Chapter XXXV: Moore's Bold Venture

"THEY say so!" observed Jack.

"Who do?"

"Those two Spanish fellows that came into camp yesterday—the two generals. I've not seen 'em, but plenty of others have. They vow and declare that Castanos wasn't routed by any manner of means. Can't of course deny the fact of some slight reverses; but they have it that the spirit of Spain is unbroken. And they beg and beseech that Moore will give 'em another chance—not retreat to Portugal, and leave 'em to their fate."

"Will he?" demanded Roy breathlessly.

"Can't tell. Moore never speaks till he means to act. Good news for us all, if he does. I haven't overmuch faith in Spanish enthusiasm. Don't want the Spaniards to bolster us up, though. Twenty-four thousand British are equal any day to thirty or forty thousand French. But what can be done, Sir John will do."

"Just for once to get within reach of Soult, and have at him!" fervently uttered Roy. "Hallo, there's Bob coming full tilt."

"Something in the wind. Bob doesn't go that pace for nothing."

Full tilt indeed came Bob Monke, waving his cap frantically. Jack and Roy were standing on the great Salamanca bridge, formed of twenty-six arches, many of which dated back to Roman days. The strong river flowed below; and Roy had been leaning over as they talked, gazing into the water. Now he stood watching Bob's approach.

"What does he say?" as a shout was borne on the breeze. They were near the centre of the bridge, which measures five hundred feet from end to end, and Bob was distant still; but as he drew near, his fair face was seen to be flushed with excitement, and words became distinguishable.

"Hurrah! Order to advance! Retreat countermanded! Hurrah!"

"Hurrah!" shouted Roy, and three caps went up together.

Then they dashed into camp to learn particulars. Not much could be gathered as yet, beyond the bare fact that an immediate advance was commanded. With light-hearted enthusiasm, the whole Army responded. Moore, upon whom the full weight of responsibility rested, could scarcely be light of heart. He knew too well what this move might mean.

When news was first received of the complete collapse of the Spaniards, he had planned a retreat to Portugal, there to await reinforcements from England. But heavy pressure was brought to bear upon him. And as one assurance after another was given, from various quarters, that the Spaniards were still in the mood to fight, with vehement urging that he would not forsake the unfortunate people whom he had come to help, he at length resolved to give them one more opportunity to show themselves men.

A daring conception had come to his mind, and it was promptly carried out. Instead of retiring at once to a position of safety, he would first make a bold swoop upon Soult's Army, thus threatening the line of Napoleon's communications with France. And his object in so doing was, simply and definitely, by drawing the weight of the Conqueror's fury upon himself and his small British force, to relieve the fearful pressure upon the southern provinces of Spain.

It was a startling and a hazardous step. In the hand of any less brilliant and experienced Commander, it might have ended in an awful disaster—in a modern Thermopylae on a huge scale—in the wholesale destruction of the British force.

Napoleon had expected, as a matter of course, that Moore would retreat so soon as the Spanish armies melted away. What else could he do? Napoleon had at this date within the borders of Spain 330,000 soldiers, 60,000 horses, and 200 pieces of field artillery. Moore had with him less than 24,000 soldiers, and perhaps another 10,000 in Portugal, inclusive of 4000 in hospital.

Then, to Napoleon's unbounded amazement, he learnt—getting the news on December 2—that, in place of retreating, the puny British force was boldly advancing towards the Douro.

The Emperor's exclamation, as heard by Marshal Ney, and afterwards repeated by him to Major Charles Napier, was—

"Moore is the only General now fit to contend with me! I shall advance against him in person."

Buonaparte seldom did things by halves, and he acted with even more than his accustomed energy.

The force and genius of this English Commander, by whom he was so daringly opposed, had suddenly burst upon him; and he at once knew that no common effort on his own part would secure him the victory.

Without an hour's delay, orders went forth to check the southward march of his columns, and to pour fifty thousand men in a torrent across the snowy Guadarrama hills, that they might cut off the retreat of Moore to the coast.

His object was to place the small English force between the great Army of the south and the French corps under Soult,—the latter consisting of about thirty thousand men. That done, the crushing of the British Army would be a mere matter of detail. At any moment Napoleon could supplement his first fifty thousand with a hundred thousand more.

But this fierce northward rush of Napoleon was exactly what Moore had meant to bring about. He had drawn away the main body of the French from the tortured south; he had given the Spaniards a breathing-space in which to rally, if they would, for fresh resistance; and he had for the moment saved Portugal from desperate peril. He could do no more.

Twenty-three thousand men, with eight or ten thousand more out of reach, opposed to seventy or eighty thousand, with a hundred thousand more within reach! Two thousand cavalry pitted against six or eight times their own number! A collie-dog snapping at a Bengal tiger, would be no inapt picture of Moore's desperate daring.

When news arrived of Napoleon's rush to cut off his communications with Portugal, Moore was within twenty-four hours of falling upon Soult, beyond the river Carrion. One sharp brush had already taken place with the enemy—seven hundred French cavalry being routed by four hundred English hussars. Every man in the Army was passionately eager to meet the foe.

Moore, however, did not hesitate. The work intended by his spirited advance was done. Nothing remained but to fall steadily back before overwhelming odds.

All those bright expectations, with which he had started on this expedition, had been dashed to the ground. In every direction he had met with indifference and opposition, where he ought to have found grateful co-operation. The Spanish forces had proved themselves worthless.

And to the unutterable disappointment of officers and men, the forward march was countermanded.

"Retreat, Jack! Now! When one day more would bring us up with Soult!"

How could Roy know, how could other murmuring spirits around him know, that which Moore alone realised—that one day more of advance would be simply playing into Napoleon's hands, would bring about that which the tyrant of Europe most ardently desired—the complete annihilation of the small British army?

There was indeed not a moment to be lost. By forced marches and the utmost expedition the first and most perilous stage was done. The river Esla was crossed; and not too soon. Napoleon, pushing furiously forward, bent heart and soul on getting to Benevente before the English, found himself twelve hours too late. Moore had precisely reckoned his time, and had neatly baffled Europe's Conqueror.

A few days later, on the first of January, Napoleon had a second dire mortification. He reached Astorga, for which he had aimed—again straining every nerve, with the hope of cutting off Moore's retreat,—and, as at the Esla, he was once more a day too late. A second time Moore had quietly slipped away out of his grasp.

While at Astorga he heard of a fresh alliance between Russia and Austria, and of a meditated attack upon France during his absence. The crushing of Spain, delayed by Moore, had to be put off. Napoleon, with a body of troops, hurried back to Paris. But he left Soult and Ney in command of sixty or seventy thousand men in two columns, the one to attack Moore in rear, the other to take him in flank, while thousands scattered about the country were advancing to support them.

Enough, in all conscience, one would imagine, to deal with a retreating force of less than twenty-four thousand!