THE BATTLE OF CORUÑA
WELL might Moore cast anxious glances towards the harbour of Coruña,
where the vessels from Vigo should have been. They had been delayed by
contrary winds, and their failure to arrive in time was a most serious
matter. The British Army, brought thus far in safety, would lie without
the means of escape in a narrow trap, between Scylla and Charybdis,
hemmed in by the pitiless ocean on one side, by the ever-increasing
hordes of the enemy on the other.
With unfaltering courage he at once set himself to examine the
position, assigning the troops to various quarters, some in the town of
Coruña, some in villages hard by. A range of hills, three or four miles
off, would have been the right line of defence; but Moore had not men
enough to occupy it. He saw at once that, should he attempt to do so,
the French might turn his flank and cut him off from embarkation.
That post of vantage had to be left to the foe. Moore was obliged to
content himself with a lower ridge, nearer to the walls, which was with
all speed put into a state of defence.
A short rest was given to the soldiers; new muskets and ammunition
were-supplied; and the officers strenuously exerted themselves to
restore discipline. But this was no longer difficult. When once the
Army stood at bay, facing the foe, every trace of insubordination
vanished.
So desperate did the condition of things seem to be for the English,
with the transports not yet come, and with a greatly superior force
occupying a greatly superior position, that, though Moore's heart never
failed him, the hearts of some did sink at this juncture, even of brave
men, high in rank.
Moore called no council of war; he asked no man's opinion. But certain
of his Generals ventured to offer unsought advice. They put before him
the extreme unlikelihood that they could long resist an enemy coming
down upon them from the heights. They pictured the heavy loss of life
which must result from any attempt to embark on the transports during
such attacks. Then they suggested that, since affairs had reached so
perilous a stage, it might be well to send a flag of truce to Soult,
asking permission, on honourable terms, to depart unmolested.
Moore disdainfully flung the counsel from him, without an instant's
parley. Capitulate! Never! If the French came on, let them come! He
would fight to the last! The Generals bowed to his fiery decision, and
said no more.
Coruña had been reached on the 11th of January, and all through the
12th Moore was hard at work, preparing for the battle which might
be fought. Everything was thought of; every possible precaution was
taken. He reviewed the troops, and by his own splendid confidence and
dauntless air he breathed fresh energy into their jaded ranks.
Indomitable though he was, the strain of the last few weeks had
told upon him heavily. At daybreak he was once more in the saddle,
reconnoitering the enemy's camp, and visiting every part of his own;
but before midday he came back to Headquarters, utterly exhausted.
Rest had become a necessity before he could do more; and for two hours
prostration had the upper hand. Then he rallied, sat up, called for
paper, and in his terse easy modern English, singularly free from the
tricks of expression peculiar to his time, he wrote his last despatch.
Next day, the 14th, some cannonading took place; but the French did
not move. They were still concentrating their forces, having suffered
greatly, like the British, in those terrible marches.
In the evening, at last, the transports appeared; and all next day the
embarkation of the sick and wounded, as well as of the cavalry, was
going on. Around Coruña, Moore had found, cavalry could be of little
use.
By noon on the 16th everything was in train. Unless they should be
attacked by Soult, the whole British Army would be on board that night.
Moore placed all arrangements for the embarkation in the hands of
Colonel Anderson; and again he went off to review his troops, finding
them in excellent order and in the highest spirits.
To a man they wished for nothing better than a battle. That question,
however, was left to Soult for decision. No matter how intensely Moore
himself might long for a victory over the enemy, he still would not
make a first move. He knew well that, in the then condition of Spain,
even a battle won could do little practical good to the cause in hand.
It might cover his name with glory. But from first to last a higher aim
than glory for self had been before Moore's eyes.
Between fourteen and fifteen thousand infantry now remained on land, to
oppose the twenty thousand already entrenched on the opposite heights;
and further French reinforcements were constantly arriving. Moore's
cannon were far inferior to those of the French, alike in number and
in weight of metal. The French guns, moreover, dominated the English
position.
At two o'clock, as Moore was on his way to the outposts, a messenger
came from General Hope, to inform him that the enemy "was getting under
arms;" and radiant delight glowed in his eyes when he found that a
battle was to be forced upon him. He spoke his gladness, regretting
only that the lateness of the hour, upon a short winter's day, would
hardly leave him time to make the most of that victory which he
expected to win.
Then he spurred away, full gallop, to the field. Soon the roar of
cannon told that action was begun; and in a little while, along the
whole front, both armies were hotly engaged.
Upon the main ridge of the English position Moore had placed two
divisions, Baird's on the right, Hope's on the left. A third division,
that of Fraser, occupied high ground well in rear of the right, to
prevent any possibility of the French making their way to Coruña by a
road which ran in that direction, and so cutting off the British force
from the town.
Paget's division was held in reserve behind the ridge; and here for a
while Roy chafed impatiently, fearing to have no share in the fighting
that day. Even had it been so, the Reserve would have had small cause
to complain, since they had borne the lion's share of danger during the
retreat. But their turn was to come.
The first and heaviest brunt of the onset fell upon Baird's division,
more especially upon the 4th Regiment, the 50th, which was commanded by
Charles Napier and Charles Stanhope, and the 42nd Highlanders.
With their usual vehement swiftness the French advanced in separate
columns against the right, the left, and the centre of the British
line; while another powerful column sought to pass, as Moore had
foreseen, down the valley which lay between Baird's and Fraser's
divisions, towards Coruña; and yet a fifth column waited in reserve.
But the peril of that fourth column's advance was no sooner seen than
it was met. The right wing of the 4th British Regiment, on the extreme
right of the ridge, was promptly thrown back, so as to take in flank
the adventurous French column which was seeking thus boldly to turn the
English position; and into the column was poured a crushing fire.
Moore, alert, cool, intent, watching every movement, called out, "That
was exactly what I wanted to be done!"
Nor was this all. General Paget, with his Reserve, advanced upon the
column, and doubled it completely up.
Roy had his chance then, and he used it. His was the honour of bearing
the King's Colour belonging to his regiment. The Royal and the
Regimental Colours are, as we know, always consecrated with religious
ceremony at the time of presentation; and they are looked upon with the
most intense pride and veneration by every British soldier. Not least
were they so regarded by Roy Baron.
Right proudly he carried his Royal burden, exposing himself with all
that reckless gallantry which is natural to the British officer. He
pressed forward with an energy which carried him well to the front,
even in that rushing tide of resolute men. They clashed with the solid
column in fierce shock; and by "the conquering violence" of Paget's
charge, the French, already shaken by the heavy flanking fire they had
received, were brought to a standstill. They began to waver, to turn,
and to retreat; and the retreat soon quickened into flight.
Yet the fighting continued; and as the British still swept like a
whirlwind onward, groups of Frenchmen would turn and resist, vainly
striving to stem that irresistible Anglo-Saxon torrent.
Roy found himself and his charge an object of especial attack by some
half-dozen furious Frenchmen, maddened to be once again, as through the
fortnight past, repelled by this invincible foe. All around Roy were
fighting hard. He gripped the staff with his left hand, and guarded it
valiantly, using his sword right and left to very good purpose. Mere
lad though he was, more than one of the enemy went down before those
vigorous thrusts.
With the vain hope of capturing the Colour, a French officer rode into
the mêlée, and his sabre descended in one swift sweep. Roy saw the
coming stroke, but his guard was only in time to ward off the blow
aimed at his head.
The blade slashed deep into his right arm, near the shoulder, and Roy's
sword fell from powerless fingers.
By this time a dozen comrades had closed round the Colour, and a dozen
British swords and bayonets were at work. The French officer paid for
his gallantry with his life. Roy was again pressing onward, hardly
realising that he was wounded, till he found a crimson stream flowing
over him, and felt his knees falter with a sense of overpowering
weakness.
"Go back, Baron. You've done bravely," the Colonel's voice said at his
side, in tones of approval. "Sergeant Grey will take the colour."
Roy tried to say cheerily, "No, sir, it's nothing—I'm all right—" but
the words somehow refused to come, and the battlefield seemed to be
receding to a vast distance. He was vaguely conscious that his precious
burden had gone into somebody else's hands, and that the regiment had
passed on at the double, leaving him behind. Then he came out of a
mist, his ears buzzing, and his head going round.
For a moment he fancied himself back in a little French cottage, deep
in a wood, with Jean Paulet by his side. "Thank you, Jean—I'm all
right," he said faintly.
But the roar of cannon, the rattle of musketry, the shouts of charging
soldiers, dispersed that dream. He opened his eyes to find himself
lying on the ground. One of his men, Private Foster, was busily
fastening a rough-and-ready bandage round his arm.
"Think you'll do now, sir? It don't bleed so much. Only a flesh wound,
but it's gone pretty deep."
"O I'm all right." Roy managed this time to say the words clearly. "I
wish I could have kept up with them. Are you hurt?"
"Only my foot, sir. The Colonel told me I was to look after you. He
said you was to go to the town."
Roy was beginning to be aware of pretty sharp pain in the slashed
arm. It was his first wound, and he might be excused for certain sick
sensations, having fought as pluckily as an Englishman may. He pulled
himself to a sitting posture, and looked round. The regiments of the
Reserve were by this time far ahead, literally sweeping the whole
valley clear of the shattered remnants, which but a short space back
had formed a powerful column.
Roy waved his cap over his head with his left hand, and gave vent to a
hearty though rather faint "Hurrah!"
"I think I can walk now all right," he said. "Don't mind about me,
Foster. Your foot is bad."
"I can hobble a bit, sir. I'd sooner see you on your way. You'd maybe
get the bandage wrong, and set it bleeding afresh." Roy's men were not
a little fond of him.
And the two set off together on a long and painful trudge to Coruña.
Meanwhile, Sir John Moore, satisfied that all would go well in the
valley, turned his attention elsewhere.
The French attack was directed with greatest force against the three
regiments already named as posted upon the right of the ridge. Their
piquets, which occupied the little village of Elvina beyond the ridge,
were driven in by the force of the enemy's onset, and Elvina for a time
fell into the hands of the French.
This could not be allowed, and orders were given that the 42nd and the
50th should expel the foe from the village. Moore, always to be found
at the point of greatest danger, was at hand. His voice could now be
heard to ring out in his characteristic challenge—
"Highlanders—remember Egypt!"
Like greyhounds from the leash, in response to those beloved tones,
they leaped to the charge, carrying everything before them. Moore, in
his passionate ardour, charged with them, and he told the men that he
was "well pleased" with their conduct.
Before Moore appeared, the officers and men of the 50th
Regiment—ordered to advance with the 42nd—had been eagerly looking out
for him, realising that this would be the crux of the English position,
and feeling one and all that "under him they could not be beaten—"
that, if only Moore were present, victory was absolutely secure. "Where
is he? Where is the General?" was heard in restless murmurs along the
line.
As they asked the question he came, bearing down upon them at headlong
speed on his cream-coloured charger, a fiery animal, with flying black
mane and tail tossed in the breeze. The force with which Sir John
reined in flung him forward almost upon the horse's neck, while his
head was thrown back, and he examined the enemy with a gaze of such
extraordinary and searching intensity, that Charles Napier, in after
years, seeking to picture the scene, could find no language with which
he might fitly describe that look.
Without a word Moore then galloped off, but he soon returned; and
hereabouts it was that, as he was speaking to Major Napier, a round
shot from the heavy French guns on the height struck the ground between
them.
Both horses swerved sharply, but Moore instantly urged his back to the
same spot, asking calmly if Napier were hurt, and receiving a quiet
"No, sir."
Then, while he watched the spirited charge of the 50th Regiment, led by
Napier and Stanhope, he exclaimed—"Well done, Fiftieth! Well done, my
Majors!"
The French were driven out of Elvina with heavy loss, both regiments
pursuing them beyond the village into ground much broken by stone
walls. By this time the British were without supports; and the French,
having received strong reinforcements, rallied and turned upon them
with fresh fury. Napier went too far in advance of his men, received
five wounds, and was taken prisoner; and Stanhope was killed.
Moore, grappling with the danger, hurried up a battalion of the Guards
to reinforce the 50th, which was being slowly forced back, and the
42nd, which had come to an end of its powder and shot. He galloped to
the latter regiment, and again his voice rang out with inspiring energy—
"My brave 42nd, join your comrades. The ammunition is coming. And you
have your bayonets still!"
That was enough. The 42nd had thought that it was being relieved by
the Guards; but armed or unarmed, the men would have gone anywhere
for Moore. Once again without ammunition, yet undaunted, with fierce
impetuosity they dashed against the foe.
Both here and throughout the line fighting raged furiously. In all
directions the British were holding their own, and signs of approaching
victory were clear.
Those signs came true. A little later, and the French were driven well
beyond Elvina. On the left of the British position they not only were
repulsed with very severe loss, but were attacked in their own position
by the conquering English, and were followed even into the villages
beyond their ridge.
But before matters had advanced thus far, and while the 50th and the
42nd were still hard beset and strenuously resisting—something else
happened, of terrible import to England.
Captain Hardinge came up to report to Sir John that the Guards were
advancing. And as he spoke the words, as he pointed out the position of
the Guards—a round shot from the battery opposite struck Moore, hurling
him to the ground.