In the van and centre of the Army some confusion reigned; but in the reserve, where Moore was always to be found, generally riding beside his friend General Paget, discipline remained perfect, and an impregnable front was offered to the pursuing foe. All there knew themselves to be under the eyes of their Commander; and his presence, even more than the close presence of the enemy, kept them up to the mark. Again and again the French advanced guards were charged and driven back.
Roy Baron had passed through some strange experiences in his short life. He would not easily forget this last experience—this steady disheartening rearwards tramp, with the trained battalions of Napoleon ever “thundering” behind them. He would not forget the bitter snowy weather, the sleet and hail, the fogs and winds, the mountain heights, the exposed nights, the dogged pluck and determination shown by the rear-guard, the ceaseless care and watchfulness of Moore, the invincible resolution of this man who, by sheer force of will, held the whole Army together, and never at the worst allowed the retreat for one moment to become a flight.
Not that Roy was disheartened or depressed. Far from it. He was young and strong and full of vigour; and the very hardships of the march seemed to him less hard to bear than those of a certain march which he could recall—from Verdun to Bitche. For then he had been alone; he had felt himself to be treated with cruel injustice and tyranny. Now he was fighting for his country; he was in the midst of friends; and not a day passed without a sight of the Commander, upon whom he looked with a passionate admiration and affection.
He hated the fact of having to retire, but his trust in the judgment of Moore was complete; and at any time it took a great deal to lower Roy’s buoyant spirits. Moreover, the reserve had too much of actual hard fighting on hand, to admit of their growing downhearted. Any one of them might chance any day to win a smile of commendation from Moore; and that was worth fighting for, worth bearing anything for.
Roy soon learnt what it was to be under fire. If at first the experience was to him, as to most men, unpleasant, he grew quickly used to it. Before long he had the supreme delight of being personally praised by the General for dashing courage. It seemed to Roy then that life needed nothing more.
Journalising went to the wall during this retreat. Roy made some efforts to keep it up, but soon gave in. By the time that the day’s duties were done, he was commonly fit only for sleep.
He managed, however, to start a letter to Molly, in readiness for the first chance of getting it off. A thought had come to him one day that if—if something should happen, which might happen to him as to any other man, it would be wished that he should have written once more to his twin-sister. Whereupon he set to work so soon as ten spare minutes could be found.
“Dec. 30th, 1808.
“My dear Molly,—Jack thinks I may be able soon to send a letter on, with Despatches from Headquarters, and I wd fain have one ready. Close upon the end of the year—truly an eventful year to me. Jack and I keep well, I am glad to say. There is much that I cd tell you, but have not time. An event which took place yesterday, will, however, be of interest.
“We of the Reserve marched at daybreak for La Banessa, and Lord Paget as usual was to bring up the rear. At nine o’clock the Enemy was seen to be examining a ford near to the bridge which had been blown up, and next thing six hundred of Napoleon’s Imperial Guard came over. By-the-by, at the time of the blowing up of the bridge, Napoleon himself was seen by one of our officers standing over on the other side.