CORUNNA, 1808
On the Burial of Sir John Moore
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O’er the grave where our hero was buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of the night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeams’ misty light
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him,
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
Plymouth Dock, January 28, 1809.
Ever dearest Father—You will not be very sorry to hear of my arrival in England in good health, but, on the other hand, I have not a penny that I know of, nor a shirt nearer than Lisbon.
I shall come up to London without delay, find out where you are, and endeavour to spend some time amongst you, to lay down my head, and settle my affairs.
The man I looked up to as a god, and held in the most cordial respect and affection, after devoting his life to the service of his country, is praised by some and blamed by others.
I know the latter to be the ignorant, but consequently the most talkative, and your catchpenny Generals come forward and tell you how they could have done better. All this makes me sick, and cools my military ardour. For can the utmost blindness of self-love make me think I can ever equal the virtues or military worth of Moore! And yet, as the result of his laborious services, a doubt comes in every man’s mind whether he would now take upon himself that General’s reputation. When dying, though perfectly sensible, he had great difficulty at last to articulate. He said gently, however, that he had endeavoured to serve his country diligently and conscientiously, and he hoped it would be satisfied with what he had done. His latest anxiety seemed to be for victory. “Are they beat? Are they beat?” he repeatedly asked. He wished to send some message to General Hope, who had succeeded him in the command. “Hope, Hope,” he said at intervals, but could not articulate more. His last words were, “Tell my mother.” He could no longer speak, and expired. Was not this the death of a hero and a good man? God bless you.—Your Charles.
The loss of men and money in Spain, I think, are amply compensated for by the acquisition of military fame, but the loss of Sir John Moore at such a time admits of no consolation.
Bath, January 28, 1809.
Dearest Mother—The press on the road, the waters, etc., have made me travel slower, but I set off for London to-morrow, whence you shall hear from me.
We are three Engineers here together, one of whom is my friend Lefebure, the pleasantest and right-thinkingest man in the world. The people here show distinction to our rusty habits, particularly the fair sex, who advance to converse with us, to the astonishment of the well-dressed beaux.
I hope soon to embrace you and my Louisa, and all of you. God bless you, dear people.
Charles.
On returning home after the glorious battle of Corunna, which terminated Moore’s celebrated retreat and his life together, I conceived a thorough dislike and hatred of the military service. My patron was dead, and as a reward for services which I thought inestimable, his memory was reviled by his ungrateful countrymen, and tarnished by crafty, self-interested politicians, who, willing to wound, but yet afraid to strike, took the most impalpable means of offending his sacred memory.
Major Boothby, 51st Regiment.
Afterwards Sir William Boothby, Bart.
Father of Captain Charles Boothby, R.E.
All this increased the disgust which the sight of military operations in a devoted country had excited in my mind.
Bilious with these thoughts, I took the sweet medicine of family endearments.
I did not expect a speedy summons to the wars, for the only theatre which seemed to offer us a part in the drama was just closed, and I therefore promised myself some months of sweet repose and enjoyment, as a change rendered most delightful by those fatigues and dangers which entitled me to welcome it without blushing.
The pictures which had been given me of my family’s distress between the beginning of those horrid accounts from Spain, and the hearing from me after the battle of Corunna made me shudder at the thought of renewing such frightful anxiety; for while delighting in my father’s affection for his children, I was always frightened at it. The violent expression of grief or the admission of immensurate apprehension in a female are less impressive because more consonant to her softer character; but when the safety of his children was concerned, my father lost this distinction. The masculine firmness and well-tempered equality of his mind no longer served him, and he, my mother, and my sister, equally giving way to their fears for me, vainly looked to each other for support. And what a task for my brother ... to be obliged to laugh at their fears while smothering his own!
Early in the month of March the whole village circle dined at my father’s house—Milnes, Lumley, Cleavers, etc.; happiness prevailed, and I was glad. After dinner my brother, opening the post-bag, drew out a large Government letter for me. My father’s eyes followed it across the table with infinite disquiet,[26] my mother’s with dismay, and Louisa paled a little. Under such eyes it was necessary to command my own countenance.
I told my father calmly that it was an order for foreign service.
Nothing could represent such an order to them in a flattering point of view. All their fears, all their anxieties were to be renewed, and perhaps in the end not to be so happily relieved. I therefore made no comments, but professed that the future now opened to me was flattering to my prospects, and I further added that I considered active service in Europe as a safeguard from the more distant and unhealthy colonies.
John Hoppner.
Rafela, Wife of Sir William Boothby, Bart.
Mother of Captain Charles Boothby, R.E.
But in fact I was but ill satisfied with the summons, for the Austrian war was but vaguely rumoured, and nothing but the éclat and spunk of some dashing and prompt expedition could make going abroad agreeable to me. My own regrets, however, I was once again obliged to smother, and my own tastes to kick downstairs that I might communicate some degree of consistency and firmness to my aching family, and in this task my brother was my second self.
The next day the whole party met again at the Lumleys’. It will appear strange when I say that we were in better spirits than I wished, for in spite of all I could say, they would not abandon the hope that some event or other would put off the expedition.
As the post time drew near, my father grew grave, and I could see he dreaded a final summons; and even as he dreaded, a large Government letter, like the one before, was put into my hand. I dare not look at my father. My mother, to be out of the way, ran upstairs.
When I had glanced over it, with what alacrity did I put into my father’s hand what I knew would quiet his old heart and illumine his benignant features. It was a simple counter order.
My mother and sister were not long before dancing with joy. It was an harmonious uproar, very delightful to see, and I joined in it with all my heart; to rejoice when they were rejoicing was too natural to my heart to be restrained.
The next day my brother and myself went to spend a night at Welbeck. On returning, the little party met us at the end of the village; they walked slow, and were sorrowful.
The counter order was annulled, and the order for foreign service in force.
For all that the world holds I would not retrace the bitterness of separation.
My brother drove me to Newark, but I was glad to get rid of him, glad when I had escaped my whole kindred, and was left at liberty to weep without adding to their tears.
To have the business of leave-taking over cheered my spirits. I once more felt free, and turned my thoughts upon my companions, those dear companions with whom for years I had been traversing the seas and the lands of Europe.
The passage to Lisbon was boisterous and disagreeable. We set sail on the 17th March 1809, sprang a leak, were run aboard of in the night, and expected to go down, and, in short, were forced to acknowledge that a transport is full of horror.
We landed at Lisbon on the 2nd April, and found it generally expected that Sir John Craddock would re-embark his army in a very few days. The force under his command was said to amount to 17,000, and Marshal Beresford with his Portuguese was called 25,000.
On the other hand, Soult had taken possession of Oporto with 13,000, or, according to some, 17,000. Victor was menacing the Alemtejo with 40,000, and another movable corps of 10,000 had shown itself in the neighbourhood of Ciudad Rodrigo.
Taking this rumoured state of things for granted, the re-embarkation of the army (to a man that knew the nature of Iberian troops) seemed at the first glance to be the most salutary measure that could be adopted.
Lisbon, 2nd April 1809.
My dearest Lou—After a disagreeable voyage we arrived in the Tagus to-day at two o’clock. I do not intend this for a letter, but to take the first opportunity to tell you of my safe arrival.
The French have taken Oporto, and we are supposed to be in force on the frontier.
I would make a bet that I see you again before the expiration of the summer, for they dare not stay to come in contact with the French army, at least I think so.
Nothing ever was more dead than this town. Oh, intolerably dead! No news here.
I shall write longer by the next opportunity.
With every best spring of the heart to you all,
Charles.