Then it was that the tide of Napoleon’s successes reached their high-water mark. From this date, it may be said, the retreat of the waters began upon land, as earlier their retreat had begun upon the ocean, at first imperceptibly, for a long while fitfully, yet with accelerating speed.
Again and again the Spaniards had fought on the side of the French against the English. But now, at last, the spell seemed to be broken; now, at last; their eyes were opened. “As a man,” it was declared, Spain had risen against the Emperor, and a burst of enthusiasm, of vehement sympathy, rushed through the length and breadth of England. The Army was mad to fight.
By the time that Moore got home from Sweden, Sir Arthur Wellesley had already been despatched to Portugal, with a force of nine thousand men, and the eleven thousand who had been on this fruitless errand to Sweden were not even allowed to disembark, but were at once ordered to Portsmouth, Moore being summoned to an interview with Lord Castlereagh.
An evening or two later, Jack rushed in upon the Bryce circle in hot haste.
“Jack! Hallo, man! What’s up now? Something out of the common by the looks of you,” declared Mr. Bryce, as he sat near the open window; a small and ugly and genial man, in flowered waistcoat, velvet tights, and silver-buckled shoes. “You’re just in time, my good fellow. In three days we’re off to Brighthelmstone.”
“And if I might but have had my will, we should be there already,” added his “better-half” discontentedly.
“How d’you all do? How do you do, ma’am? Find yourself well, Polly? Heard the news? I suppose not.”
“What news?” at the same moment from Mr. and Mrs. Bryce, Polly and Molly.
“Sir John Moore is ordered off to Spain, and our regiment is under orders too.”
“Oh!”—from Molly, under her breath. “And if Roy should be taken prisoner——”