I have told you, my friends, how we held the English shut up for six
months, from October, 1810, to March, 1811, within their lines of Torres
Vedras. It was during this time that I hunted the fox in their company,
and showed them that amidst all their sportsmen there was not one who
could outride a Hussar of Conflans. When I galloped back into the French
lines with the blood of the creature still moist upon my blade the
outposts who had seen what I had done raised a frenzied cry in my
honour, whilst these English hunters still yelled behind me, so that I
had the applause of both armies. It made the tears rise to my eyes to
feel that I had won the admiration of so many brave men. These English
are generous foes. That very evening there came a packet under a white
flag addressed “To the Hussar officer who cut down the fox.” Within, I
found the fox itself in two pieces, as I had left it. There was a note
also, short but hearty, as the English fashion is, to say that as I had
slaughtered the fox it only remained for me to eat it. They could not
know that it was not our French custom to eat foxes, and it showed their
desire that he who had won the honours of the chase should also partake
of the game. It is not for a Frenchman to be outdone in politeness, and
so I returned it to these brave hunters, and begged them to accept it as
a side-dish for their next dejeuner de la chasse.
It is thus that chivalrous opponents make war.
I had brought back with me from my ride a clear plan of the English
lines, and this I laid before Massena that very evening.
I had hoped that it would lead him to attack, but all the marshals
were at each other's throats, snapping and growling like so many hungry
hounds. Ney hated Massena, and Massena hated Junot, and Soult hated them
all. For this reason, nothing was done. In the meantime food grew
more and more scarce, and our beautiful cavalry was ruined for want of
fodder. With the end of the winter we had swept the whole country bare,
and nothing remained for us to eat, although we sent our forage parties
far and wide. It was clear even to the bravest of us that the time had
come to retreat. I was myself forced to admit it.
But retreat was not so easy. Not only were the troops weak and exhausted
from want of supplies, but the enemy had been much encouraged by our
long inaction. Of Wellington we had no great fear. We had found him
to be brave and cautious, but with little enterprise. Besides, in that
barren country his pursuit could not be rapid.
But on our flanks and in our rear there had gathered great numbers of
Portuguese militia, of armed peasants, and of guerillas. These people
had kept a safe distance all the winter, but now that our horses were
foundered they were as thick as flies all round our outposts, and no
man's life was worth a sou when once he fell into their hands. I could
name a dozen officers of my own acquaintance who were cut off during
that time, and the luckiest was he who received a ball from behind a
rock through his head or his heart. There were some whose deaths were
so terrible that no report of them was ever allowed to reach their
relatives. So frequent were these tragedies, and so much did they
impress the imagination of the men, that it became very difficult to
induce them to leave the camp.
There was one especial scoundrel, a guerilla chief named Manuelo, “The
Smiler,” whose exploits filled our men with horror. He was a large,
fat man of jovial aspect, and he lurked with a fierce gang among the
mountains which lay upon our left flank. A volume might be written of
this fellow's cruelties and brutalities, but he was certainly a man of
power, for he organised his brigands in a manner which made it almost
impossible for us to get through his country. This he did by imposing
a severe discipline upon them and enforcing it by cruel penalties, a
policy by which he made them formidable, but which had some unexpected
results, as I will show you in my story. Had he not flogged his own
lieutenant--but you will hear of that when the time comes.
There were many difficulties in connection with a retreat, but it was
very evident that there was no other possible course, and so Massena
began to quickly pass his baggage and his sick from Torres Novas, which
was his headquarters, to Coimbra, the first strong post on his line of
communications. He could not do this unperceived, however, and at once
the guerillas came swarming closer and closer upon our flanks. One of
our divisions, that of Clausel, with a brigade of Montbrun's cavalry,
was far to the south of the Tagus, and it became very necessary to let
them know that we were about to retreat, for otherwise they would be
left unsupported in the very heart of the enemy's country. I remember
wondering how Massena would accomplish this, for simple couriers could
not get through, and small parties would be certainly destroyed. In some
way an order to fall back must be conveyed to these men, or France would
be the weaker by fourteen thousand men. Little did I think that it was
I, Colonel Gerard, who was to have the honour of a deed which might have
formed the crowning glory of any other man's life, and which stands high
among those exploits which have made my own so famous.
At that time I was serving on Massena's staff, and he had two other
aides-de-camp, who were also very brave and intelligent officers. The
name of one was Cortex and of the other Duplessis. They were senior to
me in age, but junior in every other respect. Cortex was a small, dark
man, very quick and eager. He was a fine soldier, but he was ruined by
his conceit. To take him at his own valuation, he was the first man in
the army.
Duplessis was a Gascon, like myself, and he was a very fine fellow, as
all Gascon gentlemen are. We took it in turn, day about, to do duty, and
it was Cortex who was in attendance upon the morning of which I speak.
I saw him at breakfast, but afterward neither he nor his horse was to be
seen. All day Massena was in his usual gloom, and he spent much of his
time staring with his telescope at the English lines and at the shipping
in the Tagus.
He said nothing of the mission upon which he had sent our comrade, and
it was not for us to ask him any questions.
That night, about twelve o'clock, I was standing outside the Marshal's
headquarters when he came out and stood motionless for half an hour,
his arms folded upon his breast, staring through the darkness toward the
east.
So rigid and intent was he that you might have believed the muffled
figure and the cocked hat to have been the statue of the man. What he
was looking for I could not imagine; but at last he gave a bitter curse,
and, turning on his heel, he went back into the house, banging the door
behind him.
Next day the second aide-de-camp, Duplessis, had an interview with
Massena in the morning, after which neither he nor his horse was seen
again. That night, as I sat in the ante-room, the Marshal passed me,
and I observed him through the window standing and staring to the east
exactly as he had done before. For fully half an hour he remained there,
a black shadow in the gloom.
Then he strode in, the door banged, and I heard his spurs and his
scabbard jingling and clanking through the passage. At the best he was
a savage old man, but when he was crossed I had almost as soon face the
Emperor himself. I heard him that night cursing and stamping above
my head, but he did not send for me, and I knew him too well to go
unsought.
Next morning it was my turn, for I was the only aide-de-camp left. I
was his favourite aide-de-camp. His heart went out always to a smart
soldier. I declare that I think there were tears in his black eyes when
he sent for me that morning.
“Gerard,” said he. “Come here!”
With a friendly gesture he took me by the sleeve and he led me to the
open window which faced the east. Beneath us was the infantry camp,
and beyond that the lines of the cavalry with the long rows of picketed
horses.
We could see the French outposts, and then a stretch of open country,
intersected by vineyards. A range of hills lay beyond, with one
well-marked peak towering above them. Round the base of these hills was
a broad belt of forest. A single road ran white and clear, dipping and
rising until it passed through a gap in the hills.
“This,” said Massena, pointing to the mountain, “is the Sierra de
Merodal. Do you perceive anything upon the top?”