So desperate did the condition of things seem to be for the English, with the transports not yet come, and with a greatly superior force occupying a greatly superior position, that, though Moore’s heart never failed him, the hearts of some did sink at this juncture, even of brave men, high in rank.
Moore called no Council of War; he asked no man’s opinion. But certain of his Generals ventured to offer unsought advice. They put before him the extreme unlikelihood that they could long resist an enemy descending upon them from the heights; and they represented the heavy loss to life which would certainly result from an attempt to embark in the transports during such attacks. Then they suggested that, since affairs had reached so perilous a stage, it might be well to send a flag of truce to Soult, asking permission, on honourable terms, to depart unmolested.
Moore disdainfully flung the counsel from him, without an instant’s parley. Capitulate! Never! If the French came on, let them come! He would fight to the last. The Generals bowed to his fiery decision, and said no more.
Indomitable as Moore was, however, the strain of the last few weeks had been tremendous, and it had told upon him heavily. All through the 12th of January he was hard at work, preparing for the battle which might take place. Everything was thought of; every possible precaution was taken. He reviewed the troops; and by his own splendid confidence and dauntless air he breathed fresh energy into their jaded ranks.
The evening of that day saw him nearly worn out with his ceaseless exertions; yet at daybreak he was once more in the saddle, reconnoitring the enemy’s camp, and visiting every part of his own.
By eleven o’clock strength failed, and he came back to headquarters utterly spent. Rest had become a necessity before he could do more. He sent for Stuart, brother to Lord Castlereagh, who was suffering from his eyes, and, therefore, was unfit for active service. Moore desired him to start at once for England, in a vessel then about to leave, and to place before Ministers the precise position of the Army. In an ordinary way Sir John would have written details with his own hand, but his present exhaustion made this impossible.
“I cannot write—I am too tired,” he said wearily. “But there is no need. You understand everything, and you will explain all fully.”
For two hours prostration had the upper hand. Then came a rally. Moore sat up, called for paper, and finding that the vessel was not yet under weigh, he wrote to Lord Castlereagh a rapid semi-confidential statement of affairs, in his terse easy modern English, always singularly free from the little tricks of expression peculiar to his time. His despatches might for the most part have been almost as well penned in the ninth decade as in the first decade of the century. Had Moore not devoted all his energies to soldiering, he might have become great in literature.
This was the last despatch that he ever penned.
Next day, the 14th, some cannonading took place; but there was no serious fighting. The French did not move. They were still concentrating their forces, having suffered greatly, like the English, in those terrible marches.