Why information about the enemy should have been withheld it is difficult to understand, and it must have been most irritating. Of the intentions of their great chief, officers and men never expected to be informed, and they had neither the desire nor the ability to probe into them. To Wellington himself this inability on the part of his army to forecast his plans was probably an immense satisfaction, for, he must have argued, if his own troops could not see through the veil, it was not likely that the enemy would be able to do so. And, naturally, for a general to be sure that his plans are kept secret, with a possibility of his being able to blind and deceive his adversary, is a great asset in war. On the other hand, it is an undoubted fact that Wellington carried this matter of reticence to extremes; he seldom took even his staff into his confidence; any information which he collected he kept to himself; and only on rare occasions did he discuss his plans with anyone. The wisdom of such an attitude on the part of a commander-in-chief may, of course, be questioned, on the grounds that if he were unfortunate enough to be killed at the critical moment, the next senior officer would be in the awkward predicament of having to formulate a plan of his own on the spur of the moment. It may be argued that Wellington's plans were so thoroughly worked out in every detail that there was no loophole for failure, and no doubt as to what was intended. That may have been so; but there is no proof, for fortunately it was never put to the test, and the great man saw all his plans brought to a finish. Still, it is well known that Wellington realised to the full the danger of his policy of reticence; and it is on record that he himself expressed the opinion that had he been placed hors de combat by the shot which passed over his head and wounded Lord Uxbridge at Waterloo, the British and their Allies would have suffered defeat. His generals may have chafed under such an autocratic rule, yet they, as well as the whole army, had absolute confidence in their leader—at any rate after the first year or two.
But the "grand puzzle" about which Rice wrote on the 19th August was not so intricate as he seems to have thought; for Wellington had made up his mind all along to attempt the capture of Ciudad Rodrigo, and had only cantoned his troops about the Tagus in order to deceive the enemy as to his intentions. He was now moving his army up towards the fortress with all speed, hoping to reduce it before it could be re-victualled for a siege. But in this he failed, for a convoy of stores of all kinds had reached the place while Wellington's troops were still at a distance from it. The 51st had remained at Villa Mayor until the 22nd September, had then marched to Guinaldo, and on 25th to Albergueria. Rice by this time had been forced to go to hospital, and on the 26th September he wrote from Aldea da Ribeira: "I have been confined to my bed for these eight days with a violent attack of dysentery, accompanied by a good deal of fever. I think the former is in some measure conquered. Am taking bark, for I am most terribly low and hipped—all alone in a most miserable village. How I shall get on I know not. The task is arduous for an invalid in this most horrid of countries. The regiment is a league in advance; a retreat or an action must take place within twenty-four hours, for the French are only distant five leagues from our outposts. Our army is in a wretched state; they say 30,000, with an immensity of officers, sick; in short, you see nothing from morning to night but misery. You must not consider my case desperate, so I beg of you not to alarm Fanny."[62]
His next letter was from Celorico, upon the Mondego, 12th October 1811—
"I gave you a few hasty lines, I think, on the 26th September. As I predicted that a retreat or an action would take place within twenty-four hours, so it happened. The French pushed forward in great force, and would gladly have brought on an action, but a wise head said nay, and we retrograded. The 3rd Division was pressed hard by the cavalry, but retired in good order by squares, so suffered not so much as might have been expected. The French have again taken themselves off, Marmont by the pass of Banos to Plasencia, and the Comte d'Orsini[63] (or some such name), with the remaining force, is gone into cantonments in the vicinity of Salamanca. What will be the end of all this kicking about and expense of shoe leather I cannot say. Our advanced posts extend nearly as far as before, though several divisions are on this side of the Coa, where I think they will remain for the winter, or until some fresh alarm calls us again into motion. I have been very unwell since my last, but am now considerably better, and have to complain principally of weakness. Another fortnight will, I hope, put the old horse once more on his legs. The best of them cannot go for ever. His lordship is just coming in to inspect the hospitals."
Shortly after this the 51st went into winter quarters at Pena Macor, while Wellington perfected his arrangement for converting the blockade of Ciudad Rodrigo into a siege. That the regimental officers did not take a very bright view of the situation is evident from the following letter from Major Rice:—
"Pena Macor, 4th December 1811.
"We have got papers down to the 15th November. Grand news was expected, such as Northern Coalition—the old joke! I wish we could get those Russian bears on foot; nothing can be done here but by something of the sort. Bony, I fear, is too deep, and John Bull such a cursed fool that I am no longer sanguine in the cause and the issue of the glorious struggle. The army has again been on the qui vive, but nothing done. A convoy of provisions was attempted to be thrown into Ciudad Rodrigo, but our lord was too deep. He has good intelligence and certain requisites. General Renaud passed some days here with us. He likes good living and plenty of wine—a tolerable sort of Frenchman. He was taken by Don Julian, the famous guerilla partisan. He thinks Bony will never forgive him, and is alarmed. I shall struggle on a little longer before I give in—take another round or two—the odds against me. My poor brother major[64] died the other day—a short illness, which terminated with a melancholy disease—what the wigs call timor orsi—otherwise, fear of hell."
So 1811 closed, and was followed by a year of strenuous work for the British troops—a year of great victories, yet one also of arduous marches, vast hardships, and heavy casualties. And Major Sam Rice managed to "struggle on" to the end of it.