The state of political knowledge in Spain at the period of the French invasion may be inferred from the character of the questions treated by their publicists. An old Spanish political writer, held in the greatest esteem down to that period, D. Diego Saavedra Faxardo, formally discusses this thesis: Whether is it better for a prince to delegate his authority to one or many? and concludes in favour of delegation to a single person, for the following reason, stated in his own words: “That the King is the image of the sun, and when the sun disappears from the horizon, he leaves to one only, the moon, and not to several, the care of presiding over the night!” The political work from which this morçeau is extracted was composed for the instruction of the Prince of the Asturias, who afterwards became Carlos II. It was long the French system to keep Spain in this state of pupillage. Choiseul, the ablest minister of France during the 18th century, said that he was more certain of his preponderance in the cabinet of Madrid than in that of Versailles! He said this in the reign of Carlos III., the ablest of the Spanish Bourbons. Up to the end of the last century, France was the planet, and Spain the satellite.
The first era of the Peninsular campaigns comprised our two first victories of Roriça and Vimieiro, more intrinsically glorious perhaps, than any of their successors, but rendered futile in their consequences by the mistaken generosity of concession which characterized the Convention of Cintra.
The second period of the War was commenced by the battle of Talavera, previously to which Wellington found the Spanish General Cuesta equally unmanageable, stubborn, and foolishly arrogant, as the Portuguese General showed himself on the eve of the battle of Roriça which commenced the first period of the War. In both cases the results were the same. After a great deal of vapouring about “doing the business themselves and not needing British assistance,” both worthies retired, leaving the sole and undivided honour of each day to the genius and fortune of Wellington. In the preliminary combat of Alcabon, the Spanish division (4,000 infantry, 2,000 horse, and 8 guns) scampered off from before the French, and it was manifest that they could not be depended on. Wellington was therefore determined that they should withdraw to Talavera, where there was strong ground suited for defence, on which alone the Spaniards were likely to make a stand. Cuesta boastingly replied that “he would fight where he stood.” The 27th, at daylight, the British General renewed his solicitations, at first fruitlessly; but when the enemy’s cavalry came in sight, Cuesta sullenly yielded, yet turning to his staff with frantic pride observed that “he had first made the Englishman go down on his knees!” (Napier, Hist. W. P. b. viii. c. 2.) In the next preliminary combat of Salinas, the Spanish army to the number of 11,000 men (including artillery) threw down their arms, and ran away, declaring that the Allies were entirely routed! It might have been so but that their example was despised. Thus undivided glory was thrust upon Wellington; and ever after the part which the Spaniards took was very subordinate.
After the battle of Talavera, the Spaniards were shamefully defeated (having regard to the truth of History it is impossible to use any other expression) by the French in two successive actions—those of Arzobispo and Almonacid, at both of which they threw down their arms and ran, and in the latter were slaughtered in thousands—a result partly attributable to the bad conduct of the men and partly to the bad guiding of their commander, Cuenca, whose character was a concentration of all the worst possible qualities of a General. “King” Joseph, who had retreated after the battle of Baylen, now returned to Madrid. Embarrassed by these disasters, by the perfidious withholding of supplies, by the perpetual crossing and opposition of the Spanish juntas, which like those of Portugal, instead of an aid, were for ever a thorn in the side of their Liberator, Wellington, in the face of an overwhelming French force, took the resolution of retiring into Portugal. The conduct of the Spaniards may be best estimated from his own words, stating his reasons for declining again to co-operate with them:
“But there was a more shameful consideration, namely, the constant and shameful misbehaviour of the Spanish troops before the enemy. We in England never hear of their defeats and flights, but I have heard Spanish officers telling of nineteen or twenty actions of the description of that at the bridge of Arzobispo, accounts of which, I believe, have never been published. * * * In the battle of Talavera, in which the Spanish army, with very trifling exception, was not engaged—whole corps threw away their arms, and ran off, when they were neither attacked nor threatened with an attack. When these dastardly soldiers run away, they plunder everything they meet. In their flight from Talavera they plundered the baggage of the British army, which was at that moment bravely engaged in their cause.”
When Wellington came to this resolution to retire into Portugal, he was at the head of only 17,000 British troops of all arms; the “terror-stricken Spaniards” were literally an incumbrance. (Napier, Hist. W. P. b. viii. c. 5.) Our troops, through the faithlessness of their allies, were almost starving, and they were confronted by 70,000 French! The wonder is that they were not utterly and immediately crushed by the latter. But Soult was the only great General then amongst the French commanders; and the promptness is as much to be admired as the prudence with which Wellington retired into Portugal.
The Spanish army made some miserable attempts after this at independent action against the French, which ended four months after the battle of Talavera in the disastrous battle of Ocaña, one of the most frightful routs recorded in history, where the whole Spanish army of more than 50,000 men was destroyed, having 5000 killed and wounded, and leaving 26,000 prisoners, 45 pieces of artillery, 30,000 muskets, and 3000 horses and beasts of burden in the hands of the enemy! The French lost but 1700 men, killed and wounded; and I must do them the justice of saying that no exploit of ours in the Peninsula equalled this in its numerical results; for God forbid that I should obscure the glory of an enemy or gloss over the misconduct of an ally. The rest of the Spanish army was subsequently defeated at Alba de Tormes, which closed the campaigns of 1809.
These scattering and consuming thunderbolts opened the eyes of the Spaniards at last to the value of the British alliance, and threw the defence of the Peninsula entirely into those heroic hands, by which it was so brilliantly completed. The soldiery of Spain acted thenceforth a subordinate part, and the boast after the battle of Baylen, “We will not need the services of you Ingleses—we will escort you home through France, but you will not have to strike a blow!” was not again repeated. For six months of the next year (till Wellington re-appeared on the scene) they continued their despairing efforts against the French, but with uniform defeat and failure. No fitting leaders appeared, and the efforts of the people were worse than useless.
The third era of the Peninsular campaigns commenced with the third invasion of Portugal by the French army, which was this time commanded by Massena. The battle of Busaco was the great event of the commencement of this campaign. This powerful check was for the time successful, but unable long to control a far superior force, and the British army fell back within the lines of Torres Vedras. Massena arrived in front of them, and made prodigious efforts to pass. But this triumph of Wellington’s genius, and marvel of engineering and strategic skill, was impregnable to all assaults, and was at once the salvation of Portugal and the ultimate means of rescuing Spain from the Invader. Emerging from his unassailable redoubt, Wellington at last pursued the French beyond the frontier, and defeated them on the Spanish soil in battle, action, and assault, from Salamanca to Vitoria, from Vitoria to the Pyrenees.
One can laugh at this distance of time at the monstrosities written about these memorable struggles by French nobles and generals. Thus Foy has the coolness to say of the relative numbers at Vimieiro, “Les Anglois étaient deux contre un par rapport aux Français!” (Hist. Guerre. Pénins., livre ix.) He further denies that it was a battle at all. “Ils n’étaient pas desireux de changer un avantage défensif bien caractérisé en une bataille dont le succès leur paraissait incertain!” (Ibid.)