionated and regarded his own views as virtually unarguable. His three memos during the First Afghan War would earn a present-day serving officer severe displeasure from his superiors. Nevertheless he was, above all, a charismatic leader. There are any number of instances where Harry led from the front in the battles we have described. He looked after his men in a way which was rare in those days. He realized that they needed serviceable kit and proper resupply, training and rest when exhausted. Men followed him because they respected this and knew that he would not ask of them something he was not prepared to do himself. He took risks, both for himself and for his men, which, by the criteria of our current army, would be unacceptable, but we must judge really devastating battles, such as New Orleans, Badajoz and Waterloo, by the standards of the day. Even so, Harry felt the losses most strongly and, personally, to a remarkable extent. Officers up to a very senior level physically led their men and the battles are littered with generals killed and wounded – Craufurd, Pakenham, Ross, Picton and the like. While Harry commanded various groups of men from time to time, and formally as a company commander, he never actually commanded a battalion or brigade before becoming a divisional commander in the First Sikh War. Today this would be impossible, yet Harry’s success is self-evident. He had learnt his skills by hard exposure to warfare and from others, rather than through a standard ascent up the military promotion ladder. At the same time, he also proved himself a consummate staff officer. Then, as today, to be a front-line soldier and administrator are not always the happiest of combinations. He relished his job as Town Major of Cambrai after Waterloo and then did remarkably well during the yellow fever epidemic in Jamaica. Of course he was ambitious, but so were his colleagues. Why otherwise did officers volunteer for the Forlorn Hope and relish battle since, bluntly, casualties produced gaps for advancement.
As a General, he had many of the skills and attributes that are easily recognizable today. He despised the frontal and manpower-expensive assault beloved by the unimaginative Gough at Ferozeshah and Ross at Bladensberg, preferring the indirect approach and the diversionary attack. Aliwal, now a relatively forgotten battle, was, at the time, considered a masterpiece of what we would now call ‘all-arms cooperation’. Harry deftly organized his infantry, cavalry and artillery to support each other at the right time and right place – a task which was beyond many of his contemporaries who merely saw battle as a hard full-frontal slog. He understood the importance of timing and the critical point at which to mobilize his reserve, despite the difficulty of communication.
His selection for the Governorship of the Cape can be easily understood, even by standards of today. Here was a triumphant General, idolized by the public (and media such as existed then), praised by no less than the Duke of Wellington and, above all, already heavily experienced in the South African scene. Not only that, he had written an assessment of the situation in the eastern Cape and how to deal with it, which was widely accepted. Whitehall and Cape Town could hardly have had a more suitable candidate. But his instinct and judgement, so successful as a soldier, failed him as a diplomat. His inability to deal with the machinations of political expediency, both within government at home and the tiresome local disputes, over, for instance, the convict question and parliamentary reform in the Cape, led, inexorably, to his recall. The eighth Frontier War of 1850-1853 was, arguably, the most critical armed emergency in South Africa to the present day. Some will dispute that and cite the Boer War of 1899-1902, but judged in the context of its time, the threat to the survival of white civilization in 1851 was more serious than any since. Harry’s judgement failed him and he remained mistakenly optimistic and overconfident. His assessment of people was not always sound and, despite his temper and irascible nature, he tolerated inadequate subordinates like Somerset, whom he should have removed at an early stage. He was, inevitably, then made the sacrificial lamb for a failing government in its last-ditch attempt to save itself. Was it really Harry’s fault or the selectors who put him there? There is an uncomfortable saying, still current in modern military parlance, that some officers are promoted to one level above their competence. Was this so with Harry? He was what we would call today a ‘soldier’s soldier’, an officer who was outstanding with his men and a master of his particular battlefield, but who, when promoted to the 6th Floor of the Ministry of Defence, finds himself outflanked and outwitted by clever civil servants, financiers and wily self-serving politicians.
Writers have blamed Harry’s drive and the perception of self-aggrandisement on his humble upbringing and lack of money, but there is little real evidence for this, as we have seen. Wellington himself was often short of money, and this is simply the way people lived in times of great uncertainty and appalling financial administration. As for Harry being ‘plebeian’, this is absolute nonsense. Of course, he was no aristocrat but, as a surgeon, his father was a pillar of local society and three of his sons deserved their Commissions as well as anyone. Foulmouthed and irascible? Maybe, but again, only a product of the time. ‘Black Bob’ Craufurd was idolized by his men and yet had to be personally rebuked for his profanity by Wellington.
As a loving husband, and with a love fully reciprocated by Juana, it would be difficult in those times to find better. We are lucky enough to have access to records of husbands, sons and fathers who wrote letters copiously when on active service, and Harry and Juana were no exceptions. They were lucky to have suffered little real separation (only America) even by today’s standards and no complications with children. Had they had any it is conceivable that things might have turned out differently. Juana gave up everything for Harr
y: country, family and friends. But she was happy to do so. They were generous with their money when they had it and easily made friends across the social spectrum. They were both equally at ease with the rough soldiery as they were with the crowned heads of Europe. They entertained well but not over-lavishly and much enjoyed other people’s company. So, not a complicated mixture, but a mixture nevertheless of courage, impetuosity, charm, not always the best of judges, but, above all, with a sense of humour and happiness in each other’s company.
Thus ends this extraordinary and enduring love story between two, on the face of it, ill-matched people: the distraught fourteen-year-old Spanish aristocrat fleeing the carnage of Badajoz, and the 25-year-old, combat experienced, worldly wise, English officer. They both had their tempers and tantrums, but like many that do, quickly made up and fell into each other’s arms. They attracted devotion from those who surrounded them, the classic example being Harry’s orderly, West. Juana endeared herself to the hard-bitten Peninsula soldiery amongst whom she slept, wrapped in a blanket by her horse, and with the Sepoys at Maharajpore, riding her elephant into battle. Harry properly concentrated on his job in hand but he always had Juana’s welfare in mind the moment he had a chance. He fully realized the anxieties she had when she knew he was away fighting. Juana was much loved by Harry’s family and it was a mark of their character that they took this Spanish girl in so readily and made her one of them.