A HAZARDOUS RETREAT
WITH almost superhuman energy the greatest General of that day had
exerted himself to bring up such a force, that the utter destruction of
the British might be a thing assured. In the course of ten days, and in
the bitterest wintry weather, he had marched fifty thousand soldiers
over snow-clad mountains a distance of two hundred miles, only to find
his stupendous efforts fruitless.
Now, all that Moore could hope to do was to save his little Army from
being crushed out of existence. To that aim he buckled his powers,
with unfaltering resolution. As William Napier wrote in after years,
"The inspiring hopes of triumph disappeared, but the austerer glory of
suffering remained, and with a firm heart he accepted that gift."
By the greater number in Moore's force this long ten days' retreat to
the coast had to be done on foot.
There were steep mountains to be climbed, there were deep valleys to be
passed, there were rapid rivers to be crossed; while an overwhelming
and confident Army, accustomed to unvarying success—an Army which had
twice failed by only twelve hours to cut them off from every hope of
escape—pressed with ever-growing fierceness upon the British rearguard.
It was mid-winter, and snow lay upon the ground. The days were short,
the nights were bitter. Heavy ice-cold rain fell often. Food was
scanty; shelter was hard to find; and both officers and men slept
upon the cold ground. The Spanish Army, contrary to Moore's earnest
request, blundered into the way of the retreating force, eating up the
provisions on which the English depended, and blocking the roads with
carts and mules.
In that furious race between the British and the French, first for
Benevente, next for Astorga, not an hour could be lost. At all costs
they had to press forward.
Hour after hour, oftentimes by night, the march continued, through
rain, or snow, or fog; up steep and slippery ascents, or down sharp
depths where foothold could hardly be found. On and on the men
stumbled, hungry, thirsty, weary, half asleep, not a few shoeless and
lame, many a one dropping through weakness by the roadside, never to
rise again.
In the van and in the centre of the Army some confusion reigned. But
in the reserve, where Moore was usually to be found, riding beside
his friend, General Paget, perfect discipline was maintained. All
there knew themselves to be under the eyes of their Commander, and his
presence, together with the attacks of the enemy, kept them up to the
mark. Again and again, and yet again, the French advanced guards were
charged and driven back.
The regiment to which belonged Jack, Roy, and Bob was in the Reserve,
to the no small delight of all three.
Roy Baron had passed through some strange experiences in his short
life. He would not easily forget this last experience—this steady,
disheartening, rearwards tramp, with Napoleon's trained battalions ever
"thundering" behind them.
He would not soon forget the bitter snowy weather, the sleet and hail,
the fogs and winds, the mountain heights, the exposed nights, the
dogged pluck and determination shown by the rearguard, the ceaseless
care and watchfulness of Moore, the invincible resolution of this man,
who by sheer force of will held the whole Army together, and never at
the worst allowed the retreat for one moment to become a flight.
Not that Roy was disheartened or depressed. Far from it. He was young
and strong and full of vigour. The very hardships of the retreat seemed
to him far lighter than those of that miserable march, which he could
recall, from Verdun to Bitche. For then he was handcuffed, and felt
himself treated with cruel injustice and tyranny. Now he was fighting
for his country; he was in the midst of friends; and not a day passed
without a sight of the Commander, upon whom he looked with a passionate
admiration and love.
He hated the fact of having to retire; but at all times it took a good
deal to lower Roy's buoyant spirits. And the men of the Reserve had too
much hard fighting on hand to admit of their growing down-hearted. Any
one of them might any day chance to win a smile of commendation from
Moore. That was worth fighting for, worth bearing anything for!
Roy soon learnt what it was to be under fire. If at first the
experience was to him, as to most men, unpleasant, he grew quickly used
to it. Before long he had the supreme joy of being personally praised
by the General for dashing courage. It seemed to Roy that day that life
lacked nothing.
He managed to start a letter to Molly, in readiness for the first
chance of getting it off. A thought had come to him that if—if
something should happen, which might happen to him as to any other
soldier, she would be glad that he had written once more to his twin.
So he set to work when a spare half-hour could be found.
"Janʸ 1, 1809."
"MY DEAR MOLLY,—Jack thinks I may be able soon to send a letter on
with despatches from Headquarters, and I wᵈ fain have one ready. So ends
the old year—truly an eventful year to me—and so begins the new year.
Jack and Bob and I keep well. There is much that I cᵈ tell you, but
have not time. An event which took place two or three days ago may,
however, be of interest to you."
"We of the Reserve marched at daybreak for La Banessa, and Paget, as
usual, brought up the rear. That's Lord Paget, by the bye, who commands
the cavalry of the rearguard, not Brigadier-General Paget, who commands
the whole Reserve. At nine o'clock the enemy was seen to be examining a
ford near to the bridge across the Esla, which had been blown up; and
the next thing, six hundred of Napoleon's Imperial Guard came over."
"Only a small body of the British piquet was there to oppose 'em,
and they held on gallantly, but were forced back inch by inch, fighting
hard. The English and French squadrons charged one another by turns;
and when our men were joined by a few of the 3rd Dragoons, they all
went at the enemy with such Desperate Valour as to break through their
front squadron, and to be surrounded by the French. Nothing daunted,
they charged back as fiercely, and broke through again, and so got
'emselves quick out of that scrape."
"Then they rallied and formed up anew, and made another charge,
supported by the 10th Hussars. The French bolted before ever they
cᵈ get up with 'em, and fled through the river, hard pressed by
our brave fellows. A lot of prisoners were taken, and among 'em is
Marshal Lefébre Desnouettes, Duke of Dantzic—I say, doesn't Boney love
dukes!—commander of the Imperial Guard. Pretty big haul, that!"
"No question but the French fought with great valour, as was to be
expected. General Lefébre says this same Guard at Austerlitz sent
thirty thousand Russians flying. They didn't send our dragoons flying
yesterday, though. 'Twas just about the other way."
"And now for what you and Polly will like best to hear."
"Lefébre was awfully down in the mouth at being taken prisoner,
and at his men being beaten back. He counts himself a ruined man, for,
says he, 'Buonaparte never forgives the unfortunate.' Sir John was all
kindness to the poor chap. Lefébre had a slight wound in the head;
and the first thing that Sir John did was not only to try his best to
comfort him, but to send for water, and with his own hands to wash the
wound! Can't you picture the way it was done? Wasn't it like Moore?"
"Well, and it so happened that Jack was in luck, having been asked
to dine at the General's. So he came in for a scene which, I shᵈ
conjecture, has scarce been matched since the days of the Black Prince."
"Just before they took their seats, Sir John turned to the French
General, who had appeared in a blazing uniform, and asked him, was
there anything he wanted? And Lefébre said never a word, but looked
down to where his sword ought to have been, that was taken away by the
private who made him surrender. Then he looked up at Sir John in a
meaning way."
"In one instant Moore had unbuckled his own sword—'twas a fine
Eastern scimitar—and had given it to Lefébre. I wish you cᵈ have heard
Jack and Captain Napier describe it all—the graceful way in which the
thing was done, and, beyond everything, the wonderful look of kindness
and 'soldier-like sympathy' on Sir John's face. Napier tried to describe
it to me, and finished off with 'It was perfectly beautiful! But when
does Moore ever do anything that is not perfect?'"
"Take good heed, mind you, that no word of this goes beyond
yourselves, and above all on no account risk that it shᵈ find its way
into print. For yourselves 'tis a tale worth remembering of one who is
the very Flower of Chivalry in modern days."
"George Napier is, as Polly knows, Jack's friend, aide-de-camp
to Sir John, and brother to Major Charles Napier of the 50th, and
to William Napier of the 43rd."