AT SALAMANCA
"WHAT wouldn't Den give to be here?" murmured Roy.
He stood in the splendid Plaza of the fine old Spanish town, Salamanca.
It was an enormous square, perhaps hardly to be outdone in Europe as
to size, having been built to hold as many as twenty thousand people,
on the occasion of a great bull-fight. On one side stood the buildings
devoted to municipal functions, and around ran an arcade formed of
nearly one hundred arches.
Salamanca had been named as the rendezvous for the British Army, coming
in detachments and by different routes from Portugal. During the last
fortnight one body of men after another had arrived, all full of life
and energy, all burning to meet the foe.
This was the twenty-fifth of November, exactly two months from the
date of the despatch sent by British Ministers, appointing Sir John
Commander of the Forces in the Peninsula. Despatches in those days
travelled slowly; and Moore had been terribly hampered. There was no
organised Army Transport. There was no regular Intelligence Department.
By far the greater number of his officers, however ardent in spirit
they might be, had seen no active service. His Army, though it included
some of the most splendid regiments in Europe, trained by himself
in earlier years at Shorncliffe, included also large numbers of raw
recruits, the latter having to be, almost in the face of the enemy,
"drilled and rattled" into shape.
Yet, within three weeks of receiving the news of his appointment, Moore
with his staff left Lisbon.
High hopes had been felt, resting partly on confident reports of
Spanish enthusiasm and preparedness. Sixty or seventy thousand
soldiers, it was said, under three Spanish Generals, burning with
ardour to extinguish the French, waited to join the British Army, sent
to their aid. The French, few in number and depressed in spirit, would
be nowhere before these valiant warriors.
But such hopes as depended on Spanish valour were already waxing dim.
News had filtered round to Salamanca of advancing French, and of
retiring Spaniards. Two of the Spanish Generals, with their forces, had
beaten a hasty retreat. The third, under Castanos, might or might not
follow suit. If he too failed, the British Army would find itself in
serious straits, and be compelled to retreat also.
No such thought was in the mind of Roy Baron, or of his
brother-officers. They were eager to come face to face with the enemy.
It was over ten days since Roy had reached Salamanca, and already he
felt at home there. Many changes in his short life had made ready
adaptation to fresh surroundings an easy matter.
The great Plaza was full of people—British soldiers marching past,
Spanish sightseers gazing. Every soldier wore a red cockade, in
compliment to the nation he had come to help. Banners fluttered gaily,
and the bracing wintry air was stirred by the incessant throb of drums.
As one band died away, another drew near.
Drilling and marching were the order of the day. The Army had to be
welded into shape; and not an hour was wasted. Subalterns, as well as
officers of higher grades, were kept busy.
Roy, finding himself off duty for a short time, had wandered into the
great square, to see what was going on, and to add his voice in lusty
welcome to the latest arrived regiment. He stood close to one of the
Corinthian columns, by which the arches were upborne. A thought of
Verdun had come to him, and a recollection of Denham. What would not
Den have given to be with them?
"Hallo, Roy!"
Roy spoke out impulsively the idea uppermost in his mind, as Jack and
his cousin, Bob Monke, walked up.
"I say, Jack—if Den were but here!"
Jack made a sound of commiseration.
"I often think how lucky it was I knocked down that wretched bust, and
got myself sent to Bitche. But for that—why, I might be kicking up my
heels at Verdun, to this very day. Odd!—when one comes to think!—it
seemed about the worst thing which could have happened to me. One never
does know at the time. I know I wouldn't undo it all now."
Roy was young, but he lived in a moralising age.
Jack nodded general assent. "Where have you been? We couldn't find you."
"Took a look at the cathedral. It's a jolly fine building. Any number
of centuries old."
"There's Napier. I want a word with him."
Jack dashed off towards an aide-de-camp of Sir John, Captain George
Napier, one of a gallant trio of brothers, all present in this
expedition. Roy did not follow. Bob Monke was remarking, in his dreamy
voice,—"Men in uncommonly good condition."
"Fit for anything!" agreed Roy.
"No letters from home, I suppose."
"Yesterday."
"Good news of your sister?" A slight flush came to the young fellow's
cheek.
"Molly is all right. She asks me to remember her to you."
Jack came back at a swinging pace. "Look out—here comes the General!"
A stir took place, every face turning in one direction, as Moore on a
spirited charger rode slowly through the square. His glance seemed to
be everywhere; and he managed his steed with the unconscious ease of a
perfect rider.
"Looks harassed," murmured Jack.
"He looks—the grandest fellow that ever lived," uttered Bob.
"My dear boy, you won't find any man in the Army to contradict that.
If you're anxious to get up an enlivening discussion, try some other
topic."
"What I want to know is—when are we to be joined by the Spanish, and
have a go at the French?" demanded Roy, earnestly following Moore with
his gaze.
"Everybody else wants to know precisely the same. Blake and Romana
haven't proved 'emselves good for much. Question now is—what of
Castanos?"
This question was pressing heavily on Sir John Moore. Though as yet he
did not and could not know the enormous size of the French Army then
within the borders of Spain, he did know that it certainly more than
trebled the small British force under his own control. Working side by
side with fifty thousand or more good Spanish soldiers, he might hope
to do much. But if those fifty thousand should prove themselves of no
more use than a bundle of rotten sticks, Salamanca was no place for his
little Army.
Sir John was a systematically early riser. Next morning, as usual,
he was up between three and four o'clock. He lighted the fire with
his own hands, after his habit, from a lamp kept burning in his room;
and before turning to business, he wrote a confidential letter to one
of his brothers. As a Commander he was exceedingly reserved, seldom
revealing what he knew or what he intended to do, sooner than was
necessary. It might be that a craving for sympathy had come over him,
in the weight of his lonely responsibilities. Whatever he said would be
safe with his own people.
"Upon entering Spain," he wrote, "I have found affairs in a very
different state from what I expected, or from what they are thought
to be in England. I am in a scrape, from which God knows how I am to
extricate myself. But instead of Salamanca, this Army should have been
assembled at Seville." And, at the close of a full and clear statement
of affairs, he continued: "I understand all is fear and confusion
at Madrid. Tell James it is difficult to judge at a distance. The
Spaniards have not shown themselves a wise or a provident people. Their
wisdom is not a wisdom of action; but still they are a fine people;
a character of their own quite distinct from other nations; and much
might have been done with them. Perhaps they may rouse again. Pray for
me that I may make right decisions; if I make bad ones, it will not be
for want of consideration. I sleep little. It is now only five in the
morning, and I have concluded, since I got up, this long letter."
The whole letter was very patient and calm; and especially touching
were those simple words—"Pray for me!"—from a man so intensely reticent
on religious subjects as Sir John. If words were needed to show what he
was, beside the plain utterance of such a character and such a life as
his, these alone would serve to make it abundantly clear that silence
on his part meant neither lack of thought nor lack of feeling.
Two days later came the news that Castanos had been routed by the
French. It was evident that the so-called "retirement" of the other
Spanish generals had been, in each case, a complete defeat.
Moore's little force now stood alone, in the heart of what had become
practically an enemy's country. The order went forth—given with what
pain and reluctance those knew who knew Moore—to prepare for retreat.
Yet still he held on, delaying day after day. He would not take the
actual step until it had become a necessity.