Benavente stands upon a tongue of high ground between the Esla and Orbigo valleys. The extreme tip is occupied by the old castle of the Counts of Benavente, one of whom is immortalized by Velasquez in the Prado gallery, clad in suit of armour which seems capable of reflecting your face. But his once splendid palace is now a ruin,—plundered and burnt by the stragglers of Sir John Moore’s army; and the poor old town itself, though it contains some interesting churches, has grown wofully battered and threadbare since its seigneurs were driven from their home.
Yet Benavente is not without honour among us Englishmen. Its name figures upon a clasp of the Peninsular medal, and upon the colours of the 10th{135} Hussars. Here the leading squadrons of Napoleon just got into touch with the rearguard of the retreating Moore;—and received a smart buffet for their forwardness, which was not at all to the Emperor’s taste. The cavalry of the Imperial Guard had unexpectedly forded the river; and were wellnigh overwhelming the pickets, when Paget and his horsemen swooped upon them from behind the houses, rolled them up with the loss of half their number, and captured their general, Lefebre Desnouettes. Had Napoleon been an hour or two earlier he might himself have been an eye-witness of their discomfiture from the high ground above the Esla, the point from which my sketch was made. And it is a pity he missed the opportunity; for it was not till Waterloo that he would again see British cavalry in action, and it was the same Paget who was to lead them on that momentous day.
The mêlée took place on the broad poplared plain which lies between the town and the river, and the old bridge of Castro Gonzalo spans the torrent a little below the Frenchmen’s ford. It is a long, uneven stone structure, with three timbered spans to remind us of the work of Moore’s sappers; and the steep bank which rises above it is famed{136} for a humbler scuffle, but one which was no less creditable to the parties chiefly concerned. Three days before the cavalry skirmish, when the French were known to be approaching, Privates Walton and Jackson of the 43rd were posted here at nightfall with orders that, if attacked, one should hold his ground and the other run back to call the picket. The night was dark and squally, and the flood of foemen poured over them before they were aware. Jackson ran back: but the horsemen were close behind him, and he was cut down even as he gave the alarm. But when the picket stormed up and the assailants were swept back into the darkness, they had not yet finished with Walton,—that sentry was still at his post. His uniform was pierced in twenty places and his bayonet was twisted like a corkscrew; but like the “brave Lord Willoughby”[17] he was scrupulously holding his ground!
A finger-post and a kilometre stone stood side by side on the branch road at the summit. The former said “To Zamora,” and the latter “38 kilos”; whereat we rejoiced and set our pace more leisurely, for the daylight would last us for nearly{137} another three hours. Yet presently as the tale of kilos petered out we began to experience misgivings. The bare wide plateau of the Tierra de Campos still rolled away before us fold beyond fold; the sun was already close upon the horizon; and where was the Duero valley wherein Zamora lies?
Three kilos more,—and still no sign of our haven.—Two kilos,—one,—and our hopes were dashed to the ground. Our road shot us out into one of the most desolate stretches of the great highway from Madrid to Vigo; and a venerable shepherd who suddenly materialised out of the empty landscape blandly informed us that Zamora was just “four leagues.” Our mistake was obvious enough. The 38 kilos, had of course been reckoned from the junction with the highway. But a couple of wary continental travellers should have been on their guard against so stale a trap.