Now came rain in torrents, and even the baggage had to be dragged through the melting snow, as the mules and burros perished in scores by the way. Then the spare arms were abandoned and the extra ammunition destroyed; next, knapsacks were cast away occasionally, and everything that might serve to lighten the burden of the despairing soldiers, many of whom were found frozen and dead in the bodegas and cellars of Villa Franca by the French advanced guard.
A mile beyond this place, poor Ensign Pimple (as Monkton used to call him) gave in, utterly incapable of proceeding further; weeping like a child, in utter prostration, he sank in exhaustion by the wayside, and no doubt perished during the night.
After passing Benvibre the French cavalry came up with the long line of stragglers in the rear, and slashed among them right and left, treading others under foot as they galloped through, and so stupefied were some by fatigue and others by intoxication, that they could neither resist nor seek safety in flight. Two thousand were taken prisoners between Astorga and Lugo; a thousand more fled away towards Portugal; many of these were concealed by the Spaniards, and few were ever heard of again.
So on and on the army toiled from Villa Franca to Castro up the Monte del Cebrero, a long and continued ascent, through one of the wildest districts in Spain, where, in summer, woods of umbrageous oak, alder, and hazel, with groves of wild pears, cherries, and mulberries, make the landscape lovely; but now it was wild and desolate; and there, to add to other misfortunes, the sick and wounded had to be abandoned among the melting snow.
On the sloping road towards Castro-Gonzalo, Askerne found a poor rifleman of the old 95th lying on his back, and blowing bells of blood from his mouth; he had been riddled by canister shot, and all his limbs were broken.
"Unfortunate fellow," said he, with commiseration: "what can I do for you?"
"Have me shot, sir—shot dead, for the mercy of God!" was the terrible reply.
"I looked round," says an officer in one of his letters, "when we had hardly gained the highest point of those slippery precipices, and saw the rear of the army winding along the narrow road—I saw the way marked by the wretched people, who lay on all sides expiring from fatigue and the severity of the cold; their bodies reddened in spots the white surface of the ground."
There a Portuguese bullock driver who had been with the British since the landing of the army, was seen dying amid the snow on his knees, with his hands clasped in an attitude of prayer before a little wooden crucifix, a consolation not left to the hundreds of our soldiers, who were flinging themselves down in utter despair to die, with curses and bitter imprecations on their lips—curses on the Spaniards, who, they fancied, had betrayed them.
And there, too, were women and little children!