CHAPTER XXIX.
ROY BARON’S FIRST CAMPAIGN.
In the press and excitement of this his first campaign, Roy did not lose sight of Molly’s suggestion that he should keep a slight journal of the course of events. The plan commended itself to him, and he carried it out, albeit in somewhat fitful style. His entries were brief and irregular, yet in the future they might well prove to be of interest to himself and his friends.
The life that he had led, more especially his Bitche experiences, had tended to give him an unusually thoughtful turn for his age; and he was not troubled by the smallest difficulty in expressing himself on paper. To write was as easy to Roy as to speak.
For very obvious reasons, however, the journal was scarcely started before he decided not to send any part of it to Molly, but to write separate letters to her, as occasion served, keeping his memoranda for the present to himself.
“Oct. 11th, 1808.
“At last the chief Command has been bestowed where it should be; and for five days past Sir John has been at the Head of Affairs. Some hope now that things will go right! Jack says that when Sir John was first placed third in command, after being first, he declared that fight for his Country he would, and no man should Hinder him; and if the King saw fit to bid him act as Ensign, he would unhesitatingly obey.
“Strict Orders are issued that we are to be excessive Polite toward the Spaniards, they being somewhat warm in their Tempers.
“Oct. 16th.
“Salamanca to be the general Rendez-vous. The different Divisions follow at intervals by different Routes. The Spaniards are declared on all hands to be gloriously enthusiastic—the French weak, and far out-numbered by them.
“Oct. 28th. Sacavem.
“Early in the day still. Scarce an hour since I came across Major Charles Stanhope and Major Charles Napier breakfasting together under an olive tree.[1] They were talking eagerly—not hard to guess the subject! I caught words as I passed; and ’twas as I would have conjectured, admiration of our General.[1] What Moore is and what Moore may do are the theme of all. Was ever man more beloved than he?
“The three Napier brothers are gallant fellows—which the more so ’twould be hard to say. A little later, on my way, I met Jack’s friend, George Napier, who is Aide-de-camp to Moore, and had some words with him—a fine fellow indeed, and ardently devoted to our General. ‘Any tidings from Verdun of late?’ he asked me. I would there were!
“Nov. 8th. Almeida.
“Nearing fast the borders of Portugal. Reports continue to reach us of the immense and warlike enthusiasm of the Spaniards. Even the peasantry, ’tis declared, are Ardent to fight. Sixty or seventy thousand Spanish soldiers, under their Generals, Blake and Romana, await our advance, and they are said to be ‘full of contempt’ for the French. Jack says contempt won’t help ’em so well as hard fighting. Boney is no Enemy to be despised. But at most there are, if accounts be true, only some fifty thousand French to be dealt with, and our twenty-five thousand, backed up by the entire Spanish Army, should be well equal to that.[2]
“Nov. 11th.
“Little baggage allowed. Conveyance the grand difficulty. Some grumbling at this. A lot of young fellows here, who have never been in the field before, and who don’t know what to make of Discomfort. Seem to expect that everything should be as in Barracks at Home! Good for me to have had experience of a Bitche dungeon. That’s like to knock the softness out of a fellow, if anything would.
“The General toils night and day unceasingly. What he gets through is Amazing. Large number in our force of untrained levies, and these have to be, as Major Napier would say, ‘drilled and rattled’ into shape. The difference in ’em already wouldn’t be believed. One man has had unfortunately to be shot for marauding; otherwise discipline is splendid, and everybody in the Highest Spirits.
“The Portuguese nobles en route have received Sir John well at their private houses. Country we’ve come through anything but beautiful. Villages wretched. Roads not so bad as reported beforehand by the Portuguese. Red cockades ready—ordered to be worn by the whole force so soon as we cross the border, in compliment to the Spanish.
“Nov. 12th. Ciudad Rodrigo.
“Here we are in Spain. Red cockades in full swing. Little time for writing. Everybody busy, and the General has his eye on each one. Grand reception of him here by the Spaniards; and shouts of ‘Vivan l’Ingleterra y l’Inglese!’ Doing my best to get up a smattering of Spanish. Find my knowledge of French useful already; likely to be more so.
“Rodrigo stands high; right bank of the Agueda. Had time to take a look at the ancient rampart yesterday evening, Jack and I together. The word ‘rampart’ brings Verdun to mind, and all who are there. What wouldn’t Denham give to be here!—and what wouldn’t I give to have him! Yet I often think how lucky it was I knocked down that bust, and got myself sent to Bitche! But for that, I might be kicking up my heels at Verdun to this day.
“Nov. 13th. Salamanca.
“At the general Rendez-vous! Grand sight to see the Regiments come in—splendid fellows, ready for anything—and the Colours flying. All long for but one thing—to meet the French, and have at ’em!
“General Moore has arrived this afternoon—looking harassed and weary, Jack says, who saw him; and he confesses to feeling jaded. But there’s no sort of rest for one in his position.
“Country-folk hereabout seem mightily struck with Amaze at the Ways of our Army, and everything being paid down for as it is, after the manner they’ve been handled by the French soldiers in the past.
“Nov. 15th. Salamanca.
“French Army reported to be advancing, and only 20 leagues off. Both Spanish Generals retiring before ’em. Question now is, whether Castanos, commanding the third Spanish division, will make any better stand. Our troops are coming up in detachments; quicker advance impossible, for lack of transport. Three brigades of Infantry here, and not one gun! I hear they can’t hope to Concentrate the whole force in less than a fortnight. Let’s hope the French may leave us alone till then.
“If Castanos should run away too, some say we may ourselves be forced to retreat. But that’s not the common expectation; and Retreat is the last word that Moore will utter, without dire need. Jack of course hears more than I do, not only being Captain, and having known Sir John in private life, but also having more than one intimate friend on the Staff. Privately he tells me he does not believe Sir John to have any enormous faith in Spanish enthusiasm; but that is not known to most.
“Nov. 22nd.
“The way Sir John works! ’Tis enough to make laggards ashamed! Each morning regularly he’s up betimes, between three and four, and lights his own fire from the lamp kept burning in his room. Then he writes hard till eight, when the ‘Officers of the Family’ breakfast with him. Breakfast over, he sees the Generals and anyone who may have business to communicate, and issues his Orders. As he writes all his letters with his own hand, he is often at that a great part of the forenoon as well as in the early morning—till he rides out, either to reconnoitre or to review the Troops. At dinner he has commonly from fifteen to twenty officers at his table, and he is then at his best, and talks much and freely with them all. He keeps a good table, but is himself a most moderate eater, and drinks wine sparingly. Dinner over, he is again at his writing and despatches, and goes to bed, if he may, at ten, but often he is prevented. Our Chief lives indeed a life of Toil. No marvel if at times he has a worn look.
“Nov. 29th. Salamanca.
“Castanos has been beaten by the French at Tudela; and ’tis now pretty clear that the ‘retiring’ of the other Spanish troops meant a thorough drubbing. We hear that the Spaniards are provided with neither clothing nor shoes, arms nor ammunition, and for days together have no bread. What can be expected of them in such case?
“Some fear that Retreat on our part may become needful; others scout the notion. I heartily hope we may first have a brush with the Enemy.
“Dec. 10th.
“At Salamanca still; tho’ ’tis now ten days since the General gave orders to make ready for Retreat.
“Dec. 11th.
“Hurrah! Hurrah! Moore—glorious fellow!—will not retire, without giving the Spaniards one more chance.
“Jack says he has been assured in the strongest manner that all is not yet up; that Castanos is far from utterly routed; that some of the Provinces are warmly patriotic, and ready to sacrifice their all for freedom from the French yoke. Two Spanish Generals, arrived in our Camp, speak with enthusiasm of the Undismayed Courage and Resolution of the Spanish Army, despite some late unfortunate Reverses. In short, one more effort is to be made. Without delay, the whole British force, now at Salamanca, is to make a rapid advance. Jack gathers that the plan will be to attack Marshal Soult beyond the Carrion. We hope now at last to meet the foe. That is enough for us!
“Dec. 14th.
“Madrid has fallen—after holding out against Napoleon one day! So much for Spanish enthusiasm. But we are advancing still towards Saldana, where Soult lies. All in the best of spirits.
“Dec. 21st. Sahagun.
“Sharp brush with the Enemy yesterday. News came that the French Cavalry, to the number of 700, lay at Sahagun. Lord Paget,[3] with the 15th Hussars, about 400 men, went to surprise them. In one charge he put ’em to the rout, taking 150 prisoners. Well done, Hussars! Sir John thanked them right heartily when he got here. Every man in the force is burning to get at the Enemy. Desperate cold weather. Snow everywhere.
“Dec. 23rd. Sahagun.
“All is up with our hopes of striking a blow at Soult. One more night, and we should have come up with him. Now the forward march is countermanded. Seems that Napoleon is making a rush to cut off our communication with the coast. I suppose there isn’t a man of us that wouldn’t still go on, in the face of any odds. But Sir John asks no advice. He is quiet, resolved, with never a look of hesitation.
“Yet having come so far, now to go back, with nothing done—’tis an awful disappointment. Some, much as they love Sir John, are bitter about it, and will not or cannot see the need. Jack trusts him fully, and says he understands,—Boney has been too sharp. If he can cross our communications with Portugal, we shall just find ourselves between him and Soult, and the Spanish Armies nowhere.
“So we cross the Esla at once—that’s to say, the Army begins to-day. Our Regiment, luckily, is one of the Reserve, and we shall be among the last to retire.”
All this was true, as jotted down by Roy; and very much besides that no man in the camp knew, except Moore and his most intimate friends.
When the news first arrived of the collapse of three Spanish forces, Moore at first planned an immediate retreat to Portugal, there to await fresh reinforcements from England.
But when one assurance after another was given that the Spaniards were still in the mood to fight, with vehement urging that he would not leave them to their fate, he at length resolved to give them another opportunity to show themselves men.
A daring conception came to his mind, and was rapidly acted upon. Instead of retiring at once to a position of safety, he would first make a swoop upon Soult’s Army, thus threatening the line of Napoleon’s communications with France. And his object in so doing was, simply and definitely, to draw the whole weight of the Conqueror’s fury upon himself and his small British Army, thus relieving the terrible pressure upon the more southern provinces of Spain.
It was a startling and a hazardous step. In the hand of any less brilliant and experienced Commander, it might have ended in an awful disaster—in a modern Thermopylæ on a huge scale—in the complete destruction of the entire British force. But Moore knew what he was about.
That brought matters to a point. Napoleon had expected, as a matter of course, that Moore would retreat so soon as the Spanish Armies melted away. What else could he do? Napoleon at this date had in Spain not less than 330,000 soldiers, 60,000 horses, and 200 pieces of field artillery. Moore had with him less than 24,000 soldiers, and perhaps another 10,000 in Portugal, including 4,000 in hospital.
Then, to Napoleon’s unbounded amazement, he learnt—getting the news on December 21—that, in place of retreating, the puny English force was boldly advancing towards the Douro.
The Emperor’s exclamation, as heard by Marshal Ney, and afterwards repeated by him to Major Charles Napier, was—
“Moore is the only General now fit to contend with me! I shall advance against him in person.”
That Sir John Moore had thoroughly grasped the situation, and that he understood to the full the perils of his position, may be seen from his own letters. As early as the 26th of November, he had written from Salamanca, in confidence, to one of his brothers—
“Upon entering Spain, I have found affairs in a very different state from what I expected, or from what they are thought to be in England. I am in a scrape, from which God knows how I am to extricate myself! But, instead of Salamanca, this Army should have been assembled at Seville.” And at the close of a full and clear statement of the whole matter—“I understand all is fear and confusion at Madrid. Tell James it is difficult to judge at a distance. The Spaniards have not shown themselves a wise or a provident people. Their wisdom is not a wisdom of action; but still they are a fine people; a character of their own, quite distinct from other nations; and much might have been done with them. Perhaps they may rouse again. Pray for me, that I may make right decisions. If I make bad ones, it will not be for want of consideration. I sleep little. It is now only five in the morning; and I have concluded, since I got up, this long letter.”
The whole letter is very patient and calm; and especially touching are those simple words, “Pray for me,” from a man so intensely reserved on religious questions. If words are needed to show what he was, besides the plain utterance of such a character and life as his, these alone would serve to make clear that silence on his part meant neither lack of thought nor lack of feeling.
Again, on the 23rd of December, he wrote to the British Envoy in Spain—“I march this night to Carrion, and the next day to Saldana, to attack the corps under Marshal Soult.... Buonaparte is dating his proclamations from Madrid; and as to the British Army, if it were in a neutral or Enemy’s country, it could not be more completely left to itself. If the Spaniards are enthusiasts, or much interested in this cause, their conduct is the most extraordinary that ever was exhibited. The movement I am making is of the most dangerous kind. I not only risk to be surrounded every moment by superior forces, but to have my communication intercepted with the Galicias. I wish it to be apparent to the whole world, as it is to every individual of the Army, that we have done everything in our power in support of the Spanish cause; and that we do not abandon it until long after the Spaniards had abandoned us.”
Buonaparte seldom did things by halves; and he acted now with even more than his usual energy.
The force and genius of this English Commander, by whom he was so daringly opposed, had suddenly burst upon him; and he at once realised that no ordinary effort on his part would ensure to him the victory. To oppose Moore’s twenty-three thousand men with only another twenty-eight or thirty thousand was not to be thought of. That might mean disaster.
Without an hour’s delay, orders went forth to check the southward march of his columns, and, as a first step, to pour fifty thousand men in a torrent across the snowy Guadarrama hills, that they might cut off the retreat of Moore to the coast.
His object was, to place the small force of Moore between the great Army of the south and the other French corps under Soult, consisting of some twenty-five or thirty thousand men. That once done, the crushing out of existence of the British Army might be looked upon as a mere matter of detail. At any moment Napoleon could supplement his first fifty thousand with another fifty or hundred thousand.[4]
But Napoleon’s fierce northward rush was exactly what Sir John Moore had intended to bring about. He had drawn away the main body of the French Army from the harassed south; he had given the Spaniards a breathing-space in which to rally, if they would, for renewed resistance; and he had for the moment saved Portugal from desperate peril.
Twenty-three thousand men, with eight or ten thousand more out of reach, opposed to seventy or eighty thousand, with a hundred thousand more within reach! Two thousand cavalry pitted against at least five times their number! A collie-dog snapping at the heels of a Bengal tiger would be no inapt picture of Moore’s desperate daring. Well might he write—
“With such a force as mine I can pretend to do no more. It would only be losing this Army to Spain and to England to persevere in my march on Soult; who, if posted strongly, might wait; or, if not, would retire and draw me on until the corps from Madrid got behind me.[5] In short, single-handed, I cannot pretend to contend with the superior numbers the French can bring against me.”
There was, indeed, not a moment to be lost. By forced marches and the utmost expedition the first and most perilous stage was accomplished. The River Esla was crossed—and not too soon. Napoleon, pushing furiously forward, bent heart and mind on getting to Benevente before the English, found himself twelve hours too late. Moore had precisely reckoned his time and had neatly baffled Europe’s Conqueror.
A few days later, on the 1st of January, 1809, Napoleon underwent a second dire mortification. He reached Astorga, for which he had been aiming, again straining every nerve with the hope of cutting off Moore’s retreat—and as at Esla, he was once more a day too late. A second time Moore had quietly slipped away out of his grasp.
While here, Napoleon had unexpected news. He heard of the fresh alliance between Russia and Austria; and he heard that an attack upon France during his absence was being planned. This altered the face of matters. The crushing of Spain, delayed by Moore’s action, had to be put off indefinitely. Napoleon, with a large body of troops, hurried back to Paris. But he left Soult and Ney in command of about sixty thousand men, in two columns, one to attack Moore in rear, the other to take him in flank, while thousands scattered about the country were advancing to support the attack.
Enough, in all conscience, one would imagine, to deal with a retreating force of less than twenty-four thousand!
(To be continued.)