SCENE I
SPAIN. A ROAD NEAR ASTORGA
[The eye of the spectator rakes the road from the interior of a
cellar which opens upon it, and forms the basement of a deserted
house, the roof doors, and shutters of which have been pulled down
and burnt for bivouac fires. The season is the beginning of
January, and the country is covered with a sticky snow. The road
itself is intermittently encumbered with heavy traffic, the surface
being churned to a yellow mud that lies half knee-deep, and at the
numerous holes in the track forming still deeper quagmires.
In the gloom of the cellar are heaps of damp straw, in which
ragged figures are lying half-buried, many of the men in the
uniform of English regiments, and the women and children in clouts
of all descriptions, some being nearly naked. At the back of the
cellar is revealed, through a burst door, an inner vault, where
are discernible some wooden-hooped wine-casks; in one sticks a
gimlet, and the broaching-cork of another has been driven in.
The wine runs into pitchers, washing-basins, shards, chamber-
vessels, and other extemporized receptacles. Most of the inmates
are drunk; some to insensibility.
So far as the characters are doing anything they are contemplating
almost incessant traffic outside, passing in one direction. It
includes a medley of stragglers from the Marquis of ROMANA’S
Spanish forces and the retreating English army under SIR JOHN
MOORE—to which the concealed deserters belong.]
FIRST DESERTER
Now he’s one of the Eighty-first, and I’d gladly let that poor blade
know that we’ve all that man can wish for here—good wine and buxom
women. But if I do, we shan’t have room for ourselves—hey?
[He signifies a man limping past with neither fire-lock nor
knapsack. Where the discarded knapsack has rubbed for weeks
against his shoulder-blades the jacket and shirt are fretted
away, leaving his skin exposed.]
SECOND DESERTER
He may be the Eighty-firsht, or th’ Eighty-second; but what I say is,
without fear of contradiction, I wish to the Lord I was back in old
Bristol again. I’d sooner have a nipperkin of our own real “Bristol
milk” than a mash-tub full of this barbarian wine!
THIRD DESERTER
’Tis like thee to be ungrateful, after putting away such a skinful
on’t. I am as much Bristol as thee, but would as soon be here as
there. There ain’t near such willing women, that are strict
respectable too, there as hereabout, and no open cellars.— As
there’s many a slip in this country I’ll have the rest of my
allowance now.
[He crawls on his elbows to one of the barrels, and turning on his
back lets the wine run down his throat.]
FORTH DESERTER [to a fifth, who is snoring]
Don’t treat us to such a snoaching there, mate. Here’s some more
coming, and they’ll sight us if we don’t mind!
[Enter without a straggling flock of military objects, some with
fragments of shoes on, others bare-footed, many of the latter’s
feet bleeding. The arms and waists of some are clutched by women
as tattered and bare-footed as themselves. They pass on.
The Retreat continues. More of ROMANA’S Spanish limp along in
disorder; then enters a miscellaneous group of English cavalry
soldiers, some on foot, some mounted, the rearmost of the latter
bestriding a shoeless foundered creature whose neck is vertebrae
and mane only. While passing it falls from exhaustion; the trooper
extricates himself and pistols the animal through the head. He
and the rest pass on.]
FIRST DESERTER Here’s something more in order, or I am much mistaken. He cranes
out.] Yes, a sergeant of the Forty-third, and what’s left of their
second battalion. And, by God, not far behind I see shining helmets.
’Tis a whole squadron of French dragoons!
[Enter the sergeant. He has a racking cough, but endeavours, by
stiffening himself up, to hide how it is wasting away his life.
He halts, and looks back, till the remains of the Forty-third are
abreast, to the number of some three hundred, about half of whom
are crippled invalids, the other half being presentable and armed
soldiery.’
SERGEANT
Now show yer nerve, and be men. If you die to-day you won’t have to
die to-morrow. Fall in! [The miscellany falls in.] All invalids and
men without arms march ahead as well as they can. Quick—maw-w-w-ch!
[Exeunt invalids, etc.] Now! Tention! Shoulder-r-r—fawlocks! [Order
obeyed.]
[The sergeant hastily forms these into platoons, who prime and load,
and seem preternaturally changed from what they were into alert
soldiers.
Enter French dragoons at the left-back of the scene. The rear
platoon of the Forty-third turns, fires, and proceeds. The next
platoon covering them does the same. This is repeated several
times, staggering the pursuers. Exeunt French dragoons, giving
up the pursuit. The coughing sergeant and the remnant of the
Forty-third march on.]
FOURTH DESERTER [to a woman lying beside him]
What d’ye think o’ that, my honey? It fairly makes me a man again.
Come, wake up! We must be getting along somehow. [He regards the
woman more closely.] Why—my little chick? Look here, friends.
[They look, and the woman is found to be dead.] If I didn’t think
that her poor knees felt cold!... And only an hour ago I swore
to marry her!
[They remain silent. The Retreat continues in the snow without,
now in the form of a file of ox-carts, followed by a mixed rabble
of English and Spanish, and mules and muleteers hired by English
officers to carry their baggage. The muleteers, looking about
and seeing that the French dragoons gave been there, cut the bands
which hold on the heavy packs, and scamper off with their mules.]
A VOICE [behind]
The Commander-in-Chief is determined to maintain discipline, and
they must suffer. No more pillaging here. It is the worst case
of brutality and plunder that we have had in this wretched time!
[Enter an English captain of hussars, a lieutenant, a guard of
about a dozen, and three men as prisoner.]
CAPTAIN
If they choose to draw lots, only one need be made an example of.
But they must be quick about it. The advance-guard of the enemy
is not far behind.
[The three prisoners appear to draw lots, and the one on whom the
lot falls is blindfolded. Exeunt the hussars behind a wall, with
carbines. A volley is heard and something falls. The wretched
in the cellar shudder.]
FOURTH DESERTER
’Tis the same for us but for this heap of straw. Ah—my doxy is the
only one of us who is safe and sound! [He kisses the dead woman.]
[Retreat continues. A train of six-horse baggage-waggons lumbers
past, a mounted sergeant alongside. Among the baggage lie wounded
soldiers and sick women.]
SERGEANT OF THE WAGGON-TRAIN
If so be they are dead, ye may as well drop ’em over the tail-board.
’Tis no use straining the horses unnecessary.
[Waggons halt. Two of the wounded who have just died are taken
out, laid down by the roadside, and some muddy snow scraped over
them. Exeunt waggons and sergeant.
An interval. More English troops pass on horses, mostly shoeless
and foundered.
Enter SIR JOHN MOORE and officers. MOORE appears on the pale
evening light as a handsome man, far on in the forties, the
orbits of his dark eyes showing marks of deep anxiety. He is
talking to some of his staff with vehement emphasis and gesture.
They cross the scene and go on out of sight, and the squashing
of their horses’ hoofs in the snowy mud dies away.]
FIFTH DESERTER [incoherently in his sleep]
Poise fawlocks—open pans—right hands to pouch—handle ca’tridge—
bring it—quick motion-bite top well off—prime—shut pans—cast
about—load—-
FIRST DESERTER [throwing a shoe at the sleeper]
Shut up that! D’ye think you are a ’cruity in the awkward squad
still?
SECOND DESERTER
I don’t know what he thinks, but I know what I feel! Would that I
were at home in England again, where there’s old-fashioned tipple,
and a proper God A’mighty instead of this eternal ’Ooman and baby;
—ay, at home a-leaning against old Bristol Bridge, and no questions
asked, and the winter sun slanting friendly over Baldwin Street as
’a used to do! ’Tis my very belief, though I have lost all sure
reckoning, that if I were there, and in good health, ’twould be New
Year’s day about now. What it is over here I don’t know. Ay, to-
night we should be a-setting in the tap of the “Adam and Eve”—
lifting up the tune of “The Light o’ the Moon.” ’Twer a romantical
thing enough. ’A used to go som’at like this [he sings in a nasal
tone]:—
“O I thought it had been day,
And I stole from here away;
But it proved to be the light o’ the moon!”
[Retreat continues, with infantry in good order. Hearing the
singing, one of the officers looks around, and detaching a patrol
enters the ruined house with the file of men, the body of soldiers
marching on. The inmates of the cellar bury themselves in the
straw. The officer peers about, and seeing no one prods the straw
with his sword.
VOICES [under the straw]
Oh! Hell! Stop it! We’ll come out! Mercy! Quarter!
[The lurkers are uncovered.]
OFFICER
If you are well enough to sing bawdy songs, you are well enough to
march. So out of it—or you’ll be shot, here and now!
SEVERAL
You may shoot us, captain, or the French may shoot us, or the devil
may take us; we don’t care which! Only we can’t stir. Pity the
women, captain, but do what you will with us!
[The searchers pass over the wounded, and stir out those capable
of marching, both men and women, so far as they discover them.
They are pricked on by the patrol. Exeunt patrol and deserters
in its charge.
Those who remain look stolidly at the highway. The English Rear-
guard of cavalry crosses the scene and passes out. An interval.
It grows dusk.]
SPIRIT IRONIC
Quaint poesy, and real romance of war!
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES
Mock on, Shade, if thou wilt! But others find
Poesy ever lurk where pit-pats poor mankind!
[The scene is cloaked in darkness.]