“Pshaw!” I said, breaking in on the detail with a laugh—“He would never be contented to stop there. Why not push for Madrid at once?”
“Ah, you smile,” my friend replied Cammaran, with a sigh. “But, peste! the d——d fogs confused the general movements. One division went astray—another was obliged to halt—columns marching over precipices could not keep time. Ah! those accidents saved my Lord Wellington; the delay enabled him to collect his scattered corps, and when the Marshal cleared those infernal valleys and defiles with scarcely half the corps d’armée disposable, there—Sacre Dieu! was your general in front of Pampeluna with all his divisions up and in position!”—
“And honest Jack Soult discovered that all his magnificent combinations and previous success, had ended in his catching a Tartar!—Ah! Cammaran, I feel for you, my poor friend. But out with it at once—or I’ll compassionately do it for you. The upshot is, you have got a confounded thrashing”—
“No—no—no;” exclaimed the Voltigeur. “The plan of operations is only changed—”
“And the Emperor’s lieutenant has postponed the birth-day entertainment; and, in place of resting on the Zodorra, he will be over the Bidassao in a day or two. Well, I can feel for you. But custom reconciles people to contingencies; and latterly you have been so regularly beaten that it is a novelty no longer.”
The Voltigeur smiled, shrugged his shoulders, pleaded duty in excuse for a brief visit, and hurried away—I suspect to avoid my badinage, which, at the time, was anything but agreeable.
Indeed, judging from the scanty information I received, the deductions I had drawn of ulterior consequences proved correct. As yet the French Marshal had only witnessed the complete miscarriage of all he had designed and hoped for: but now, the penalty of the failure was about to be exacted.
In pursuance of his altered plans, on entering the valley of Ulzema, where he overtook D’Erlon, who had already reached it at the head of five divisions, and with a sixth (Martinier’s) in his rear, the French. Marshal instantly determined to crush the corps under Sir Rowland Hill posted on the ridge of Buenza. All was in his favour—the allies were scarcely half his strength, and the left of their position was vulnerable. The attack was fiercely made, as fiercely repulsed, and every effort against the allied flanks was unsuccessful. Finally, numbers enabled the French marshal to turn the position: but Hill steadily retired on Equaros, and there, joined by Campbell’s Portuguese brigade and Morillo’s Spaniards, he again boldly stood his ground and offered battle. But Soult declined an action—and, contented with having gained the Isurzun road, he determined to force his way to San Sebastian; but it was decreed that, like Pampeluna, the fortress on the Urumea should be abandoned to its fate.
Wellington had penetrated the designs of his able opponent, and, with characteristic decision, prepared to meet them with a counterstroke. With him, to decide and execute were synonymous; and in the second conflict at Sauroren, the intended blow was hewily delivered. It will be enough to say that, in the conflicts which ensued, the French were completely beaten. On the allied side the loss of men was heavy in killed and wounded, amounting to eighteen hundred. On the French it was enormous—two divisions—those of Maucune and Couroux were almost destroyed—the general disorganization was complete—Foy cut off from the main body altogether—three-thousand men were prisoners—and nearly as many more rendered hors de combat. It was not the severe losses he had sustained which alone embarrassed the French commander. The allies everywhere were gathering around him in strength—his troops were overmarched and dispirited—his position untenable—all idea of advancing on San Sebastian abandoned—and the only door open for retreat was to gain the pass of Dona Maria, and by forced marches fall back on San Estevan. Accordingly, at midnight, his troops were put in motion to reach this dangerous defile, and thence, by ascending or descending the Bidassao, regain the French frontier. How painful this retrogressive movement must have been, may well be fancied. Now “the leader of a broken host,” and smarting the more keenly from defeat, because he had too presumptuously affirmed a certainty of success, and assured his troops of victory.
Nothing could be more critical than Soult’s position; and while Wellington supposed that he intended entering the Bastan by the pass of Villate, the French marshal was too close to Buenza to hazard a retreat by the valley of the Lanz. Indeed, his situation was so dangerous, that a less determined commander might have despaired. His only means of egress from these mountains was by a long and perilous defile leading to an Alpine bridge, and both were overlooked by towering precipices; while, from holding a shorter and easier line of march, the chances were considerable that Wellington would anticipate his movements, and reach Elizondo—Graham seize Yanzi before he could arrive there—Hill fall on his flanks and rear, if obliged, as he should be in these events, to take the route of Zagaramundi—and, in the end, even if he fought his way to Urdax, he might find that position preoccupied, and his retreat finally intercepted. Fortune averted the great calamity; but still safety was to be purchased at a heavy sacrifice.