Chapter XI Napoleon in Pursuit
To the Douro—Pepito Turns Up—Four Noble Spaniards—At Sahagun—In Suspense—News from La Romana—On the Trail—War with the Elements—Word from O’Hare—A Cavalry Skirmish—A Break-down
Sir John Moore had instantly recognized the immense importance of the despatch so opportunely discovered by Jack at Valdestillos. It informed him of the exact positions of the various components of the Imperial army; it assured him also that up to the present Napoleon’s ignorance of his enemy’s whereabouts was profound. But Moore knew that after Stewart’s brilliant little affair at Rueda it was only a matter of days before this ignorance would be dispelled, and then Napoleon would without doubt launch every Frenchman within striking distance upon his track. If, therefore, he pursued his original intention of moving on Valladolid he would come into the direct line of the emperor’s advance, whereas, with his new information about Soult’s position, it was just possible that he would have time to strike a blow at that marshal before the huge masses converging on Madrid could be wheeled round and hurried over the passes of the Guadarrama in direct pursuit, or pushed forward from Burgos upon his flank. That Napoleon would interrupt all other operations to crush him he had no doubt, and if he was to strike at all it must be at once.
His own force numbered some 25,000 men, and he was assured from several sources that he might hope for the co-operation of La Romana, who was said to be at the head of a continually increasing army of Spaniards at Leon. Thus reinforced, he would be more than a match for Soult, if Soult, with some 16,000 men, were ill-advised enough to risk an action. On the other hand, if Soult, probably the ablest of Napoleon’s marshals, resisted the temptation to close with Moore before the other French armies came up, the British general would have, as he himself said, “to run for it”, with one army on his flank and three others at his heels. The risks were great; the boldest general might well shrink from the ordeal with which Sir John was now confronted. But Moore’s courage and promptitude increased with the magnitude of the peril; he fully counted the cost, and, feeling bound in honour to take this one chance of saving Spain, he quickly formed his resolution and set to work with energy to carry it out.
Within a few hours of receiving the intercepted despatch, Moore countermanded the advance to Valladolid, and ordered his infantry to cross the Douro at Zamora and Toro, throwing out cavalry as a screen for both columns. When the news spread through the ranks that a rapid move was to be made against Soult, their enthusiasm knew no bounds. The dissatisfaction which all had felt, the murmurs which had not been confined to the men, gave place to jubilation, and it was with laughter and singing that the advance-guard marched out of Alaejos northward to the Douro.
Jack’s regiment was brigaded with others to form the Reserve, and the men had to curb their impatience for some hours before their turn to march arrived. It was a bitterly cold day, that 15th of December, and, having performed all their immediate duties, Jack and his fellow subalterns were stamping up and down before their quarters, wrapped in long cloaks, and doing their best to warm their blood. They had been so busy since Jack’s arrival that there had been no time to get from him a full account of his recent adventures, but now, in their enforced idleness, they kept up a fire of questions as to where he had been and what he had seen, and how it was that he had had, as they put it, all the luck. Jack found that the simplest means to escape the bombardment was to give a consecutive account of the events at Rueda and Valdestillos, to which his chums listened with interest, scarcely remarking the modesty with which the narrator minimized his own share in the bustling incidents.
“That boy Pepito, you see,” he said at one point in his narrative, “is not quite the thorn in the flesh we all supposed he was going to be. In fact, he has the strangest knack of turning up at odd moments when he can be of use—”
“A regular god in the machine!” said Shirley.
“A familiar spirit, I’d call him,” said Pomeroy. “I never had much faith in witchcraft, but upon my word I shall soon begin to believe that you’re in league with the powers of darkness, and no wonder you have such confounded luck!”
“Talk of the—” cried Smith suddenly. “Look at that!”
The subalterns, looking in the direction pointed out by Smith’s stretched forefinger, saw, at the other end of the street, a strange cavalcade approaching. Between two stalwart troopers of the 18th Light Dragoons rode a picturesque little figure on a gaily-caparisoned mule, the rider cocking his head aloft with a consequential air that was irresistibly comic. Behind tramped a crowd of foot-soldiers, and the rear was brought up by a troop of dragoons.
“By George!” cried Pomeroy, “it’s Pepito himself, riding in like a conqueror.
“And the French prisoners of Rueda behind him,” added Jack. “I’m glad to see the boy. Giles, go and see where they halt, and bring the little beggar to me.”
In a few minutes Giles returned, bringing not only Pepito but a group of four rather dilapidated-looking Spaniards.
“My friends of the Olmedo inn,” thought Jack, recognizing them with a chuckle. “Well, Pepito, so you’ve turned up again, eh?”
“Sí, Señor,” answered the gipsy with his captivating smile. “And with me the four noble Spaniards, Señor.”
“So I see. You seem in high feather. You’d better tell me what has happened since I saw you last on the way to Medina.”
Pepito stood in the centre of the group of officers, while the four stablemen hung on the outskirts, Giles keeping a watchful eye on them. The boy, speaking in rapid Spanish, with an occasional Romany word when he found his emotions too much for him, told how, after being provided with clothes by Giles Ogbourne, he had started to track the Señor, in spite of orders to the contrary. Being hungry, and having no money, he had, on arriving at the farmhouse where Jack had met him, offered to clip the farmer’s mules, such clipping being the traditional occupation of the gipsies in Spain. There he had seen Jack’s plight, caught sight of the pursuers, and instantly determined the course of action he adopted. When overtaken by the panting stablemen, he had sent them off on the wrong track; but they carried him along with them and threatened him with a lingering death if he proved to have played them false. He was cudgelling his wits for a plan of escape when, as luck would have it, they fell suddenly in with a troop of French chasseurs, who captured the whole party, chose to assume that they were spies, and bundled them into the watch-house at Rueda to await punishment.
“Ay, ay, that cell!” said Pepito. “It was dark and damp and foul, and Señor knows how the Romany love the fresh air and the open sky. But still, there were the Busne, the four noble Busne, Señor, and when I felt sad I would laugh at them, and tell them what fools they were, who the Señor really was, and how it was all their own fault if they were shot. Oh, it was good, Señor!” The gipsy’s black eyes twinkled at the recollection.
“I’m afraid you’re a mischievous young scamp,” said Jack. “You’d better come along with me—that is, if you’ll behave yourself.”
“Ta ra, ta ra! Viva!” cried Pepito, flinging his knife in the air and catching it as it fell. “‘The Romany chal to his horse did cry’”—and singing his merry song he skipped up to Giles, and dug the stolid Devonian in the ribs.
Meanwhile, Jack beckoned to the Spaniards, and they slouched towards him with shamefaced sullenness. Addressing the biggest of them, he said with a smile:
“Well, hombre, you will be wiser next time. It might have been awkward for you. You’d better go home by way of Salamanca, or you might happen to meet some more Frenchmen. Here, you may find this useful.”
He gave the man a few pesetas, and the four dejected fellows, muttering their thanks, shambled away.
Half an hour later the order came for the regiment to march, and soon the men were swinging along on the way to Toro. It was a fine frosty day, and the cold, though keen, was exhilarating. The road, which in wet weather would have been a mere slough of mud, was now frozen hard, and walking was easy and pleasant. Many women walked with the regiment; others, with their children, were perched on the baggage- and ammunition-wagons. There was joking and laughter; the prospect of soon meeting the enemy whom they had been so long hoping to fight gave brightness to the men’s eyes and elasticity to their gait. Colonel Beckwith rode up and down the column, throwing a word to this man and that, encouraging the laggards and chaffing the boasters. A little snow fell at times, causing the women to snuggle under their cloaks and the men to growl about wet boots; but during this day’s march, and the four succeeding days’, the high spirits of the regiment were well maintained, and it was with surprisingly little loss by sick or stragglers that the infantry arrived, on December 20th, at Mayorga, where a junction was effected with the column under Sir David Baird. They moved forward again the following morning, and their enthusiasm was raised to the highest pitch by the news that Lord Paget, with the 10th and 15th Hussars, had surprised a large body of French cavalry in Sahagun, killing or capturing over 200 officers and men.
When they arrived at this place in the evening, the main army found that it had outstripped its supplies. Wagons were short, and neither food nor clothing was to be had. It was therefore imperative that a breathing-space should be allowed, that time should be given for recruiting their strength and repairing their equipment. Eager as they were to fight, they were not sorry when they learnt that at least a day’s rest was to be given them.
But when the whole of December 22nd passed without the expected order to advance, the men again began to chafe at the delay. Corporal Wilkes and some of his cronies were sitting round their camp-fire on the evening of that day discussing the situation.
“What I want to know,” said Wilkes in a tone suggesting that he would rather have resented the information—“what I want to know is, why we don’t up and at them Frenchmen at once. What are we waiting for? True, we ain’t had much grub, and our toggery ain’t exactly what the general would specially admire on parade, but over yonder, where that Marshal Salt, or whatever they call him, is, there’s plenty of tommy and fine clothes too, and if we could only make a move we’d very soon be able to fill our insides and polish up our outsides. Here we are, three days off Christmas, and where’s the roast-beef and plum-pudding to come from? We’ll have to sing for it, by what I can see.”
“Sing for it!” interposed Bates with a grunt. “No, thank’ee; we’ve had enough of the waits. Ha! ha!”
There was a general guffaw at Bates’s little witticism.
“I don’t see nothing to laugh at,” growled Wilkes, resenting the interruption. The others looked reproachfully at Bates, who relapsed into abashed silence.
It was not until the morning of the 23rd that the general of the Reserve, Sir Edward Paget, a younger brother of Lord Paget, received marching orders. On the evening of that day he was to move his division forward from Grajal del Campo along the road to Carrion, join the main body, and halt until head-quarters should arrive from Sahagun. At this news the younger and less experienced men found it almost impossible to keep still.
“Lie down and rest, you silly fellows,” said Jack to a group of men whom he saw fidgeting about in sheer nervousness and anxiety. “Look at Wilkes yonder; he knows what war is, and he’s snoring away, getting a good sleep before the march to-night. Here, Pepito, just come and show these fellows some of your tricks, and keep them amused, or they’ll be dead-beat before they start.”
Pepito, who had followed Jack like a shadow ever since he had left Alaejos, obediently went among the men, and soon had them laughing merrily at his absurd antics and extraordinary gibberish. The bleak winter day passed, and at four o’clock, under a gray and leaden sky, the Reserve at last set out towards what they hoped was to be a brilliant victory. The whole country was covered deep with snow. The men had been ordered to refrain from talking or singing while on the march; and thus, in cold and silence, the column trudged along in the gathering night.
After some hours’ tramping a halt was called, and the men stood and shivered and wondered.
“What are we waiting for now?” growled Corporal Wilkes, shaking the snow from his shako.
“To let the guns come up, shouldn’t wonder,” returned his friend Bates. “This blessed snow makes it slow work to bring ’em along.”
“I expect it’s old Romana not up to the scratch,” suggested Tom Plunket, the best shot in the regiment. “Very likely he’s lost his way, or forgotten the date, or frizzing his moustache, or something, and that’s keeping our general waiting.”
“Humph!” growled Wilkes, “another case of to-morrer, to-morrer. Tell you what, boys, these Dons will say ‘manaña’ once too often. When the last roll-call comes they’ll say ‘manaña’ as sure as fate, and then where’ll they be?—that’s what I want to know.”
“Hush! what’s that?” said Sergeant Jones, a little man known familiarly as “The Weasel”.
A bugle-call was sounding. Every man started to his feet. Surely the two hours’ halt was over and the battle was at hand. But no; there was no sound of movement among the troops, no cheer from the men near the general’s quarters. While the men stood in a tense attitude of expectancy, Jack came up out of the darkness.
“Men,” he said quietly, “we are ordered back to Grajal. Fall in!”
Not a word broke from them. Back to Grajal? But the French were not there. Was the battle postponed again? No one appeared to know the meaning of this new order. They collected their kits, strapped on their heavy knapsacks, and trudged despondently back over the frozen roads.
At six o’clock that evening a note had been brought to Sir John Moore from the Marquis of La Romana. It read:
LEON, Dec. 22.
SIR,
The confidential person whom I had placed on the River Douro has written to me on the 18th inst. that he is assured that the enemy’s troops posted at the Escurial are moving in this direction.
He adds that if the person who gave him this intelligence should not arrive the same day he would go himself to Villacastin, twelve leagues from Madrid, to watch the two roads, the one of which leads to Zamora, and the other to Segovia.
I hasten to give this information to your Excellency that you may judge what measures are requisite to be taken.
LA ROMANA.
What Moore had expected and hoped for had come to pass. It was clear that Napoleon had learnt the British position at last, and was hastening from Madrid northward across the mountains with his whole army to crush the little force.
“We must cut and run for it,” said Moore to his staff with a hard smile. “And by Jove we’ll give them a race!”
When Moore suddenly, ten days before, altered his line of march from the Valladolid to the Toro road, Napoleon had not had time to learn of the affair at Rueda. He had made up his mind that the British were retreating on Lisbon, and had already despatched Lefebvre and Lasalle in pursuit by way of Badajos, preparing himself to back them up with an overwhelming army of 40,000 men and 150 guns. The news of Stewart’s exploit at Rueda reached him on the 19th. It had the effect of an electric shock. Where before had been activity, there was now feverish energy. Couriers were sent on the instant to all parts of Spain, ordering all the scattered units of his immense force to converge on Valladolid, which he persisted in believing to be Moore’s objective. Mere skeleton corps were left to hold in check the shattered Spanish armies. The rest followed Napoleon over the Guadarrama mountains, or pushed along the Burgos road to join hands with Soult.
On the 21st, the same day on which Moore marched for Sahagun, an immense French army, comprising the flower of Napoleon’s troops, left Madrid. Marshal Ney, “le plus brave des braves”, led the van, and he was lucky in bringing his troops across the Guadarrama in comparatively fine weather. But no sooner had he crossed than a terrific snow-storm burst over the mountains. When Napoleon himself arrived from Madrid he found the passes blocked with snow, guns, wagons, all kinds of impedimenta; and the advance, on which so much depended, to all appearance indefinitely delayed.
But opposition, even on the part of the elements, only roused the emperor’s indomitable energy. The gale was raging its fiercest, men and horses were being hurled over precipices by the force of the wind. The leading battalions had actually turned back and were making confusion worse confounded, when Napoleon appeared. Addressing the soldiers, he announced that he meant to overtake the British at all costs. He set thousands of men to clear the drifts, others to beat down the snow into a hard road, over which the artillery, harnessed with double teams, crawled painfully northward. He ordered the members of each infantry section to link arms and thus help each other along the perilous mountain way. He dismounted the cavalry, and used their horses to haul the guns. Then, gathering his staff about him, he bade them lock their arms, and himself led the way, walking arm in arm with Lannes and Duroc. Thus, in the teeth of wind, snow, and ice they pushed up the wild mountain steeps. Half-way up, the marshals and generals, who wore jack-boots, were too much exhausted to move another step. Nothing daunted, Napoleon had himself hoisted on a gun, and sat there astride. He called to his marshals to do the same; and thus, after four hours battling with the elements, the grotesque cavalcade reached the convent on the summit, where, with food and wine, the rigours of the march were forgotten.
It was in this spirit of fierce determination that the great emperor, sparing himself as little as his troops, strained every nerve to accomplish the end he had in view—the destruction of Moore’s gallant little army. If La Romana’s confidential agents had been napping, Moore might indeed have beaten Soult, but only to find himself enveloped by a force triple his own in numbers, commanded by the most brilliant soldier of the age. Fortunately, information had reached La Romana, and through him Moore, in time. At the moment when Napoleon arrived at Villacastin, only some three marches distant, Moore was countermanding the advance on Sahagun.
That moment marked the ebb of Napoleon’s fortunes. Hitherto he had pursued his wonderful career with scarcely a check; but the decision of Moore on that December evening was the signal for the break-up of Napoleon’s power; it was the step that saved Europe. It diverted the emperor from his immediate purpose of conquest, and engaged his huge armies in a fruitless and exhausting chase; it gave Spain time to bethink herself and rise as a nation. Her rising set an example to Europe, by which Austria and Prussia slowly profited, and which led Russia, three years later, to that spirited defiance which burnt Moscow and brought destruction upon the finest army in the world.
The British retreated in two columns, one, under General Baird, by the northern road to Valencia, the other, under General Hope, by Mayorga towards Benavente. General Paget’s reserve division, including the two light brigades under Generals Anstruther and Disney, and five cavalry regiments, remained for twenty-four hours behind the main body. It was on Christmas-day that Jack’s regiment received orders to march. The men were formed up in readiness for starting. Every face was gloomy, every heart bitter with rage. It was only vaguely known in the ranks why the advance had been so suddenly countermanded, and the general opinion was that it was due to the cowardice and incompetence of the Spaniards. The officers remarked this spirit of sullen discontent, and Captain O’Hare determined to make a personal appeal. Calling his company to attention, he stood in pouring rain and addressed them.
“Now, my boys,” he said cheerily, “we must put a good face on it. The froggies are too many for us now, and the general don’t want every mother’s son of you to be clapped into a French prison. We’re off to Astorga, and bedad, if Marshal Soult comes within reach of our heels, we’ll give him a good parting kick before Boney arrives. But remember, we form part of the rear-guard; ’tis the post of honour because ’tis the place of danger. If there is to be any fighting, ’twill fall to us, and every man Jack of you must keep himself as fit as a fiddle, or he won’t be able to do what’s wanted. I trust to you, my boys; and sure we’ll show that every Englishman, whether Scotch or Irish, is worth ten Frenchmen yet. Shoulder arms! Left turn! Quick march!”
“All very well,” grumbled Charley Bates, as he swung along beside Corporal Wilkes; “there’s to be fighting at Astorga, he says. The general means to march us to death first, and expects us to fight after!”
“You shut up, Bates,” said the corporal sullenly. He was just as much irritated as his friends, but, being disputatious by nature, he was ready to contradict anyone. “I’ve fought under Johnny Moore before, and he ain’t one to run for nothing. And you and me, Charley Bates, has got to show a good example to them young orficers—Mr. Lumsden an’ the rest,—didn’t you hear Peter say so? So step out, my boy, and don’t argue.”
“Hear that, Pommy?” said Jack, who was nearer the corporal than that worthy believed.
“I heard it,” growled Pomeroy, “and I hope you’ll profit by Wilkes’s example.”
They needed all their strength of will to preserve their cheerfulness. A thaw had set in, and the road, running between fields of soft rich loam, was knee-deep in slushy clay. All that day they tramped heavily through the rain. They halted at Mayorga for the night, and pushed on next day to Valderas, their clothes like sponges, their limbs racked with pain. At the halting-places they saw the first signs of failing discipline. Some of the men in the regiments which had preceded them had broken out and vented their rage on the houses of the Spaniards. Food was scarce; means of carriage were lacking; and the men were so incensed against the inhabitants of the villages through which they passed that they seized food for themselves, and, the country being for the most part treeless, tore down doors and sheds to provide wood for their camp-fires. But this marauding spirit had been as yet confined to a few regiments; the men of the light brigades were held well in hand by their officers, and refrained from the ill conduct of their less-disciplined comrades.
As they marched on the 26th and 27th it became known that Lord Paget’s cavalry were having a warm time behind them. Soult had sent Lorge’s dragoons in pursuit of Baird’s column, and the advance-guard of the emperor’s army at this time began to appear, until the five British cavalry regiments were closely pressed by no fewer than thirteen French. But Paget was a consummate cavalry leader; spreading his 2400 men as a screen to the whole army, he showed ceaseless activity in fending off the assaults of the French dragoons, beating them time after time, and capturing many prisoners. Every effort of the French to break through and attack the infantry was baffled and checked. So admirably, indeed, did he handle his men, that Napoleon imagined they were twice as numerous as they actually were.
On the afternoon of the 27th, Jack was marching with his regiment, the first battalion of the 95th, along the road from Valderas to Castro Gonzalo, where the river Esla was to be crossed. Behind came the second battalion, with other regiments, and the rear was brought up by Lord Paget’s cavalry. The pace had been forced for some hours, for the French were continually pressing closer, and Sir John Moore was anxious to get his whole army across the river without delay. He had given orders that when the passage had been completed the bridge was to be destroyed, and Jack and his fellow-subalterns were disappointed that this task, and the chance of a brush with the enemy, would fall to the second battalion and not the first.
About half a mile before they reached the village of Castro Gonzalo there was a momentary stoppage of the column, caused, as was learnt in a few minutes, by the breaking down of the last of the baggage-wagons. Jack’s company happened to be the nearest to the scene of the accident, and as they halted, Captain O’Hare came up and said:
“Lumsden, I’ll leave you with a squad of men to repair this confounded cart. It’s got our whole wardrobe in it, and we can’t afford to lose that. Choose your men, and don’t be longer about it than you can help. You’ll probably have the job done before the second battalion come up, but if not, there’ll be the hussars behind to see you safe in.”