CHAPTER XXX.
A HAZARDOUS RETREAT.
he work intended by that spirited advance was done. Nothing remained for Moore but to fall steadily back before overwhelming odds.
All the bright expectations, with which he had started on this expedition, were dashed to the ground. In every direction he had met with indifference, vacillation—even opposition—where he ought to have found only warm co-operation. The Spanish forces had proved themselves worthless. Moore’s little Army stood alone in the heart of what was now practically an enemy’s country.
With almost superhuman energy the greatest General of his age had exerted himself to bring up such a force, that the complete annihilation of the British might be a thing assured. In the course of ten days, and in the bitterest wintry weather, he had marched fifty thousand soldiers over snow-clad mountains a distance of two hundred miles, only to find his stupendous efforts unavailing. For the first time in Napoleon’s career, he was decisively foiled.
Yet the utmost that Moore could hope to do was to save his little Army from destruction. To that aim he buckled his powers with unfaltering resolution. As Sir William Napier wrote in after years: “The inspiring hopes of triumph disappeared, but the austerer glory of suffering remained; and with a firm heart he accepted that gift.”
By the greater number of Moore’s troops this long ten days’ retreat to the coast had to be done on foot. There were steep mountains to be climbed; there were deep valleys to be passed; there were rapid rivers to be crossed; while a confident Army, far outnumbering them, and accustomed to unvarying success—an Army which twice had failed by only twelve hours to cut them off from all hope of escape—pressed with ever-growing fierceness upon their rear.
It was mid-winter, and snow lay upon the ground. The days were short; the nights were bitter. Heavy ice-cold rain fell often, adding to their difficulties. Shelter was hard to find; provisions were scarce; time for cooking there was not. The Spanish Army, contrary to Moore’s earnest request, blundered into the way of the retreating force, eating up the food on which it depended, and blocking the roads with carts and mules.
That race between the English and the French, first for Benevente, next for Astorga, made it imperative that not an hour should be lost. At all costs the men had to press onward, putting forth their best speed. Hour after hour, oftentimes by night, the march continued—through rain or snow or fog; up steep and slippery ascents, or down sharp depths where foothold could hardly be found; on and on, hungry, thirsty, weary, half asleep, not a few shoeless and lame, many a one dropping through weakness by the roadside, never to rise again.