IN an instant Sir John Moore half raised himself, gazing still with concentrated earnestness, as if nothing had happened, towards the Highland regiment, now hotly engaged. Not a sigh was heard. Not a muscle in his face quivered.
Hardinge had sprung down, and Moore's right hand grasped his firmly. When Hardinge, seeing his anxiety for the 42nd, exclaimed, "They are advancing—" Moore's eyes brightened into their fullest radiance.
Then Colonel Graham hurried to the spot. So placid and unchanged was the General's look, that for a moment he hoped it might be no more than an accidental fall from his horse. The next moment he saw—and he rode off at utmost speed for a surgeon.
It was an awful wound. Almost the whole left shoulder was carried away; the arm was all but separated from the body; the ribs over that intrepid heart were broken; the flesh and muscles were fearfully torn and mangled. Hardinge made an attempt with his sash to check the flow of blood; but with so extensive an injury little could be done.
Moore was then gently lifted upon a blanket; and all the while he still intently watched the struggle, as if his own state were a matter of no importance.
For a moment his attention was recalled from the front. His sword became entangled when the soldiers moved him, and the hilt went into the wound. Captain Hardinge began to unbuckle it, but he was at once checked, Moore saying in his usual voice, with calm distinctness—
"It is as well as it is. I had rather it should go out of the field with me."
So extraordinary was his composure, that Hardinge began to hope, even against hope, that the wound might after all prove not to be mortal—that the General might even yet be spared to his country. He faltered something of the kind; and Moore turned from gazing at the battle to inspect gravely his own injuries.
"No, Hardinge, I feel that to be impossible," he replied. "You need not go with me. Report to General Hope that I am wounded, and carried to the rear."
He was slowly borne towards Coruña, a sergeant and ten soldiers of the Guards and of the 42nd being told off for this service. Two surgeons came hastening to meet him. They had been engaged with the arm of his next in command, Sir David Baird, which was badly shattered; but on hearing what had happened to his chief, Baird hurried them off, and they left his arm half dressed. Moore, who was losing blood rapidly, observed; "You can be of no service to me. Go to the wounded soldiers—you may be of use to them." But this unselfish order could not be obeyed.