Napoleon was so deeply impressed by the suicide of his grenadiers that in spite of the drenching rain and bitter cold he went the rounds of the bivouac that night, speaking to the wretched soldiers and trying to restore their courage.
At Astorga a courier arrived, bringing despatches from Paris which warned Napoleon that Austria was ready now “to begin again.” She had completely reorganized her army, had patiently waited for the right moment, and was sure that it had come. The veteran troops of France were scattered over the Spanish peninsula; England had made good her grip on Portugal; Austria had about five hundred thousand soldiers ready, and now was the time to strike. The pursuit of the English was turned over to Soult, and the race for the seacoast continued as before. When the French could overtake the English at all, it was with an advance guard too small to crush the English rear-guard. If there was a clash, the French were repulsed. If the French came up in force, the English continued the retreat. At last the coast was made. There was a bloody fight, the battle of Corunna. Sir John Moore was killed, but his army, or what remained of it, got on board the English ships and sailed away.
As to Napoleon, he returned to Valladolid, where he busied himself for several days regulating the affairs of Spain, and in sending off innumerable despatches. Then springing upon his horse, he spurred away for Bayonne, in perhaps the wildest ride an emperor ever made. His escort clattered after him, strung out behind, and the wondering peasants of Spain long remembered that meteoric vision. They heard in the distance a faint noise as of frantic racing; there burst into view a breathless cavalcade; it came on like a wind-driven cloud; there was a rush, and a noise like thunder, a fleeting glimpse of bent riders and straining steeds; there was, perhaps, a shout in passing; then it went as it came, and in a moment it was gone.
General Thiébault, on his way to Vittoria, was in the road, with carriage, aides, escort, and servants, when one of his attendants said, “Here comes the Emperor, I think.” The General was about to alight from the carriage when he heard some one call:—
“Who is in that carriage?”
The servant hardly had time to answer “General Thiébault” before the imperial party tore by. “Savary was first, after him the Emperor, lashing Savary’s horse, and digging the spurs into his own.... A good minute afterward Duroc and the Emperor’s Mameluke galloped by, and at a like distance from them came a guide, exhausted with his efforts to make up lost ground, and four more brought up the rear as best they could.”
From Valladolid to Burgos, some seventy-five miles, Napoleon rode in three hours and a half (January, 1809).
CHAPTER XXXIII
When the Emperor reached Paris, he was in one of his worst moods. Many causes had combined to mar his serenity. His brother Joseph had violently found fault with him because he, Napoleon, had remodelled the government, making it better for the people, and not quite so good for the nobles and priests. Joseph resented this deeply. He, Joseph, was King of Spain. He, Joseph, was the proper person to remodel government, change laws, and manage the country. Napoleon was present merely as a military expert, a general whose service was temporarily needed to pull Joseph from beneath the enemy, and lead him by the hand back to the throne; but when this had been done, Napoleon should have gone away, leaving Joseph to do in Spain just as he thought best. This view was not only held by Joseph at the time, but as long as his worthless life lasted he never wearied of explaining to his friends how Napoleon had lost him the crown of Spain by “interfering in his affairs” in 1809.