With Wellington in Spain: A Story of the Peninsula

by F. S. Brereton

"I—I couldn't well help it, sir," stuttered our hero, as if ashamed of his action. "You see, there we were in a hole, and——"

Mr. Riley's laughter cut short the speech.

"I was only poking fun, lad," he smiled. "We all bless you for your gallant intervention. But let me mention this matter. It is an opportune moment, I say. I was speaking of Sir John Moore, and the honour the French had for him. Look at the position throughout. Lads, we are fighting gentlemen, that is the consensus of opinion amongst officers and in the ranks. The French have fought us right gallantly. They at least are open enemies, but the Spaniards, for whose help we are here, disgust us. There are times, I hear, when our troops wish matters were different, and the Spaniards the real enemies, and sometimes the Portuguese also, for they pretend friendship, while everywhere there are traitors, everywhere men in authority amongst them—nobles and others who form the Juntas or Parliaments which govern the countries now—who oppose the men who have come to free their countries in every possible way, who are mean and contemptible in their dealings with them, whose policy changes from day to day and who appear at times to act as if they wished the French to remain victorious. There! I have had my growl. Napoleon is a great man, no doubt, with dangerous ambitions, dangerous, that is to say, to the nations surrounding France. The French officers and men, I repeat, are gentlemen, with whom it is an honour to cross swords. Now let me get to the subject of Sir John Moore and his unlucky army of penetration."

"And the retreat, which has become famous," said Jack, becoming serious for a moment.

"Quite so, and very rightly too; for the retreat which followed the forward march of Sir John Moore's army was conducted in a manner that has won the praise of all. He marched for Madrid on 18 October, with some 30,000 infantry and 5000 cavalry, all wearing the red cockade of Spain in their caps. And perhaps it will be well to tell you at this point that the efforts of our troops elsewhere in the command of Wellesley, or of the other generals whom the changing policy of our British Ministers had sent to conduct affairs, had resulted in an agreement with the French, whereby Portugal was evacuated by their forces and all strong places in that country given up to our men.

"Having mentioned that, I can now explain that Sir John Moore's army was to carry the war into Spain, and marching in the direction of Madrid to combine with the Spaniards and attempt to oust the invading armies of Napoleon. On 13 November we hear of him at Salamanca; and now we have an illustration of the weak and vacillating action of the Spanish Junta, combined with as equally blameworthy action on the part of Mr. Frere, our ambassador in Spain. Where the greatest pains should have been taken to supply Sir John Moore with accurate information concerning the movements of the enemy, the utmost carelessness seems to have been the order of the day. As a result, Sir John was in the dangerous dilemma of not knowing whether the circumstances warranted his pushing on towards Madrid, or whether he ought at once to begin a retreat towards the coast or into Portugal. It was not, in fact, till an evening in December, when already the winter was upon him, that he had certain information that Napoleon himself was massing all his troops, and that in cavalry alone he outnumbered the British by 12,000. Such information set our troops retreating rapidly by way of the Galician mountains, and hot in pursuit marched 255,000 men, with 50,000 horses, while a force of 32,000 kept in rear and held the lines of communication.

"To describe the many incidents of that memorable march would require a length of time, and since we ought already to be asleep, preparing ourselves for trouble to-morrow, I will merely sketch the events which followed. For 250 miles our troops were harassed by the enemy's cavalry, and daily there were severe skirmishes between our rearguard and the French. Recollect that it was winter, and that the line of retreat passed amongst the mountains, where our columns trudged through valleys and over passes covered deep in snow. It is not difficult to realize the terrible work this entailed, how the cold and exposure and constant need for exertion told on men and beasts. One can readily perceive that baggage animals broke down under the strain, and that presently the army found itself compelled to carry its own provisions. Add to the difficulties of the cold and snow and the mountainous route the fact that a horde of non-combatants accompanied the army, servants, grooms, wives and children of the soldiers, and one sees the possibilities of added difficulty and misery. Soon men and women began to fall by the way, as had the horses and mules. They lagged behind, wearied and utterly careless in their misery of the consequences. Frozen and starved they lay down by the way, and soon the snow hid them. And always a cloud of French horsemen followed, seeking every opportunity to charge, and dashing in amongst the stragglers and helpless. No wonder that the army dwindled. No wonder that its numbers fell away till but a portion remained. But still the retreat proceeded, and ever the gallant rearguard held the French at bay.

"On the last day of 1808 Moore quitted Astorga in Léon. On the very next, the first day of 1809, Napoleon entered the same place with 80,000 men, his advance guard of relentless cavalry being still in touch with our men. There the great Bonaparte remained, leaving the final work to the Duke of Dalmatia, and conceiving it certain that the whole British army would be exterminated. Well they might have been too, for here we have an example of what I have mentioned. Along the line of retreat, when the Spanish authorities could have, and should have, made full preparations to supply our troops and followers with rations and all that they required, they did nothing to help. Even food was not forthcoming, so that our desperate and hungry men were forced to pillage the inhabitants.

"It is a sad tale, lads," said Mr. Riley after a pause, "but a gallant tale also, for Sir John and his fine fellows at length reached Corunna, with but 14,000 all told, but with their cannon, their colours, and their trophies intact. In fact they came to the coast covered with honour and renown, but starved and frost-bitten, and minus many and many a comrade. And there more fighting was necessary, for our fleet was not in sight. The battle of Corunna which followed ended in victory for us, but cost the lives of many gallant fellows, and of that of Sir John Moore amongst them. Then our troops embarked, the fleet having arrived meanwhile, and as they sailed away, there, above the citadel where Sir John and many a gallant comrade was buried, flew the flag of France, not at the summit of the post, but half-masted, in respect for one who had proved an able and a courageous leader. That, my lads, was another proof of the feelings of the enemy for us. If fight we must, Frenchmen at least have that generosity of feeling which allows them to pay honour to a brave enemy."

The naval lieutenant sat back once more in his corner, his eyes fixed upon the flaming torch. Tom looked over at the sentry, standing alert and without a movement just behind the carcass of the horse. And straightway he wondered whether he would live to take part in such a retreat as that of Sir John Moore, and whether, should he be involved in such an affair, he would conduct himself as became a British officer. Then Mr. Riley's voice once more broke the silence.