Meanwhile, anxious consultation had taken place as to what should be done with the beloved remains of the Commander. Colonel Anderson settled the question by stating that Moore had often told him his wish—“if he ever fell in battle, to be buried where he had fallen.” It was decided that a grave should be dug on the rampart of the Coruña citadel.
At midnight the body was reverently borne into the citadel by Colonel Graham, Major Colbourne and the Aides-de-camp. For a few hours it lay in Colonel Graham’s room.
In the early morning firing was heard. It was then determined not to put off the funeral any longer, lest a fresh attack should be impending and the officers be compelled to hasten away before paying the last honours to their Chief.
Somewhat strangely, it fell to Roy Baron to be present at this mournful ceremony.
It so happened that, in the early morning, Roy was sent by the Colonel of his Regiment with a message to one of the Aides-de-camp; and as he arrived on the spot just when the funeral was about to begin, he was allowed to be one of the party in attendance.
Not at dead of night, but at eight o’clock in the chill morning of a January day, and in the grave prepared by his own men, Sir John Moore was laid. No coffin could be procured. The body had not been undressed. He wore still the General’s uniform in which he had fought his last battle, and—
“He lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.”
That same cloak, in which but a few days earlier he had visited Roy in the little hut,—had laid his kind hand upon the boy’s arm,—had spoken never-to-be-forgotten words of praise,—had smiled upon him——
Roy dared not let himself think of all this. Burning blinding tears forced their way to his eyes—and not to his only—as he gazed his last upon that perfect face in its pale sublime repose.