Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
"Dost thou remember, soldier old and hoary,
The days we fought and conquered, side by side,
On fields of bank, famous now in story,
Where Britons triumphed, And where Britons died?"
* * * * * * *
"Dost thou remember all those marches weary,
From gathering foes, to reach Coruña's shore?
Who can forget that midnight sad and dreary,
When in his grave we laid the noble Moore?
But ere he died, our General heard us cheering
And saw us charge with Victory's flag unfurled,—
And then he slept, without a moment's fearing
For British soldiers conquering all the world."
NORMAN MACLEOD.
[Illustration: His sabre descended in one swift sweep.
Frontispiece.]
ROY
A TALE IN THE DAYS OF
SIR JOHN MOORE
BY
AGNES GIBERNE
AUTHOR OF "COULYNG CASTLE"
"AIMÉE, A TALE OF THE DAYS OF JAMES II."
ETC. ETC.
"Duris non Frangor"
LONDON
C. ARTHUR PEARSON, LIMITED
HENRIETTA STREET
1901
DEDICATED
BY EXPRESS PERMISSION
TO
FIELD-MARSHAL THE RIGHT HON.
G. J. VISCOUNT WOLSELEY
K.P., G.C.B., G.C.M.G., COL.R.H.G.
COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF
VICTOR AT TEL-EL-KEBIR
ETC. ETC.
PREFACE
IN the following pages I have tried to give a faithful picture of life
in England and in France during the first decade of the Nineteenth
Century. The invasion scare, the state of National feeling in our land,
the conditions which prevailed among British prisoners in France,
the descriptions of French conscripts and French dungeons, etc., are
in accordance with reality. My authorities have been many, including
volumes written and published at the time, long since out of print. One
chief authority for dungeon-scenes is the "Narrative" of Major-General
Lord Blayney, himself four years a captive at Verdun and elsewhere; but
his account by no means stands alone. My aim has been in no case to
overdraw, but to be true to those things which actually were.
Some old MS. letters, handed down in my own family, belonging to that
date, have been no inconsiderable help.
In the central figure of the tale I have sought to draw a portrait,
true again to life, of him who in an age of British heroes ranked par
excellence as England's foremost soldier-hero; of him about whom,
twenty years later, Sir George Napier wrote—"That great and good
soldier ... to whom I looked up as the first of men;" of him about
whom, half a lifetime after the Battle of Coruña, Sir Charles Napier,
the famous conqueror of Scinde, could sadly say—"Thirty-eight years ago
the great Moore fell: I have never seen his equal since!"
To these past testimonies may be added that of Lord Wolseley, who
has kindly granted his permission for the dedication of this book
to himself. In a speech made not long ago, Lord Wolseley spoke of
Moore as "one of the greatest soldiers we ever had," who, "if he had
not been killed at Coruña, would probably have been the Commander in
the Peninsular Wars, and have won the great battle which annihilated
Napoleon's power at Waterloo."
And indeed, the extraordinary lustre of Sir John Moore's character and
career, together with the radiant glory with which the close of his
life was crowned, form a picture scarcely to be excelled. No man ever
lived more exclusively, or fought with more absolute self-abandonment,
for his country—"that country," to quote once more from Sir George
Napier, "which he loved with an ardour equal to the Roman patriot's,
and had served to the hour of his death with a zeal and gallantry
equalled by few, surpassed by none." This at a time, it may be added,
when the very existence of Great Britain as a Nation was at stake.
Perhaps the best clue to the keynote of Moore's history may be found in
a sentence culled from one of his letters to his mother—"And so I hope
that, whatever happens, England will not be able to say we have not
done our duty."
EASTBOURNE,
August 1900.
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. A TRIP TO PARIS IN 1803
II. SWEET POLLY'S GRENADIER
III. A MAN AMONG TEN THOUSAND
IV. DOLEFUL TIDINGS
V. GENERAL INDIGNATION
VI. THE DUKE'S PARTICULAR FRIEND
VII. PRISONERS OF WAR
VIII. THE THREATENED INVASION
IX. OUR HERO
X. THE FRENCH FLEET SIGNALLED
XI. A MISTAKEN READING
XII. ORDERED TO VERDUN
XIII. A FRENCH CONSCRIPT
XIV. IN A FORTIFIED TOWN
XV. FROM OVER THE WATER
XVI. ORDERED TO VALENCIENNES
XVII. IN THE YEAR 1807
XVIII. ALTERED LOOKS
XIX. ROY'S IMPRUDENCE
XX. ORDERED TO BITCHE
XXI. A GLIMPSE OF LOVELY POLLY
XXII. THE WAY OF THE WIND
XXIII. IN VIEW OF CAPTAIN PEIRCE
XXIV. A BITTER EXPERIENCE
XXV. LIFE IN A FRENCH DUNGEON
XXVI. A PRISON TRAGEDY
XXVII. A BARRED WINDOW
XXVIII. MOST FRIENDLY OF FRENCHMEN
XXIX. THE DEAR OLD COUNTRY
XXX. SIR JOHN MOORE
XXXI. ORDERED TO SPAIN
XXXII. TWO MIGHTY MEN
XXXIII. CAPTIVES STILL
XXXIV. AT SALAMANCA
XXXV. MOORE'S BOLD VENTURE
XXXVI. A HAZARDOUS RETREAT
XXXVII. A VISIT FROM MOORE BY NIGHT
XXXVIII. THE BATTLE OF CORUÑA
XXXIX. MOORE'S LAST VICTORY
XL. A WARRIOR TAKING HIS REST
XLI. AT VERDUN ONCE MORE
XLII. LUCILLE'S APPEAL
XLIII. THE RELEASE OF ONE
ILLUSTRATIONS
HIS SABRE DESCENDED IN ONE SWIFT SWEEP Frontispiece
PROMPTLY DOWN UPON THIS WITH BOTH KNEES WENT THE TALL GRENADIER
HE MOUNTED AND RODE OFF
"I SAY, HADN'T YOU BETTER GIVE ME THAT LITTLE THING TO HOLD?"
HE HAD TO WORK AT THE BAR IN A DIFFICULT AND CRAMPED POSITION
SIR JOHN GLANCED ROUND BEFORE SPEAKING
ROY
A TALE IN THE DAYS OF
SIR JOHN MOORE
CHAPTER I
A TRIP TO PARIS IN 1803
"YOU don't mean to say it, my dear sir? You're absolutely jesting.
I'm compelled to believe that you are pleased to talk nonsense. To take
the boy! Impossible!"
"I never was more sober in my life, I do assure you, ma'am."
"The thing is incredible. No, sir, I cannot believe it. 'Tis bad enough
that you should be going abroad at all, at this time—you and your wife.
But to place an innocent babe of nine years in the power of that wicked
Corsican! Twelve years old, say you! Nay, the twins' birthday is not
till June. Roy is but eleven yet, and none would guess him to be over
nine. Well, well, 'tis much the same. My dear sir, war is a certainty.
We shall be embroiled with France before six weeks are ended."
"That is as may be. We intend to be at home again long before six weeks
are gone by. A fortnight in Paris—nothing more. The opportunity is not
to be lost; and as you know, all the world is going to Paris. So pray
be easy in your mind."
Colonel Baron adjusted his rigid stock, and held his square chin aloft,
looking over it with a benevolent though combative air towards the lady
opposite. Mrs. Bryce was a family friend of long standing, and she
might say what she chose. But nothing was further from his intentions
than to alter his plans, merely because Mrs. Bryce or Mrs. Anybody Else
chose to volunteer unasked advice. There was a spice of obstinacy in
the gallant Colonel's composition.
Despite civilian dress—swallow-tailed coat, brass buttons, long flapped
waistcoat, white frilled shirt-front, and velvet knee-breeches, with
silk stockings—the Colonel was a thorough soldier in appearance. He had
not yet left middle age behind, and he was still spare in figure, and
upright as a dart.
Mrs. Bryce, a lively woman, in age perhaps somewhere about thirty-five,
had bright twinkling eyes. She was dressed much à la mode, in the then
fashionable figured muslin, made long and clinging, her white stockings
and velvet shoes showing through it in front. The bonnet was of bright
blue; and a silk spencer, of the same colour, was cut low, a large
handkerchief covering her shoulders. A short veil descended below her
eyes. She used her hands a good deal, flirting them about as she talked.
Upon an old-fashioned sofa, with prim high back and arms, and a long
'sofa-table' in front, sat the Colonel's wife, Mrs. Baron, a very
graceful figure, young still, and in manner slightly languishing.
Though it was early in the afternoon, she wore a low-necked frock,
with a scarf over it; and her fair hands toyed with a handsome fan.
A white crape turban was wound about her head. Beside her was Mr.
Bryce, a short man, clothed in blue swallow-tailed coat and brass
buttons—frock-coats being then unknown. His face was deeply scored and
corrugated with smallpox.
The wide low room, with its large centre-table and ponderous
furniture, had one other inmate, and this was a lovely young girl, in
a short-waisted and short-sleeved frock of white muslin. A pink scarf
was round her neck; dainty pink sandalled shoes were on her small
high-instepped feet; long kid gloves covered the slender round arms; a
fur-trimmed pink pelisse lay on a chair near; and from the huge pink
bonnet on her head tall white ostrich feathers pointed skyward. Polly
Keene was on a visit to the Barons, and she had just come in from a
stroll with Mr. and Mrs. Bryce. Young ladies, ninety or a hundred years
ago, did not commonly venture alone beyond the garden, but waited for
proper protection. Polly had the softest brown velvet eyes imaginable,
a delicate blush-rose complexion, and a pretty, arch manner.
Upon a side-table stood cake and wine, together with a piled up pyramid
of fruit, for the benefit of callers. Afternoon tea was an unknown
institution; and the fashionable dinner-hour varied between four and
half-past five o'clock.
"A fortnight in Paris! And what of Nap meanwhile?" vivaciously demanded
Mrs. Bryce. "What of old Boney? That is the question, my dear sir. What
may not that wicked tyrant be after next?"
"Buonaparte has a good deal to answer for, ma'am, but I do not imagine
that he will have the responsibility of hindering this little scheme of
ours."
Mrs. Bryce turned herself briskly towards the sofa.
"If I were you, Harriette, I'd refuse to go. Then at least you will not
have it on your conscience, if everything gets askew."
Mrs. Baron's large grey eyes gazed dreamily towards the speaker.
"My dear Harriette, wake up, I entreat of you. Pray listen to me.
Doubtless all the world is off to France. Nothing more likely, since
half the world consists of idiots, and another half of madmen. That is
small reason why you two need to comport yourselves like either."
"Do you truly suppose there will be war again so soon?" asked Mrs.
Baron incredulously.
"Do I suppose? Why, everybody knows it. Colonel Baron knows it. There
can't be any reasonable doubt about the matter. The Treaty of Amiens
is practically at an end already. Nap has broken his pledges again
and again. And this last demand of his—why, nothing could be more
iniquitous."
"Dear me, has he made any fresh demand?" Mrs. Baron's eyes went in
appeal to her husband, for she had no great faith in Mrs. Bryce's
judgment. The Colonel had no chance of responding.
"Even you can't sure have forgot that, my dear Harriette! He desires
that we should give over to his tender mercies the unfortunate Bourbon
Princes who have fled to us for refuge. And no doubt in the end he
would demand all the refugees of the Revolution. He might as well
demand England herself! And he will demand that too, in no long time.
'Tis an open secret that he is already making preparations for the
invasion of our country."
"Boney does not believe that England, single-handed, will dare to
oppose him," remarked Mr. Bryce. "He considers that a nation of
seventeen million inhabitants is certain to go down before a nation of
forty millions."
"Let him but come, and he'll learn his mistake," declared the valiant
lady. "But you, Harriette—with public affairs in this state—you
positively intend to let your crazy husband drag you across the
Channel!"
"But I do not think my husband crazy, and I wish very much to go," she
said, slightly pouting. "I have never been out of England. The wars
have always hindered me, when I could have gone."
"And you absolutely mean to take the young ones, too!"
"We intend to take Roy," said the Colonel, as his wife's eyes once more
appealed to him.
"I never heard such a scheme in my life! To take the boy away from his
schooling—"
"No; his school has just been broken up for some weeks. Several cases
of smallpox; so it is considered best."
"And Molly! Not Molly too?"
"No, not Molly. One will be enough." Colonel Baron did not wish to
betray that he had strenuously opposed the plan, and had given in with
reluctance to his wife's entreaties.
"I thought the two never had been parted."
"It is time such fantasies should be broken through. Roy must go to a
boarding-school in the autumn, and this will pave the way."
Mrs. Baron lifted a lace pocket-handkerchief to her eyes.
"My dear heart—a school five miles off! You will think nothing of
it when the time arrives," urged the Colonel. He had won his wife's
consent to the boarding-school in the autumn only that morning, by
yielding to her wish that Roy should go to Paris. The Colonel's
graceful wife was something of a spoilt child in her ways, and he
seldom had the will to oppose her seriously.
"Indeed, I should say so too," struck in Mrs. Bryce. "You don't desire
to turn him into a nincompoop; and between you and Molly, my dear
Harriette, he hasn't a chance, And what's to become of Molly?"
Mrs. Baron was still gently dabbing her eyes with the square of lace;
and the Colonel answered—"My wife's stepmother wishes to have Molly in
Bath for a visit. She will travel thither with Polly early next week."
"Too much gadding about! Not the sort of way I was brought up, nor you
either. But everything is turned upside down in these days. And you've
persuaded Captain Ivor to go too!"
"Undoubtedly Den will accompany us."
"And you're content to put yourselves into the clutches of that
miserable Boney!"
"My dear madam, the First Consul does not wage war on unoffending
travellers."
"Boney doesn't care what he does, so long as he can get his own way."
"He will at least act in accordance with the laws of civilised nations."
"Not he! Boney makes his own laws to suit himself."
"Well, well, my dear madam, we view these things differently. I have
made up my mind. My wife has never been into France, and we may not
have another opportunity for many years to come."
"Likely enough—while the Corsican lives!" muttered Mrs. Bryce.
The end window opened upon a verandah, and just outside this window,
which had been thrown wide open, for it was an unusually hot spring
day, a boy lay flat upon the ground, shaping a small wooden boat with
his penknife. At the first mention of his name, a fair curly head
popped up and popped down again. A recurrence of the word "Roy" brought
up the head a second time, and two wide grey eyes stared eagerly over
the low sill into the room. He might have been seen easily enough, but
people were too busy to look that way. Then again the head vanished,
and its owner lay motionless, apparently listening. After which he
rolled away, jumped up, and scampered to the schoolroom at the back of
the house.
It was a good-sized house, with a nice garden, in the outskirts of
London; a much more limited London than the great metropolis of our
day, though even then Englishmen were wont to describe it as "vast."
Trafalgar Square and Regent Street were unbuilt; Pimlico consisted of
bare rough ground, and Moorfields of genuine swampy fields; and the
City was still a fashionable place of residence.
Roy Baron was a handsome lad, well set-up, straight and spirited,
though small for his age, and, as Mrs. Bryce had intimated, childish in
appearance. He had on a blue cloth jacket, with trousers and waistcoat
of the same material. Knickerbockers were unknown. Children and older
boys wore loose trousers, while tights and uncovered stockings were
reserved for grown-up gentlemen. In a few weeks Roy would exchange his
cloth waistcoat and trousers for linen ditto, either white or striped.
Boys' hair was not cropped so closely in the year 1803 as in the
Nineties; and a mass of tight curls clustered over Roy's head.
The year 1803! Think what that means.
Napoleon Buonaparte was alive—not only alive, but in full vigour; he
had entered on his career of conquest, and the world was in terror of
his name. Nelson was alive; five years earlier he had won the great
Battle of the Nile, two years earlier the great Battle of Copenhagen,
though he had not yet won his crowning victory of Trafalgar which
established British supremacy over the ocean. Wellington was alive; but
his then name of Sir Arthur Wellesley had not become widely famous, and
no one could guess that one day he would be the Iron Duke of world-wide
celebrity. Sir John Moore, the future Hero of Coruña, was alive, and
though not knighted was already the foremost British soldier of his age.
Napoleon was not yet Emperor of the French. He was climbing towards
that goal, but thus far he had not advanced beyond being First Consul
in the Republic.
The peace between England and France, lasting somewhat over twelve
months, had been hardly more than an armed and uncertain truce, a mere
slight break in long years of intermittent warfare. As the old king,
George III., remarked at the time, it was 'an experimental peace,' and
few had hopes of its long continuance. For the Firebrand was still in
Europe, and barrels of gunpowder lay on all sides. Both before the
peace began, and also while it continued, Napoleon indulged in many
speculative threats of a future invasion of England, and preparations
were said to be at this date actually begun.
England alone of all the nations stood erect, and fearlessly looked
the tyrant in the face. And Great Britain, with all her pluck, had
then but a tiny army, and few fortifications; while her chief defence,
the fleet, though splendidly manned, was weak indeed compared with the
mighty armament which she now possesses.
Whether the peace would last, or whether it would speedily end,
depended mainly on the will of one man, an ambitious and reckless
despot, who cared not a jot what rivers of French and English blood
he might cause to flow, nor how many thousands of French and English
widows' hearts might be broken, so long as he could indulge to the
full his lust of conquest, and could obtain plenty of what he called
"glory." Another and truer name might easily have been found.