by Roy Adkins
Crillon had hoped his invasion force would be mistaken for a friendly convoy so that they could sail straight into Port Mahon harbour, but the garrison blocked the entrance with a chain and retreated within Fort St Philip. The invasion fleet was forced to sail further round the coast and land the French and Spanish troops at Sandy Bay, not far from the town of Mahon. From here, they quickly took control of the island, with only the fort holding out against them, where many citizens and British soldiers took refuge. This citadel was now besieged, and there was little prospect of assistance from Britain.
The island of Minorca, a far larger territory than Gibraltar, had a fine, sheltered, deep-water anchorage at Port Mahon, where for almost two decades the Royal Navy had established a substantial base for repairing and overhauling warships. British newspapers took a keen interest in the siege, with regular reports, including a description that highlighted its immense value to Gibraltar:
Minorca is situated almost opposite the port of Barcelona, at about 30 leagues distance. It is of a very irregular form, about 30 miles long in its extremest length, and about 16 broad. Port Mahon and Citadelle are the chiefest places in the island, which in the interior parts is very hilly, and some very excellent sheep, whose wool is equal to that of Spain, are bred upon them. There are several vineyards, and a prodigious number of mulberry trees, which favour the culture of silk. Its other productions are fruits, oil, and fish, which are caught in every bay round the island.6
At Port Mahon, the newspapers said, was ‘the castle of St. Philip, which stands on a rock, [with] six forts, several redoubts, and some strong lunette batteries. The harbour which it commands will hold 150 sail of large shipping conveniently.’7 On Gibraltar, there were fears that if the French and Spaniards took over Minorca, another important supply line would be lost. Even worse, thousands of reinforcements from their combined army might be subsequently moved from Minorca to reinforce the siege of the Rock. In the short term, though, firing from the isthmus had dwindled to a few shots each night, something that Drinkwater commented on:
The Enemy’s bombardment, if we may call it by that name, scarcely exceeded, at this time, three shells in the twenty-four hours, which the soldiers ... profanely termed, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. It is not indeed altogether improbable, that the Spaniards might entertain some bigoted respect for that mystical number, and, considering the British in the light of heretics, might apprehend some efficacy from it, in the great work of converting the Garrison to the Catholic faith. At least it is difficult, on any more reasonable ground, to account for their exactly continuing to fire neither more nor less for so considerable a period.8
Every now and again, more vigorous firing took place from the batteries, particularly if they had been provoked by the British firing at their working parties, while periodic attacks still occurred from the gunboats and mortar boats. In the middle of August, Boyd’s journal recorded a particularly fierce bombardment:
The Enemy’s gun and mortar-boats paid us a visit at half past 11 o’clock last night, when they begun the heaviest and hottest fire with shot and shells that has been as yet, which our batteries returned with equal spirit and vigour. The old mole opened upon their camp with 14 rounds of 13-inch shells and 6 rounds from the guns of shot and small shells to satisfy the cowardly Dons of their coming like a thief in the night to massacre our women and children in camp, which drew on us a very heavy fire from their land batteries that continued until 2 o’clock this morning. We have one man killed, 1 died suddenly, 3 men and 4 children wounded, and by all appearance the Enemy must have suffered considerably both by sea and land. ... A shell fell in the Seamans Hospital, set on fire some loose sails and pease bags, but was timely extinguished before it done any further damage.9
Being in the southern part of the promontory, near Rosia Bay, the hospital was well clear of firing from the Spanish artillery on land, but the gunboats were concentrating on the encampment and naval hospital. At the end of August, Drinkwater was upset by the death of an artillery gunner when a shell fell on his hospital bed:
The circumstances attending this man’s case are so melancholy and affecting, that I cannot pass over them in silence. Some time previous to this event, he had been so unlucky as to break his thigh: being a man of great spirits, he ill brooked the confinement ... and exerted himself to get abroad, that he might enjoy the benefit of fresh air in the court of the hospital: unfortunately, in one of his playful moments, he fell, and was obliged to take to his bed again ... when a shell from the mortar-boats fell into the ward, and rebounding lodged upon him. The convalescents and sick, in the same room, instantly summed up strength to crawl out on hands and knees, whilst the fuse was burning; but this wretched victim was kept down by the weight of the shell, which after some seconds burst, took off both his legs, and scorched him in a dreadful manner; but, what was still more horrid, he survived the explosion, and was sensible to the very moment that death relieved him from his misery. His last words were expressive of regret that he had not been killed on the batteries.10
He was unlucky, because dozens of Spanish shells did not explode, and it was found that they ‘were filled chiefly of earth blackened with powder ... it is supposed that their laboratory workers must sell the powder to the country bores for fowling, as they are vastly fond of that amusement’.11
Although the hospital was long established, Spilsbury could not help finding fault with the army surgeons working there. In the early hours of 18 September, a shell splinter took off both legs of a soldier from the 12th Regiment. He was taken to the naval hospital where, according to Spilsbury, ‘he lay two hours and a quarter before the Surgeons would venture out of their bomb-proof to dress him, so that the loss of blood would have killed him of itself’.12 His criticism may have been unjust, because a fierce bombardment from the batteries, gunboats and mortar boats took place that night, mainly directed towards the King’s Bastion and adjacent fortifications in order to divert attention from a considerable amount of work being done on the isthmus. Another casualty of the same attack was thirty-nine-year-old Donald Ross, a former labourer from Tain in Ross-shire, who had joined the 73rd Regiment three years earlier. That night he had been a sentry at the King’s Lines, and his regimental surgeon, Andrew Cairncross, did everything possible to save his life after he was injured:
Donald Ross ... was knocked down by the wind of a thirteen inch shell, which fell close by him. The shock and fear had such an effect upon him, that he was rendered entirely incapable of making any efforts to save himself by running away. The fuze burnt only a few seconds, when the shell exploded. He was soon after taken up senseless by some of the guards, in a miserable mangled condition by the splinters of the shell and pieces of stone thrown about; and he was conveyed in a litter to the hospital of the 73d [at the naval hospital]. When brought there, his appearance was so shocking, that I really was almost at a loss what part of his body to pay attention to first.13
On examining him, Cairncross saw that the bone above his right eye was exposed and fractured, and he had severe fractures of his left arm and leg. In addition, he recorded, ‘A great part of the skin and muscles were lacerated from three of his fingers of the right hand, and the bone of the middle one was shattered to pieces. His body was contused all over; the scrotum and penis particularly so. The British regimental surgeons assisted me; and indeed we were all of opinion, that the unfortunate man could not live.’ He decided to look first at the cranium fracture: ‘On laying the bone bare, I found a fracture running about an inch and a half upwards in the direction of the wound; and there was a particular dint in the lower part of the bone, which seemed to be the point struck. No time was lost; the trephine [small circular saw to remove part of the skull] was immediately applied on the part; it cut well; the sawing was complete, without injuring the dura mater.’ He realised a sliver of bone was missing, and on wiping away some blood, ‘the bit of bone was found drove through the membranes into the brain, and
sticking fast. It was immediately removed; on which a pretty considerable haemorrhage ensued.’14 After a while, they stopped the bleeding, and Ross showed signs of recognising those around him. Cairncross and his colleagues agreed it was best to dress his other wounds lightly and let him sleep, only undertaking further surgery if he lived.
At this time there was no concept of hygiene, so the surgeon’s instruments were not sterilised beforehand, and the conditions in which operations took place were basic. Infections were common, and gangrene and tetanus were frequent killers. A further difficulty with Donald Ross was that the trepanning was carried out by the light of candles and lanterns, with the danger that the hospital might be hit at any moment. A few hours later, Cairncross was surprised that his patient was still alive, that he had slept well and his pulse was fine. For many days, he was carefully monitored, but on the fourteenth day Ross complained of an acute pain in his fractured leg. ‘I expected nothing but gangrene and its consequences to follow,’ Cairncross recorded; ‘and this now appeared to be the critical time to remove the limb entirely, as the only probable chance of saving the patient’s life. On consulting with my brother surgeons, they all agreed with me in opinion ... and as no time was to be lost, it was determined to be done immediately.’15
Speed was essential because there were no effective anaesthetics, only alcohol and opium to dull the pain. A surgeon would try to perform an amputation in minutes to minimise blood loss and prevent the overwhelming pain causing shock. The patient was usually held down on a table, given a leather gag to bite on, while a tourniquet was placed on the limb above the incision. The surgeon was now ready to cut through the flesh, muscle and sinews in a circle down to the bone, and this soft tissue was pulled back, enabling him to saw through the bone higher up. The damaged limb was removed, and the flap of flesh was folded over the end of the bone. By loosening the tourniquet slightly, bleeding revealed the position of the blood vessels so that they could be tied with thread or silk ligatures. The tourniquet was released, and the stump was sealed with something like spirits of turpentine or pitch and then bandaged. The ends of the ligatures were left long to help drain the fluids as the stump healed.
Cairncross described the operation on Ross: ‘As soon as the necessary apparatus was got ready, that I might not disturb my patient by placing him on a table, I took off the limb in the usual place below the knee, whilst he lay in bed in the hospital cradle. He bore the operation exceedingly well, all circumstances considered, and soon after fell fast asleep ... Next morning, I found him in good spirits, without any quickness of pulse.’ On the fifth day, the dressings were removed, and all looked well, but Ross wanted his damaged middle finger to be removed, because it ‘gave a good deal of pain all up the arm, and was very offensive to the smell’.16 Ten weeks after his near-fatal accident, Cairncross was very pleased to report that ‘he was perfectly well, but weakly’.17 Ross was soon sent home and accepted for a pension, though his records suggest that his recovery was interrupted by complications, because he also had an arm amputated.18
Ross was lucky to have been in the care of Cairncross, somebody who greatly impressed Eliott: ‘the very many sick and wounded, whether officers or soldiers, whom the climate or the chance of war was committed to his care, were treated with such equal attention, humanity and skill by him, as to merit my highest approbation and place his professional abilities in a very high point of view throughout the Garrison ... his behavior always becoming a Gentleman’.19 Spilsbury nevertheless continued to vent his anger against the medical staff: ‘The Regiment doctors are little better than butchers, and ours are not trusted with medicines. When Major B— was wounded, no proper dressings were at the Main Guard, where a [surgeon’s] mate attends; the Director, being accused of it next morning, answered they were, having sent them just before, at daylight.’20 He was referring to a shell that had smashed through a house opposite the King’s Bastion only a few hours after Ross was injured. Remarkably, the house had been little damaged up to now, but this time Edward Burke, the Town-Major, was killed, which shocked everyone, including Captain Price:
About 8 o’clock this night, a shell fell through the roof [of] Major Vignole’s quarters, on the Lines near the King’s Bastion, upon Captain Burke’s leg, which it shattered above the knee and wounded Majors Mercier and Vignoles who were sitting at table with him. While the fuze continued burning, the two gentlemen ... rushed out of the house, the shell in the meantime exploding, blew Captain Burke up to the ceiling, as is supposed from the quantity of blood sprinkled all over it. He was carried to the hospital and an amputation performed above the knee. When I saw him he was in agonies of death and survived only a few minutes after I reached the hospital. The universal dejection visible in the countenances of the whole parade [in] the morning regarding the accident did that justice to his abilities and which no words are able to convey. He was Town Major to the Garrison and was scarce 30 years old. He was equally regretted by the inhabitants to whom his amicable qualities had generally endeared him.21
The next evening, Price said, Burke’s funeral took place: ‘the remains of poor worthy Burke were privately interred at South Port. The Governor was too deeply affected to be able to attend.’22 This was an unusual sign of frailty in Eliott. Today, there is an impressive monument to Burke in the King’s Chapel.
Spilsbury continued complaining about the hospital: ‘It seems cradles [for carrying the sick and wounded] are not sufficiently provided for the hospitals, nor places to perform surgical operations in; the wards where the sick are, are all they have, the others being inhabited by families, &c.’23 A few weeks later, the overcrowding was addressed by turning out many people, but too many wounded soldiers continued to die through loss of blood, and Drinkwater said that the death of one soldier at the end of September made Eliott intervene:
A soldier of the 72d lost his legs by a shot from Fort Barbara, from which they continued occasionally to fire. He bore amputation with prodigious firmness, but died soon after, through the loss of blood previous to his being brought to the Hospital. This fact being represented to the Governor, the serjeants of the different regiments were ordered to attend the Hospital, to be taught by the surgeons how to apply the tourniquets, which was afterwards productive of very beneficial consequences. Tourniquets were also distributed to the different guards, to be at hand in case of necessity.24
This was one of the earliest instances of organised first aid amongst the rank-and-file soldiers, and it undoubtedly gave the wounded a better chance of survival.
By now, the firing from the Spanish gunboats and batteries had increased once more, resulting in a catalogue of injuries. At the start of October, fierce firing from both sides lasted all night long, and Price, who was on guard duty at Waterport, recorded that from six in the evening to six the next morning the Spaniards fired 1385 shells and 231 cannonballs. One of those injured was Private Elsegood, one of his recruits, who was ‘supposed mortally wounded, having his skull frightfully shattered’.25 Everyone was astonished that, through the dedicated skill of the surgeon of the 56th Regiment, the soldier recovered. Thomas Chisholm was the surgeon, back at work saving others after he himself had a leg amputated in April.
Some of the soldiers and seamen on Gibraltar were feeling dispirited, and a mutiny was even planned on board the Speedwell cutter, but the potential mutineers were arrested after it was reported. A trickle of deserters also continued. Some were successful, but others were caught or died in the attempt. While on guard duty at Waterport, Price found some clothes on the Old Mole belonging to someone from the 12th Regiment. Two nights later, Drinkwater reported, ‘the body of a soldier of the 12th regiment, who attempted to swim to the Enemy from Waterport, was discovered floating near the Repulse prame [another new gunboat converted from a brig]. The sailors on watch, imagining some large fish had got foul of their cable, darted a harpoon into the body, but soon found out their mistake.’26 The drowned man was taken on shore and buri
ed.
Ancell remained defiant in tone when writing to his brother, despite the relentless shelling:
The enemy ... have bombarded us now near six months, and General Alvarez is as far from taking possession of the garrison as he was at first, although they have discharged from their batteries, according to the nearest calculation, between thirty and forty thousand rounds of shot and shells. He may view the rock with his perspective from the camp of St. Roque, but if he wishes to examine the workmanship of the walls, and the strength of the fortification, he must come much nearer, or return without the gratification of his curiosity.27
This was exactly what the Spaniards were doing, inexorably spreading their siegeworks across the sand dunes of the isthmus towards the Rock, with more gun and mortar batteries in the area of St Carlos battery, as well as new communication lines. They included an eastern parallel that was already halfway to the Mediterranean, where it looked as if another battery was being laid out. The work was done mostly at night, and, with the huge defences covered in sand, the garrison could only disrupt the work, not stop it. From the Rock, it was difficult to determine exactly what was happening, and virtually nobody had deserted to Gibraltar over the last few months. Each morning, something new and substantial was visible, and on one occasion in mid-November Horsbrugh recorded:
The Enemy have in the night thrown up more sand to cover the front face of the first six-gun battery and have made an addition of about 100 feet to the eastern branch, which seems now to incline towards the burying ground. This branch is constructed with two rows of casks lined and capped with fascines and banked up with sand. A number of men have been at work through the day in the two new gun batteries, which they are both strengthening and raising, and we think they are laying the platforms of the first. There is the appearance of much hurry and business in the artillery fascine and picketting parks, where they have collected a prodigious quantity of brushwood and have this day brought forward from thence many mule and cart loads of timber, long and short fascines.28