Chapter XXXVIII: The Battle of Coruña

WELL might Moore cast anxious glances towards the harbour of Coruña, where the vessels from Vigo should have been. They had been delayed by contrary winds, and their failure to arrive in time was a most serious matter. The British Army, brought thus far in safety, would lie without the means of escape in a narrow trap, between Scylla and Charybdis, hemmed in by the pitiless ocean on one side, by the ever-increasing hordes of the enemy on the other.

With unfaltering courage he at once set himself to examine the position, assigning the troops to various quarters, some in the town of Coruña, some in villages hard by. A range of hills, three or four miles off, would have been the right line of defence; but Moore had not men enough to occupy it. He saw at once that, should he attempt to do so, the French might turn his flank and cut him off from embarkation.

That post of vantage had to be left to the foe. Moore was obliged to content himself with a lower ridge, nearer to the walls, which was with all speed put into a state of defence.

A short rest was given to the soldiers; new muskets and ammunition were-supplied; and the officers strenuously exerted themselves to restore discipline. But this was no longer difficult. When once the Army stood at bay, facing the foe, every trace of insubordination vanished.

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 coming down upon them from the heights. They pictured the heavy loss of life which must result from any attempt to embark on 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.

Coruña had been reached on the 11th of January, and all through the 12th Moore was hard at work, preparing for the battle which might be fought. 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.

Indomitable though he was, the strain of the last few weeks had told upon him heavily. At daybreak he was once more in the saddle, reconnoitering the enemy's camp, and visiting every part of his own; but before midday he came back to Headquarters, utterly exhausted.

Rest had become a necessity before he could do more; and for two hours prostration had the upper hand. Then he rallied, sat up, called for paper, and in his terse easy modern English, singularly free from the tricks of expression peculiar to his time, he wrote his last despatch.

Next day, the 14th, some cannonading took place; but the French did not move. They were still concentrating their forces, having suffered greatly, like the British, in those terrible marches.

In the evening, at last, the transports appeared; and all next day the embarkation of the sick and wounded, as well as of the cavalry, was going on. Around Coruña, Moore had found, cavalry could be of little use.

By noon on the 16th everything was in train. Unless they should be attacked by Soult, the whole British Army would be on board that night. Moore placed all arrangements for the embarkation in the hands of Colonel Anderson; and again he went off to review his troops, finding them in excellent order and in the highest spirits.

To a man they wished for nothing better than a battle. That question, however, was left to Soult for decision. No matter how intensely Moore himself might long for a victory over the enemy, he still would not make a first move. He knew well that, in the then condition of Spain, even a battle won could do little practical good to the cause in hand. It might cover his name with glory. But from first to last a higher aim than glory for self had been before Moore's eyes.

Between fourteen and fifteen thousand infantry now remained on land, to oppose the twenty thousand already entrenched on the opposite heights; and further French reinforcements were constantly arriving. Moore's cannon were far inferior to those of the French, alike in number and in weight of metal. The French guns, moreover, dominated the English position.

At two o'clock, as Moore was on his way to the outposts, a messenger came from General Hope, to inform him that the enemy "was getting under arms;" and radiant delight glowed in his eyes when he found that a battle was to be forced upon him. He spoke his gladness, regretting only that the lateness of the hour, upon a short winter's day, would hardly leave him time to make the most of that victory which he expected to win.

Then he spurred away, full gallop, to the field. Soon the roar of cannon told that action was begun; and in a little while, along the whole front, both armies were hotly engaged.

Upon the main ridge of the English position Moore had placed two divisions, Baird's on the right, Hope's on the left. A third division, that of Fraser, occupied high ground well in rear of the right, to prevent any possibility of the French making their way to Coruña by a road which ran in that direction, and so cutting off the British force from the town.

Paget's division was held in reserve behind the ridge; and here for a while Roy chafed impatiently, fearing to have no share in the fighting that day. Even had it been so, the Reserve would have had small cause to complain, since they had borne the lion's share of danger during the retreat. But their turn was to come.

The first and heaviest brunt of the onset fell upon Baird's division, more especially upon the 4th Regiment, the 50th, which was commanded by Charles Napier and Charles Stanhope, and the 42nd Highlanders.

With their usual vehement swiftness the French advanced in separate columns against the right, the left, and the centre of the British line; while another powerful column sought to pass, as Moore had foreseen, down the valley which lay between Baird's and Fraser's divisions, towards Coruña; and yet a fifth column waited in reserve.

But the peril of that fourth column's advance was no sooner seen than it was met. The right wing of the 4th British Regiment, on the extreme right of the ridge, was promptly thrown back, so as to take in flank the adventurous French column which was seeking thus boldly to turn the English position; and into the column was poured a crushing fire.

Moore, alert, cool, intent, watching every movement, called out, "That was exactly what I wanted to be done!"

Nor was this all. General Paget, with his Reserve, advanced upon the column, and doubled it completely up.

Roy had his chance then, and he used it. His was the honour of bearing the King's Colour belonging to his regiment. The Royal and the Regimental Colours are, as we know, always consecrated with religious ceremony at the time of presentation; and they are looked upon with the most intense pride and veneration by every British soldier. Not least were they so regarded by Roy Baron.

Right proudly he carried his Royal burden, exposing himself with all that reckless gallantry which is natural to the British officer. He pressed forward with an energy which carried him well to the front, even in that rushing tide of resolute men. They clashed with the solid column in fierce shock; and by "the conquering violence" of Paget's charge, the French, already shaken by the heavy flanking fire they had received, were brought to a standstill. They began to waver, to turn, and to retreat; and the retreat soon quickened into flight.

Yet the fighting continued; and as the British still swept like a whirlwind onward, groups of Frenchmen would turn and resist, vainly striving to stem that irresistible Anglo-Saxon torrent.

Roy found himself and his charge an object of especial attack by some half-dozen furious Frenchmen, maddened to be once again, as through the fortnight past, repelled by this invincible foe. All around Roy were fighting hard. He gripped the staff with his left hand, and guarded it valiantly, using his sword right and left to very good purpose. Mere lad though he was, more than one of the enemy went down before those vigorous thrusts.

With the vain hope of capturing the Colour, a French officer rode into the mêlée, and his sabre descended in one swift sweep. Roy saw the coming stroke, but his guard was only in time to ward off the blow aimed at his head.

The blade slashed deep into his right arm, near the shoulder, and Roy's sword fell from powerless fingers.

By this time a dozen comrades had closed round the Colour, and a dozen British swords and bayonets were at work. The French officer paid for his gallantry with his life. Roy was again pressing onward, hardly realising that he was wounded, till he found a crimson stream flowing over him, and felt his knees falter with a sense of overpowering weakness.

"Go back, Baron. You've done bravely," the Colonel's voice said at his side, in tones of approval. "Sergeant Grey will take the colour."

Roy tried to say cheerily, "No, sir, it's nothing—I'm all right—" but the words somehow refused to come, and the battlefield seemed to be receding to a vast distance. He was vaguely conscious that his precious burden had gone into somebody else's hands, and that the regiment had passed on at the double, leaving him behind. Then he came out of a mist, his ears buzzing, and his head going round.

For a moment he fancied himself back in a little French cottage, deep in a wood, with Jean Paulet by his side. "Thank you, Jean—I'm all right," he said faintly.

But the roar of cannon, the rattle of musketry, the shouts of charging soldiers, dispersed that dream. He opened his eyes to find himself lying on the ground. One of his men, Private Foster, was busily fastening a rough-and-ready bandage round his arm.

"Think you'll do now, sir? It don't bleed so much. Only a flesh wound, but it's gone pretty deep."

"O I'm all right." Roy managed this time to say the words clearly. "I wish I could have kept up with them. Are you hurt?"

"Only my foot, sir. The Colonel told me I was to look after you. He said you was to go to the town."

Roy was beginning to be aware of pretty sharp pain in the slashed arm. It was his first wound, and he might be excused for certain sick sensations, having fought as pluckily as an Englishman may. He pulled himself to a sitting posture, and looked round. The regiments of the Reserve were by this time far ahead, literally sweeping the whole valley clear of the shattered remnants, which but a short space back had formed a powerful column.

Roy waved his cap over his head with his left hand, and gave vent to a hearty though rather faint "Hurrah!"

"I think I can walk now all right," he said. "Don't mind about me, Foster. Your foot is bad."

"I can hobble a bit, sir. I'd sooner see you on your way. You'd maybe get the bandage wrong, and set it bleeding afresh." Roy's men were not a little fond of him.

And the two set off together on a long and painful trudge to Coruña.

Meanwhile, Sir John Moore, satisfied that all would go well in the valley, turned his attention elsewhere.

The French attack was directed with greatest force against the three regiments already named as posted upon the right of the ridge. Their piquets, which occupied the little village of Elvina beyond the ridge, were driven in by the force of the enemy's onset, and Elvina for a time fell into the hands of the French.

This could not be allowed, and orders were given that the 42nd and the 50th should expel the foe from the village. Moore, always to be found at the point of greatest danger, was at hand. His voice could now be heard to ring out in his characteristic challenge—

"Highlanders—remember Egypt!"

Like greyhounds from the leash, in response to those beloved tones, they leaped to the charge, carrying everything before them. Moore, in his passionate ardour, charged with them, and he told the men that he was "well pleased" with their conduct.

Before Moore appeared, the officers and men of the 50th Regiment—ordered to advance with the 42nd—had been eagerly looking out for him, realising that this would be the crux of the English position, and feeling one and all that "under him they could not be beaten—" that, if only Moore were present, victory was absolutely secure. "Where is he? Where is the General?" was heard in restless murmurs along the line.

As they asked the question he came, bearing down upon them at headlong speed on his cream-coloured charger, a fiery animal, with flying black mane and tail tossed in the breeze. The force with which Sir John reined in flung him forward almost upon the horse's neck, while his head was thrown back, and he examined the enemy with a gaze of such extraordinary and searching intensity, that Charles Napier, in after years, seeking to picture the scene, could find no language with which he might fitly describe that look.

Without a word Moore then galloped off, but he soon returned; and hereabouts it was that, as he was speaking to Major Napier, a round shot from the heavy French guns on the height struck the ground between them.

Both horses swerved sharply, but Moore instantly urged his back to the same spot, asking calmly if Napier were hurt, and receiving a quiet "No, sir."

Then, while he watched the spirited charge of the 50th Regiment, led by Napier and Stanhope, he exclaimed—"Well done, Fiftieth! Well done, my Majors!"

The French were driven out of Elvina with heavy loss, both regiments pursuing them beyond the village into ground much broken by stone walls. By this time the British were without supports; and the French, having received strong reinforcements, rallied and turned upon them with fresh fury. Napier went too far in advance of his men, received five wounds, and was taken prisoner; and Stanhope was killed.

Moore, grappling with the danger, hurried up a battalion of the Guards to reinforce the 50th, which was being slowly forced back, and the 42nd, which had come to an end of its powder and shot. He galloped to the latter regiment, and again his voice rang out with inspiring energy—

"My brave 42nd, join your comrades. The ammunition is coming. And you have your bayonets still!"

That was enough. The 42nd had thought that it was being relieved by the Guards; but armed or unarmed, the men would have gone anywhere for Moore. Once again without ammunition, yet undaunted, with fierce impetuosity they dashed against the foe.

Both here and throughout the line fighting raged furiously. In all directions the British were holding their own, and signs of approaching victory were clear.

Those signs came true. A little later, and the French were driven well beyond Elvina. On the left of the British position they not only were repulsed with very severe loss, but were attacked in their own position by the conquering English, and were followed even into the villages beyond their ridge.

But before matters had advanced thus far, and while the 50th and the 42nd were still hard beset and strenuously resisting—something else happened, of terrible import to England.

Captain Hardinge came up to report to Sir John that the Guards were advancing. And as he spoke the words, as he pointed out the position of the Guards—a round shot from the battery opposite struck Moore, hurling him to the ground.