The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX. No. 1008, April 22, 1899

A HAZARDOUS RETREAT.

The 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.

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 w^d 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 c^d 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.

“Only a small body of the British piquet was there to oppose ’em, and they held on gallantly, but were forced back inch by inch, fighting hard. The English and French squadrons charged one another by turns; and when our men were joined by a few of the 3rd Dragoons, they all went at the Enemy with such Desperate Valour as to break through their front squadron, and to be surrounded by the French. Nothing daunted, they charged back, and broke through again, and so got ’emselves quick out of that scrape.

“Then they rallied and formed up anew, and made another charge, supported by the 10th Hussars. The French broke before ever they c^d get up with ’em, and fled through the river, hard pressed by our brave fellows. A lot of prisoners were taken, and among ’em is Marshal Lefebre Desnouettes, Duke of Dantzic—I say, doesn’t Boney love dukes?—Commander of the Imperial Guard. Pretty big haul that!

“No question but the French fought with great valour, as was to be expected. General Lefebre says this same Guard at Austerlitz sent thirty thousand Russians flying. They didn’t send our Dragoons flying yesterday, though. ’Twas just about the other way.

“And now for what you and Polly will like best to hear. Lefebre was awfully down in the mouth at being taken prisoner, and his men being beaten. He counts himself a ruined man, for, says he, ‘Buonaparte never forgives the unfortunate.’ Sir John was all kindness to the poor chap. Lefebre had a slight wound in the head, and the first thing that Sir John did was, not only to try to comfort him, but to send for water, and with his own hands to wash the wound! Can’t you picture the way it was done? Wasn’t it like Moore?

“Well, and it so happened that Jack was in luck, having been asked to dine at the General’s. So he came in for a scene, which, I should conjecture, has perhaps been scarce matched since the days of the Black Prince. Just before they all took their seats, Sir John turned to the French General, and asked him—was there anything he wanted? And Lefebre said never a word, but looked down to where his sword ought to have been, that was taken away by the private who made him surrender. Then he looked up at Sir John in a meaning way.

“In a moment Sir John unbuckled his own sword—’twas a fine Eastern scimitar—and gave it to Lefebre. I wish you could have heard Jack and Captain Napier tell it all—the graceful way in which the thing was done, and, beyond everything, the wonderful look of kindness and ‘soldier-like sympathy’ on Sir John’s face. Napier tried to describe it to me, and finished off with, ‘It was—perfectly beautiful! But when does Moore ever do anything that is not perfect!’[1]

“Take good care, mind you, that no word of this goes beyond yourselves, and above all, on no account risk that it sh^d find its way into print. For yourselves, ’tis a tale worth remembering of one who is the very Flower of Chivalry in Modern Days. This George Napier is, as Polly knows, Jack’s friend, brother to Major Charles Napier of the 50th, and to William Napier of the 43rd—a brave trio.”

The letter begun thus waited unfinished for some days. Roy’s time was occupied otherwise than in penmanship.

Advices by this date received from the coast decided Moore to shape his course, with the bulk of his Army, for Coruña, where he expected to find the British transports waiting.

At Nogales, on the road to Constantino, occurred the one instance of treasure to any large extent having to be abandoned. A sharp action took place between the English rear-guard and the French advance-guard; and the rear-guard coming on found upon the hillside two guns broken down, and two carts heavily laden with casks full of dollars, to the value, it was afterwards said, of twenty-five thousand pounds. The bullocks by which both the carts and the guns had been drawn thus far were utterly exhausted, quite unable to go any farther.

Matters had reached this stage, when Moore rode up, and in a moment he grasped the state of the case. It was a question between sacrificing guns and treasure, or running the risk that his rear-guard should be cut off by the enemy. Moore did not hesitate. He turned to Roy, who happened at that moment to be the nearest junior officer, and said decisively, pointing to the edge of the precipice—

“Take those carts and guns to the brink, and roll them over.”

“Sir, it is money!” exclaimed one present in consternation.

“So are shot and shell,” replied Moore.

Roy promptly carried out the order, and, under the energetic action of his men, both guns and treasure soon went plunging down the depth—out of sight of the French advance-guard, which only five minutes later passed this very spot. They, however, did not know what had just taken place. Moore’s hope, that the money might in the end fall into Spanish instead of into French hands, was fulfilled. Some Spanish peasants found it not long after.