MOORE'S BOLD VENTURE
"THEY say so!" observed Jack.
"Who do?"
"Those two Spanish fellows that came into camp yesterday—the two
generals. I've not seen 'em, but plenty of others have. They vow and
declare that Castanos wasn't routed by any manner of means. Can't of
course deny the fact of some slight reverses; but they have it that the
spirit of Spain is unbroken. And they beg and beseech that Moore will
give 'em another chance—not retreat to Portugal, and leave 'em to their
fate."
"Will he?" demanded Roy breathlessly.
"Can't tell. Moore never speaks till he means to act. Good news for
us all, if he does. I haven't overmuch faith in Spanish enthusiasm.
Don't want the Spaniards to bolster us up, though. Twenty-four thousand
British are equal any day to thirty or forty thousand French. But what
can be done, Sir John will do."
"Just for once to get within reach of Soult, and have at him!"
fervently uttered Roy. "Hallo, there's Bob coming full tilt."
"Something in the wind. Bob doesn't go that pace for nothing."
Full tilt indeed came Bob Monke, waving his cap frantically. Jack and
Roy were standing on the great Salamanca bridge, formed of twenty-six
arches, many of which dated back to Roman days. The strong river flowed
below; and Roy had been leaning over as they talked, gazing into the
water. Now he stood watching Bob's approach.
"What does he say?" as a shout was borne on the breeze. They were near
the centre of the bridge, which measures five hundred feet from end to
end, and Bob was distant still; but as he drew near, his fair face was
seen to be flushed with excitement, and words became distinguishable.
"Hurrah! Order to advance! Retreat countermanded! Hurrah!"
"Hurrah!" shouted Roy, and three caps went up together.
Then they dashed into camp to learn particulars. Not much could be
gathered as yet, beyond the bare fact that an immediate advance was
commanded. With light-hearted enthusiasm, the whole Army responded.
Moore, upon whom the full weight of responsibility rested, could
scarcely be light of heart. He knew too well what this move might mean.
When news was first received of the complete collapse of the Spaniards,
he had planned a retreat to Portugal, there to await reinforcements
from England. But heavy pressure was brought to bear upon him. And as
one assurance after another was given, from various quarters, that the
Spaniards were still in the mood to fight, with vehement urging that he
would not forsake the unfortunate people whom he had come to help, he
at length resolved to give them one more opportunity to show themselves
men.
A daring conception had come to his mind, and it was promptly carried
out. Instead of retiring at once to a position of safety, he would
first make a bold swoop upon Soult's Army, thus threatening the line
of Napoleon's communications with France. And his object in so doing
was, simply and definitely, by drawing the weight of the Conqueror's
fury upon himself and his small British force, to relieve the fearful
pressure upon the southern provinces of Spain.
It was a startling and a hazardous step. In the hand of any less
brilliant and experienced Commander, it might have ended in an awful
disaster—in a modern Thermopylae on a huge scale—in the wholesale
destruction of the British force.
Napoleon had expected, as a matter of course, that Moore would retreat
so soon as the Spanish armies melted away. What else could he do?
Napoleon had at this date within the borders of Spain 330,000 soldiers,
60,000 horses, and 200 pieces of field artillery. Moore had with him
less than 24,000 soldiers, and perhaps another 10,000 in Portugal,
inclusive of 4000 in hospital.
Then, to Napoleon's unbounded amazement, he learnt—getting the news on
December 2—that, in place of retreating, the puny British force was
boldly advancing towards the Douro.
The Emperor's exclamation, as heard by Marshal Ney, and afterwards
repeated by him to Major Charles Napier, was—
"Moore is the only General now fit to contend with me! I shall advance
against him in person."
Buonaparte seldom did things by halves, and he acted with even more
than his accustomed energy.
The force and genius of this English Commander, by whom he was so
daringly opposed, had suddenly burst upon him; and he at once knew that
no common effort on his own part would secure him the victory.
Without an hour's delay, orders went forth to check the southward march
of his columns, and to pour fifty thousand men in a torrent across the
snowy Guadarrama hills, that they might cut off the retreat of Moore to
the coast.
His object was to place the small English force between the great Army
of the south and the French corps under Soult,—the latter consisting
of about thirty thousand men. That done, the crushing of the British
Army would be a mere matter of detail. At any moment Napoleon could
supplement his first fifty thousand with a hundred thousand more.
But this fierce northward rush of Napoleon was exactly what Moore had
meant to bring about. He had drawn away the main body of the French
from the tortured south; he had given the Spaniards a breathing-space
in which to rally, if they would, for fresh resistance; and he had for
the moment saved Portugal from desperate peril. He could do no more.
Twenty-three thousand men, with eight or ten thousand more out of
reach, opposed to seventy or eighty thousand, with a hundred thousand
more within reach! Two thousand cavalry pitted against six or eight
times their own number! A collie-dog snapping at a Bengal tiger, would
be no inapt picture of Moore's desperate daring.
When news arrived of Napoleon's rush to cut off his communications with
Portugal, Moore was within twenty-four hours of falling upon Soult,
beyond the river Carrion. One sharp brush had already taken place with
the enemy—seven hundred French cavalry being routed by four hundred
English hussars. Every man in the Army was passionately eager to meet
the foe.
Moore, however, did not hesitate. The work intended by his spirited
advance was done. Nothing remained but to fall steadily back before
overwhelming odds.
All those bright expectations, with which he had started on this
expedition, had been dashed to the ground. In every direction he had
met with indifference and opposition, where he ought to have found
grateful co-operation. The Spanish forces had proved themselves
worthless.
And to the unutterable disappointment of officers and men, the forward
march was countermanded.
"Retreat, Jack! Now! When one day more would bring us up with Soult!"
How could Roy know, how could other murmuring spirits around him know,
that which Moore alone realised—that one day more of advance would be
simply playing into Napoleon's hands, would bring about that which the
tyrant of Europe most ardently desired—the complete annihilation of the
small British army?
There was indeed not a moment to be lost. By forced marches and the
utmost expedition the first and most perilous stage was done. The
river Esla was crossed; and not too soon. Napoleon, pushing furiously
forward, bent heart and soul on getting to Benevente before the
English, found himself twelve hours too late. Moore had precisely
reckoned his time, and had neatly baffled Europe's Conqueror.
A few days later, on the first of January, Napoleon had a second
dire mortification. He reached Astorga, for which he had aimed—again
straining every nerve, with the hope of cutting off Moore's
retreat,—and, as at the Esla, he was once more a day too late. A second
time Moore had quietly slipped away out of his grasp.
While at Astorga he heard of a fresh alliance between Russia and
Austria, and of a meditated attack upon France during his absence. The
crushing of Spain, delayed by Moore, had to be put off. Napoleon, with
a body of troops, hurried back to Paris. But he left Soult and Ney in
command of sixty or seventy thousand men in two columns, the one to
attack Moore in rear, the other to take him in flank, while thousands
scattered about the country were advancing to support them.
Enough, in all conscience, one would imagine, to deal with a retreating
force of less than twenty-four thousand!