Chapter XXXIV: At Salamanca

"WHAT wouldn't Den give to be here?" murmured Roy.

He stood in the splendid Plaza of the fine old Spanish town, Salamanca. It was an enormous square, perhaps hardly to be outdone in Europe as to size, having been built to hold as many as twenty thousand people, on the occasion of a great bull-fight. On one side stood the buildings devoted to municipal functions, and around ran an arcade formed of nearly one hundred arches.

Salamanca had been named as the rendezvous for the British Army, coming in detachments and by different routes from Portugal. During the last fortnight one body of men after another had arrived, all full of life and energy, all burning to meet the foe.

This was the twenty-fifth of November, exactly two months from the date of the despatch sent by British Ministers, appointing Sir John Commander of the Forces in the Peninsula. Despatches in those days travelled slowly; and Moore had been terribly hampered. There was no organised Army Transport. There was no regular Intelligence Department. By far the greater number of his officers, however ardent in spirit they might be, had seen no active service. His Army, though it included some of the most splendid regiments in Europe, trained by himself in earlier years at Shorncliffe, included also large numbers of raw recruits, the latter having to be, almost in the face of the enemy, "drilled and rattled" into shape.

Yet, within three weeks of receiving the news of his appointment, Moore with his staff left Lisbon.

High hopes had been felt, resting partly on confident reports of Spanish enthusiasm and preparedness. Sixty or seventy thousand soldiers, it was said, under three Spanish Generals, burning with ardour to extinguish the French, waited to join the British Army, sent to their aid. The French, few in number and depressed in spirit, would be nowhere before these valiant warriors.

But such hopes as depended on Spanish valour were already waxing dim. News had filtered round to Salamanca of advancing French, and of retiring Spaniards. Two of the Spanish Generals, with their forces, had beaten a hasty retreat. The third, under Castanos, might or might not follow suit. If he too failed, the British Army would find itself in serious straits, and be compelled to retreat also.

No such thought was in the mind of Roy Baron, or of his brother-officers. They were eager to come face to face with the enemy.

It was over ten days since Roy had reached Salamanca, and already he felt at home there. Many changes in his short life had made ready adaptation to fresh surroundings an easy matter.

The great Plaza was full of people—British soldiers marching past, Spanish sightseers gazing. Every soldier wore a red cockade, in compliment to the nation he had come to help. Banners fluttered gaily, and the bracing wintry air was stirred by the incessant throb of drums. As one band died away, another drew near.

Drilling and marching were the order of the day. The Army had to be welded into shape; and not an hour was wasted. Subalterns, as well as officers of higher grades, were kept busy.

Roy, finding himself off duty for a short time, had wandered into the great square, to see what was going on, and to add his voice in lusty welcome to the latest arrived regiment. He stood close to one of the Corinthian columns, by which the arches were upborne. A thought of Verdun had come to him, and a recollection of Denham. What would not Den have given to be with them?

"Hallo, Roy!"

Roy spoke out impulsively the idea uppermost in his mind, as Jack and his cousin, Bob Monke, walked up.

"I say, Jack—if Den were but here!"

Jack made a sound of commiseration.

"I often think how lucky it was I knocked down that wretched bust, and got myself sent to Bitche. But for that—why, I might be kicking up my heels at Verdun, to this very day. Odd!—when one comes to think!—it seemed about the worst thing which could have happened to me. One never does know at the time. I know I wouldn't undo it all now."

Roy was young, but he lived in a moralising age.

Jack nodded general assent. "Where have you been? We couldn't find you."

"Took a look at the cathedral. It's a jolly fine building. Any number of centuries old."

"There's Napier. I want a word with him."

Jack dashed off towards an aide-de-camp of Sir John, Captain George Napier, one of a gallant trio of brothers, all present in this expedition. Roy did not follow. Bob Monke was remarking, in his dreamy voice,—"Men in uncommonly good condition."

"Fit for anything!" agreed Roy.

"No letters from home, I suppose."

"Yesterday."

"Good news of your sister?" A slight flush came to the young fellow's cheek.

"Molly is all right. She asks me to remember her to you."

Jack came back at a swinging pace. "Look out—here comes the General!"

A stir took place, every face turning in one direction, as Moore on a spirited charger rode slowly through the square. His glance seemed to be everywhere; and he managed his steed with the unconscious ease of a perfect rider.

"Looks harassed," murmured Jack.

"He looks—the grandest fellow that ever lived," uttered Bob.

"My dear boy, you won't find any man in the Army to contradict that. If you're anxious to get up an enlivening discussion, try some other topic."

"What I want to know is—when are we to be joined by the Spanish, and have a go at the French?" demanded Roy, earnestly following Moore with his gaze.

"Everybody else wants to know precisely the same. Blake and Romana haven't proved 'emselves good for much. Question now is—what of Castanos?"

This question was pressing heavily on Sir John Moore. Though as yet he did not and could not know the enormous size of the French Army then within the borders of Spain, he did know that it certainly more than trebled the small British force under his own control. Working side by side with fifty thousand or more good Spanish soldiers, he might hope to do much. But if those fifty thousand should prove themselves of no more use than a bundle of rotten sticks, Salamanca was no place for his little Army.

Sir John was a systematically early riser. Next morning, as usual, he was up between three and four o'clock. He lighted the fire with his own hands, after his habit, from a lamp kept burning in his room; and before turning to business, he wrote a confidential letter to one of his brothers. As a Commander he was exceedingly reserved, seldom revealing what he knew or what he intended to do, sooner than was necessary. It might be that a craving for sympathy had come over him, in the weight of his lonely responsibilities. Whatever he said would be safe with his own people.

"Upon entering Spain," he wrote, "I have found affairs in a very different state from what I expected, or from what they are thought to be in England. I am in a scrape, from which God knows how I am to extricate myself. But instead of Salamanca, this Army should have been assembled at Seville." And, at the close of a full and clear statement of affairs, he continued: "I understand all is fear and confusion at Madrid. Tell James it is difficult to judge at a distance. The Spaniards have not shown themselves a wise or a provident people. Their wisdom is not a wisdom of action; but still they are a fine people; a character of their own quite distinct from other nations; and much might have been done with them. Perhaps they may rouse again. Pray for me that I may make right decisions; if I make bad ones, it will not be for want of consideration. I sleep little. It is now only five in the morning, and I have concluded, since I got up, this long letter."

The whole letter was very patient and calm; and especially touching were those simple words—"Pray for me!"—from a man so intensely reticent on religious subjects as Sir John. If words were needed to show what he was, beside the plain utterance of such a character and such a life as his, these alone would serve to make it abundantly clear that silence on his part meant neither lack of thought nor lack of feeling.

Two days later came the news that Castanos had been routed by the French. It was evident that the so-called "retirement" of the other Spanish generals had been, in each case, a complete defeat.

Moore's little force now stood alone, in the heart of what had become practically an enemy's country. The order went forth—given with what pain and reluctance those knew who knew Moore—to prepare for retreat. Yet still he held on, delaying day after day. He would not take the actual step until it had become a necessity.