It was mid-winter, and snow lay upon the ground. The days were short, the nights were bitter. Heavy ice-cold rain fell often. Food was scanty; shelter was hard to find; and both officers and men slept upon the cold ground. The Spanish Army, contrary to Moore's earnest request, blundered into the way of the retreating force, eating up the provisions on which the English depended, and blocking the roads with carts and mules.
In that furious race between the British and the French, first for Benevente, next for Astorga, not an hour could be lost. At all costs they had to press forward.
Hour after hour, oftentimes by night, the march continued, through rain, or snow, or fog; up steep and slippery ascents, or down sharp depths where foothold could hardly be found. On and on the men stumbled, hungry, thirsty, weary, half asleep, not a few shoeless and lame, many a one dropping through weakness by the roadside, never to rise again.
In the van and in the centre of the Army some confusion reigned. But in the reserve, where Moore was usually to be found, riding beside his friend, General Paget, perfect discipline was maintained. All there knew themselves to be under the eyes of their Commander, and his presence, together with the attacks of the enemy, kept them up to the mark. Again and again, and yet again, the French advanced guards were charged and driven back.
The regiment to which belonged Jack, Roy, and Bob was in the Reserve, to the no small delight of all three.
Roy Baron had passed through some strange experiences in his short life. He would not easily forget this last experience—this steady, disheartening, rearwards tramp, with Napoleon's trained battalions ever "thundering" behind them.
He would not soon forget the bitter snowy weather, the sleet and hail, the fogs and winds, the mountain heights, the exposed nights, the dogged pluck and determination shown by the rearguard, the ceaseless care and watchfulness of Moore, the invincible resolution of this man, who by sheer force of will held the whole Army together, and never at the worst allowed the retreat for one moment to become a flight.
Not that Roy was disheartened or depressed. Far from it. He was young and strong and full of vigour. The very hardships of the retreat seemed to him far lighter than those of that miserable march, which he could recall, from Verdun to Bitche. For then he was handcuffed, and felt himself treated with cruel injustice and tyranny. Now he was fighting for his country; he was in the midst of friends; and not a day passed without a sight of the Commander, upon whom he looked with a passionate admiration and love.
He hated the fact of having to retire; but at all times it took a good deal to lower Roy's buoyant spirits. And the men of the Reserve had too much hard fighting on hand to admit of their growing down-hearted. Any one of them might any day chance to win a smile of commendation from Moore. That was worth fighting for, worth bearing anything for!
Roy soon learnt what it was to be under fire. If at first the experience was to him, as to most men, unpleasant, he grew quickly used to it. Before long he had the supreme joy of being personally praised by the General for dashing courage. It seemed to Roy that day that life lacked nothing.