After considerable hesitation, due to the varying and oftentimes contradictory accounts which he received as to what was actually happening in the field, Sir John Moore, having concentrated his troops, cautiously began to close upon Soult’s army on the banks of the river Carrion. When Napoleon heard of this he speedily decided to crush the friends of Spain and Portugal by sheer force of numbers, God, according to him, being “on the side of the biggest battalions,” a parallel remark to Nelson’s “Only numbers can annihilate.” Winter had set in with severity, but disregarding the inclemency of the weather, the Emperor marched with his 40,000 men along the Guadarrama Pass through the blinding sleet, traversing no fewer than twenty miles a day for ten days. Meanwhile Moore had given up hope of attacking and had decided to retreat as rapidly as possible. Unfortunately his troops did not follow the example of their noble commander; they broke away from every restraint, drinking and pillaging whenever they had opportunity. It is only just to add, however, that at Lugo, when there seemed an opportunity to contest Soult, who was following in their track, they stood to arms with a confidence and precision worthy of the best disciplined regiment in the British service. Lord Paget’s corps, which covered the retreat, behaved with conspicuous bravery, and succeeded in worsting some of the chasseurs, the “Invincibles” of the French army.
“Before our reserve left Lugo,” writes a soldier of the 75th Regiment who endured the hardships of this terrible retreat, “general orders were issued, warning and exhorting us to keep order, and to march together; but, alas! how could men observe order amidst such sufferings, or men whose feet were naked and sore, keep up with men who, being more fortunate, had better shoes and stronger constitutions? The officers in many points, suffered almost as much as the men. I have seen officers of the Guards, and others, worth thousands, with pieces of old blanket wrapped round their feet and legs; the men pointing at them, with a malicious satisfaction, saying ‘There goes three thousand a year’; or ‘There goes the prodigal son, on his return to his father, cured of his wanderings.’”
On the 11th January 1809, Coruña was reached, and several days afterwards the welcome sails of the British troop-ships made their appearance, ready to convey the survivors of the battle to be fought on the 16th to England and to home. Soult had the advantage of 4000 more troops and of a better position, but lacked ammunition, while the British general had been able to obtain a supply of new muskets from the vessels which rode at anchor in the Bay.
It was round the little village of Elvina that the fight raged most fiercely, for a French battery of eleven guns was placed on a ridge not more than 600 yards off, and from this commanding position shells were hurled at the British defenders with ruthless fury. Elvina was taken by the French and re-captured by the gallantry of Charles Napier, who led the fearless Irishmen of the 50th regiment. He then endeavoured to secure the French battery, but without success, and during the charge he was wounded and made prisoner.
“My brave 42nd,” cried Moore, when the enemy was again advancing on the village, “if you have fired away all your ammunition, you have still your bayonets. Recollect Egypt! Remember Scotland! Come on, my brave countrymen!”
“Sir John,” according to an eye-witness, “was at the head of every charge.” Indeed, he had several narrow escapes before he received his death-wound. He was talking to Napier when, records the latter, “a round shot struck the ground between his horse’s feet and mine. The horse leaped round, and I also turned mechanically, but Moore forced the animal back, and asked me if I was hurt. ‘No, sir.’ Meanwhile a second shot had torn off the leg of a 42nd man, who screamed horribly and rolled about so as to excite agitation and alarm in others. The General said, ‘This is nothing, my lads; keep your ranks. My good fellow, don’t make such a noise; we must bear these things better.’ He spoke sharply, but it had a good effect, for this man’s cries had made an opening in the ranks, and the men shrank from the spot, although they had not done so when others had been hit who did not cry out. But again Moore went off, and I saw him no more.”
Sir John was struck by a cannon-ball which tore his flesh in several places and precluded all possibility of recovery. “I hope the people of England will be satisfied: I hope my country will do me justice,” were the noble words which passed his parched lips as he lay dying on the field of victory.
“We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.”