ORDERED TO SPAIN
A FEW hours later Roy came in, wild with joy, bringing a brother-Ensign
and great friend, Robert Monke, first cousin to Jack and Polly. Monke
was two or three years older than Roy, but he looked two years less. He
was a slight lad, fair-haired, blue-eyed, dreamy in expression. Bitche
had made Roy older than his years; and Bob Monke was younger than his.
No wonder Roy was half crazy with delight. To be ordered, when barely
eighteen, to the seat of war—to serve in his first campaign under Sir
John Moore;—this indeed went beyond the utmost that he had dared to
hope for.
"You'll write to me sometimes," pleaded Molly, clinging to him,
oblivious of a pair of dreamy eyes fixed wistfully on her face. She had
no attention but for Roy; not that she did not like Bob Monke, as she
would have said, "quite as much as most people." But Bob had begun to
want something more than the liking accorded to most people.
"And oh, Roy, don't be taken prisoner again."
"Trust me for that," laughed Roy.
"But you won't be too reckless." Molly turned to Bob. "You'll look
after him, won't you? For me!"
"I'd do anything in the world for you, Molly." Bob's whole heart was in
the words.
"I don't mean that you are to put yourself in danger, of course."
Molly's soft heart reproached her, for not having shown concern on
behalf of Bob as well. "And Roy must take care of you too. Only—"
"Only I'm ages older than Roy. I'll be sure."
"Much more likely I shall have to look after Bob. He's no end of a
dreaming genius—most of his time in the clouds," laughed Roy. "Take
care of yourself, Molly—and don't let Polly lose heart."
And then they were gone.
Jack had not been mistaken as to the nature of the interview which had
just taken place between Sir John Moore and the Secretary of State. It
had been of a stormy description.
Sir John, with all his sweetness of disposition, had a fiery temper.
And though he habitually held in that temper with so firm a curb
that he could be described as "the most amiable man in the British
Army," yet there were times when it got the better of him. Those kind
eyes could flash with a scathing light, and those lips could pour
forth vehement utterances. Perhaps the thing which he was least able
patiently to endure was the sense of being unjustly treated.
It may be, too, that at this moment he was physically suffering from
the severe strain, not only of his late trying expedition to Sweden,
but of the hardly less trying time in Sicily. He may even yet have
been under something of reaction from that hard fight, when his own
"feelings" had had to be, from a sense of duty, sternly repressed, for
the sake of the young girl whom he loved. In a letter, written three or
four days later from Portsmouth, to his mother, a note of weariness may
be detected, unwonted in Moore. But Rest waited ahead, not far distant;
though a fierce experience lay between.
One way or another he did wax wrathful in this interview, and he spoke
out his mind with uncompromising frankness. He considered that he had
been unhandsomely treated. Coming, as he did, from a chief command, if
he were now to be placed in an inferior post, some explanation was his
due.
"His Majesty's Ministers have a right to employ what officers they
please," Sir John went on, working off his warmth. "But I have a right,
in common with all officers who have served zealously, to expect to
be treated with attention, and, when employment is offered, that some
regard should be paid to my former services."
"I am not aware, Sir John, of having given you just cause for
complaint," Castlereagh replied gravely; and he did not say much
more. No one, looking on, could have imagined that this cold-mannered
Secretary would, not many months later, fight a duel in defence of
the fair fame of the gallant General now before him. The famous duel
between Castlereagh and Canning is widely known, but its true cause, as
asserted by Lady Castlereagh, is less well understood.¹
Moore had said his say, and doubtless felt relieved. He started
post-haste for Portsmouth, pausing on the road for one night at his
mother's country home.
The parting with her next day was sadder than usual.
¹ "Life of Sir C. Napier," by W. Napier.
Some forebodings may well have suggested themselves to the mother's
heart, as she watched that manly figure pass away into the distance. He
had been to her the most tender of sons; but on earth she would see him
never again.
Four or five days later Moore resigned to Sir Harry Burrard the chief
command. But though no longer at the head of affairs, he would still
have control of his own Division; and that Division included the
regiment to which Jack and Roy and Bob belonged.
Moore did not leave nearly so much to unassisted Nature as a good many
generals of the day were content to do. It was his way to see and
personally to influence the young officers under his command. Roy,
being aware of this, was not surprised to be early summoned to his
presence. Punctually at the hour named he reached Sir John's lodgings.
Sir John stood, talking to his friend Colonel Anderson, at the upper
end of the room into which Roy was shown—a strangely attractive figure,
alike dignified and winning, with a brow of regal breadth and power,
searching luminous eyes, through which at times the whole spirit of
the man seemed to shine, and well-cut sensitive lips, gentle as those
of any woman in expression, while yet they could close like adamant.
Roy, with one swift glance, took in the whole, and, as he did so, a
vivid picture flashed up in his mind of the day, more than five years
earlier, when he had seen that same face, little dreaming of all that
should lie between that date and this.
Child as he had been then, he saw a change. The sharp discipline of
life, especially sharp of late, had left its traces. The face was
thinner, with a worn outline of cheek; and a touch of pensive gravity,
even of sadness, lay deep in the hazel eyes. But this was only during
silence and repose. The moment Moore spoke, his face lighted up with
all its former brilliancy, while the old wonderful charm of manner was
unchanged, or rather was intensified.
Roy noted all this, and more. In one flash he knew why Denham Ivor so
loved Sir John, and why men could with very gladness die for him. The
young Ensign's heart beat tumultuously under a rush of new sensations,
and a passion of devotion for such a leader as this sprang at once into
being.
Moore, gazing in his earnest fashion upon the boy, read the look in
his face, and smiled; and in an instant sadness vanished. It was no
new thing for him to be conscious of his own magical control over the
hearts of others.
A few businesslike questions were put, as to when Roy had joined his
regiment and the training he had since received. Presently Moore
remarked—
"So you escaped from Bitche, I am told!"
"I was so fortunate, sir. With the help of a Frenchman."
"Ha! How was that?"
"He was grateful, sir, to my father, and wished to make a return. He
had been taken in the conscription some time before, and my father
and Captain Ivor helped to pay for a substitute. It was for his old
mother's sake."
This was a note which could not fail to appeal to the most loyal of
sons. Moore's face showed quick response, though he only said—"Détenus?"
"Yes, sir. We were detained in 1803—my father and Captain Ivor. My
mother stayed with them, and I could not get a passport. Later on I was
sent from Verdun to Bitche."
"Denham Ivor of the Guards! I remember—he was among the détenus."
"Yes, sir. He was under you in the West Indies and Holland and Egypt."
"Of course. I know him well. I regretted much not having him again. How
came he to linger so long in France?"
Roy explained briefly the smallpox complication, the General listening
with still that intent gaze.
"Then Ivor is at Verdun now. Hard upon him! As gallant a young fellow
as I ever had to do with. I would give something to have him in this
expedition."
Roy treasured up the words for Ivor's future comfort.
"Captain Ivor feels it terribly, sir," he said.
"You have been much thrown with him?"
"Yes, sir. He was my father's ward. He has always been a brother and
friend to me."
"I am glad to hear it. He is a friend worth having." After a slight
break the General remarked, "Napoleon made a blunder there, for once.
The absence of proper exchange falls at least as heavily upon the
French as upon ourselves. How long were you imprisoned at Bitche?"
"Nearly nine months, sir."
"The place has been described as a hell upon earth."
"Yes, sir." Roy looked up into the now grave face. "That is not too
strong a description. It is—awful."
"I must hear more another day—" as some one else came up, claiming
attention. "By the bye, you know Captain Keene also. He spoke to me of
you."
"Yes, sir. We are connected."
"Well, Baron, I shall expect a good deal from a friend of Ivor's."
"I will do my best, sir, not to disappoint you."
Sir John smiled kindly again, as he turned away. Roy went out of the
room, captivated, dazzled, wild to do and to dare aught in the world
for the sake of Moore.