CHAPTER XXXI.
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 this failure on their part to arrive in time was a most serious matter. The British Army, brought thus far in safety, would now 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 their various quarters, some in the town of Coruña, some in villages hard by. One range of rocky 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 be able to turn his position, and to 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 quickly 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 enemy, every trace of insubordination vanished. The greater number of Moore’s soldiers were young; yet in their fighting powers they could not have been outdone by veterans.
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 descending upon them from the heights; and they represented the heavy loss to life which would certainly result from an attempt to embark in 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.
Indomitable as Moore was, however, the strain of the last few weeks had been tremendous, and it had told upon him heavily. All through the 12th of January he was hard at work, preparing for the battle which might take place. 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.
The evening of that day saw him nearly worn out with his ceaseless exertions; yet at daybreak he was once more in the saddle, reconnoitring the enemy’s camp, and visiting every part of his own.
By eleven o’clock strength failed, and he came back to headquarters utterly spent. Rest had become a necessity before he could do more. He sent for Stuart, brother to Lord Castlereagh, who was suffering from his eyes, and, therefore, was unfit for active service. Moore desired him to start at once for England, in a vessel then about to leave, and to place before Ministers the precise position of the Army. In an ordinary way Sir John would have written details with his own hand, but his present exhaustion made this impossible.
“I cannot write—I am too tired,” he said wearily. “But there is no need. You understand everything, and you will explain all fully.”
For two hours prostration had the upper hand. Then came a rally. Moore sat up, called for paper, and finding that the vessel was not yet under weigh, he wrote to Lord Castlereagh a rapid semi-confidential statement of affairs, in his terse easy modern English, always singularly free from the little tricks of expression peculiar to his time. His despatches might for the most part have been almost as well penned in the ninth decade as in the first decade of the century. Had Moore not devoted all his energies to soldiering, he might have become great in literature.
This was the last despatch that he ever penned.
Next day, the 14th, some cannonading took place; but there was no serious fighting. The French did not move. They were still concentrating their forces, having suffered greatly, like the English, in those terrible marches.
In the evening at last the transports made their appearance; and all next day the embarkation of the sick and wounded, as well as of the cavalry, was going on. Moore had found that, in the country around Coruña, cavalry could be of little use.
By noon on the 16th everything was in train. Unless they should be attacked by Soult, the whole English Army would be on board that night. Moore placed all arrangements for the embarkation in the hands of Colonel Anderson; and then again he went off to review his troops, finding them in excellent order and in the highest spirits.
They to a man wished for nothing better than a fight. That question, however, was left to Soult to decide. No matter how intensely Moore might long for a victory over the enemy, he would not make the 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 mere 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, indeed, 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.” The radiant delight which glowed in his face, when he found that a battle was to be forced upon him, was recorded later by one who saw it. He expressed 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 the victory which he expected to gain.
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—Fraser’s—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 for a while Roy chafed impatiently, fearing to have no share in the battle that day. Even had it been so, the Reserve would have had small reason to complain, since they had borne the lion’s share of fighting during the retreat. But their turn would come.
The first and heaviest brunt of the onset was to fall 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 no sooner became apparent 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 face the flank of 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. For General Paget, with his Reserve, advanced upon the column in front, doubled it completely up, and like a whirlwind swept onward, clearing the valley of the foe.
Roy had his chance then, and he did not fail to use 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 veneration and pride by every British soldier. Not least were they so regarded by Roy Baron!
Right proudly he carried his royal burden; and though its folds were rent in more places than one by the hail of bullets, and though Roy exposed himself with all that reckless gallantry which is natural to the British officer, he had the good fortune to escape with no wound worth mentioning. He had his fair share of hard knocks, notwithstanding; for Paget’s Division, once engaged, fought on till the close of the battle.
The French attack was directed with greatest force against the three regiments, already named. Their piquets, which occupied the little village of Elvina, beyond the ridge, were driven in by the energy of the enemy’s onset, and Elvina for a time fell into the hands of the French.
That of course could not be allowed, and orders were given that the 42nd and the 50th should advance to expel the foe from the village.
Moore, always to be found at the point of greatest danger, where his presence would most be needed, 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, actually charged with them, and he told the men that he was “well pleased” with their conduct. Baird, the second in command, leading his Division, had his arm shattered with grape-shot, and was carried from the field.
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 eager 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 Moore 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 describe 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, as 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 rapidly 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 English were without supports, and the French, having received strong reinforcements, rallied and turned upon them with fresh fury. Napier got too far in advance of his men, received five wounds, and was taken prisoner; and Stanhope was killed.
Moore, grappling anew 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 believed itself about to be relieved by the coming 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 elsewhere throughout the line fighting raged furiously. Sir John rode back to the ridge, where he could overlook the whole battle. 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 finally driven out of Elvina. On the left of the British line, 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. The column which had essayed to turn the British right had been utterly wrecked, crushed out of existence, by Paget’s Division, which would in turn have stormed the great French battery of eleven guns, had daylight lasted long enough.
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.
Hardinge[2] came up to report to Sir John that the Guards were advancing. And as the words passed his lips, as he pointed out the position of the Guards, a round shot from the battery opposite struck Moore, hurling him to the ground.
(To be continued.)