We took our last look at the Cantabrian mountains from the crest of the watershed between the Duero and Tormes; and the same hill that concealed them brought us into full view of another equally imposing range to the southward—the Sierra de Grédos, whose monarch, the Plaza Almanzor, is only a few feet inferior even to the Rock of Ages which dominates Europa Pikes. But it is to the fallows around us that our first attention is owing;—a site which should stir the imagination of an Englishman as Don Quixote’s was stirred on the Campo de Montiel.
Over these bleak, red plough lands for six long July days in 1812 the armies of Marmont and of Wellington marched and countermarched and circled round each other like dancers in some vast quadrille or chess players fencing for an opening.{162} Neither leader would risk a doubtful action; for the French Army of the Centre was rapidly approaching, and its junction might make or mar a victory. Almost within speaking distance, they raced for advantage in position, and scarcely once did they pause to exchange a blow. It was a repetition of the old drama enacted centuries before by Cæsar and Afranius upon the plains of Lérida. But the Cæsar of this production was playing Afranius’ rôle.
Marmont had the pace of his opponent, and Wellington pivoted round Salamanca to guard his communications with Rodrigo. Foiled on the right, Marmont dashed round to the left, forded the Tormes and thrust at Salamanca from the south. Wellington still faced him; but King Joseph was now close upon him, and within two days at furthest the English would be hopelessly outnumbered by the junction of the hostile hosts. Retreat was inevitable: had, indeed, already commenced; for the baggage was on the move, and Wellington was but waiting for nightfall to cover the withdrawal of his fighting line.
“A silver bridge for a retreating enemy,” saith the Spanish proverb; but Napoleon’s aspiring young marshal had been trained in a more{163} aggressive school. He knew that his troops were the speedier, that Joseph’s junction would bring a winning superiority of numbers. If he could but hold the English to their position for another day the campaign might be finished at a blow;—and he eagerly pushed on his left under Maucune to command the Rodrigo road. Clausel’s brigade, already wheeling in from the rear, would link the left to the centre; and his foe would be in a cleft stick. But Clausel’s march was limed in the thick web of olive woods which mantles the hills towards Alba; the fatal gap yawned conspicuous behind the hurrying columns; and in an instant Wellington pounced upon Maucune.
Well was it for Marmont that the day was now far spent, and that the fords of the Tormes had been left unguarded! For never was victory more rapid or more complete. In forty minutes Marmont’s magnificent army of forty thousand men were a horde of disorganized fugitives; and the whole of the central provinces lay defenceless at the feet of his foe.