CHAPTER VIII.

TREACHERY AND FOOLERY--A RACE FOR LIFE AND A RUN FOR THE SEA--TOM GRAHAME'S BABY--SORROW, SUFFERING, AND DANGER--IT MUST BE DEATH OR VICTORY.

It was the want of proper information as to what was really going on that caused the ruin of the unfortunate Sir John Moore. That information ought to have come to him from Frere, the British ambassador at Madrid. Not only did this fellow not trouble himself to communicate with Moore, but he scarcely bothered to find out the real state of matters himself. He was led by the nose by the plausible traitor, Morla, who was in communication with the French.

Had a fellow like Frere belonged to the French army, he would have been shot--or hanged, for shooting was really too good for him.

From the little he did know, more by chance than anything else, he concluded he must retreat into Portugal.

Both Sir David Baird and his corps, as well as Sir John Hope with the artillery, were still at a distance. Moore sent messengers to both. Baird was to fall back on Corunna, and sail with his army to Lisbon; Hope was to meet him at Ciudad Rodrigo.

Pity indeed these arrangements were not carried out. And why were they not? Simply because Moore was out-generalled by means of the treachery of Morla, and the blank idiocy of the ambassador, Frere.

The latter wrote to Sir John from Avanjuez, on November 30th, and earnestly protested against his proposed retreat. Nothing, he said, could beat the splendid valour of the Spaniards. Moore, if he marched to Madrid, could save Spain by repulsing the French before they received reinforcements!

This letter, as we know, was written just as Napoleon was dashing down upon Madrid, after scattering the Spanish frontier lines into mist. At the very time that Moore received the communication, the French were lying in wait for the general, and a day or two after Frere himself was fleeing for his life to Badajoz.

Frere took no trouble even now to send to warn Moore. But he did worse, for the scoundrel Morla--instigated by the French--also wrote to Sir John Moore urging him to come on. He even sent a messenger after Frere, and this letter was endorsed by the British minister.

The desire of Morla was, of course, to make our hero, Moore, believe that Madrid would fight to the last if he would hurry up to their assistance. But at this very time Napoleon was in possession of Madrid! And instead of fighting, the nobles had fled, thinking more about saving their lives and their jewellery than of becoming patriots.

It was all clearly a plot to lead Moore into a disaster that would have been infinitely more terrible than that which did take place.

Moore, however, still thought he could beat the French general, Soult, before Napoleon could come up. He was finally reinforced by Baird and Hope, and had now altogether about 25,000 men, with more regiments coming on.

He was obliged, however, to halt at Sahagan, to wait for his baggage and supplies, and Soult was only a day's march distant.

It was now that for the first time, and that too by the merest chance, Moore learnt that Napoleon himself, with 40,000 picked men, was on his trail, having crossed a ridge of mountains by forced marches through sleet and snow.

Everything depended now on whether Napoleon's vanguard or Moore's army should reach the bridge at Benavente, that spans the river Esla.

Moore won this, and blew it up immediately after he got his army over.

What was the odds, as regards numbers, between Moore's force and that of the enemy? Why, the French numbered altogether 100,000 men.

There was nothing for it now but a retreat upon Corunna, but Napoleon felt certain that Moore and all his men would speedily fall into his hands.

The Emperor, after following Moore for a day or two, left the rest for his marshals to do. It was easy work, of this he was confident.

But Soult, with his great army of three to one of the British, still followed on.

On the very last day of December, 1808, Napoleon was close to the rear of the flying army of Britain.

On the 1st of January, 1809, he was at Astorga, and this ambitious man, who seemed neither to fear God nor regard the sufferings and torture he was causing to writhing millions, must needs climb an adjacent hill to see the last of Moore and his men, to feast his eyes, as it were, upon the sight of the already tired and weary rear-guard, that dragged on after the main body.

He was required elsewhere.

"Soult," he said to himself, "will settle with them. My guiding star leads me back to fair France, which is all my own. Ay, and my own it must be, despite the news that these despatches bring me."

The news he referred to was that Austria had gone on the war-path.

So next day he hurried away from Spain, back again over the Pyrenees, with far greater speed than he had come.

Everything depended on his presence in Paris, and at the seat of this new war.

Let us follow Moore, then.

Words, of course, are useless to describe the retreat of this general and his now disorganised army.

A beaten or retreating army is ever a demoralised one, and the British, in this case, was no exception.

The retreat was indeed a race for life on a gigantic scale.

A race for life, a run for the sea.

For the first few days the retreat was conducted in as orderly a manner as possible. Some of the French, however, had crossed the stream, and, making a dash for Moore's rear, succeeded in capturing many hundreds of the sick and stragglers. These they despatched with scant ceremony.

It was pitiful indeed that the sick should be thus ruthlessly murdered; but as for the other stragglers, I fear they had only themselves to blame, for these men had weakened their constitutions with wine. Some, indeed, were found by Soult's men drunk on the hills or in the woods, and subjected to unheard-of atrocities.

But the torrents of rain, that left off only to change to pelting snow, and the terrible condition of the roads they had to traverse, soon began to tell upon the very best and bravest of the men, and they became gloomy, hopeless, and, in not a few instances, reckless.

The women and children--more of whom had been taken along with the army than Sir John Moore had sanctioned--were, perhaps, in a more terrible plight than even the men, being, of course, more feeble and less able to bear hardships and exposure to the elements.

These, with the sick, which every day increased in numbers, were kept as well in front as possible, but it is not going too far to say that the very helplessness of these poor creatures often inspired our fellows with courage, even when themselves sinking with fatigue.

Moore was making all haste, but so was Soult, and ever, as he pressed too closely in the rear, Sir John would single out his best regiments and companies, and while the main portion of his retreating army, with baggage and women, hurried on, he turned like a very lion in the face of Soult's men.

Did they fight despairingly?

No, Britons never despair when fighting.

Had you, reader, but heard the wild cheers of the English at such times, the terrible slogan of the Highlanders, and the inspiriting notes of the bagpipes, you would have been proud of your country. Nothing could have satisfied you but drawing your sword, taking up the battle-cry, and dashing on with our troops to face the French.

And not only was my grandfather's great friend, Tonal, in this retreat, but Sergeant Tom Grahame also.

In the dusk, one evening, my grand-dad met Tom carrying something in the folds of his plaid.

The honest fellow was bending down over it, and singing--_mirabile dictu!_

"Why, Tom," cried my grandfather, "what have you got there?"

"A poor wee lassie, John. She belonged to Jack Burns, of ours."

"And what are you going to do with her?"

"Why, Lord love the bairn; I dare say I'll have to adopt her."

"But her mother and father, Sergeant?" said Major Drake, who came up at this moment.

"Hush, sir, hush."

Then in a whisper: "I found the bairn beneath a bush out yonder, beside her dead mother. The father fell to-day in the rush back against Soult. She's an orphan. Sleep, dearie, sleep."

And he swung her back and forwards.

"A pretty child, indeed," said Drake.

The wee thing looked up into his face, and smiled.

"I'se dot (got) some suga' candy," she said, "and I'se going to keep a big, big piece for dear daddy and ma."

"Tom," said Major Drake, "however are you going to fight with a child in your arms?"

"O, I'll find a way," said Tom gaily; "but anyhow I'll stick to her till we get to Corunna."

"If ever we do get, lad," said grand-dad.

"Don't you go despairing next, John."

"O, I never despair."

Drake walked on. The halt had been called, and soon some food was brought--the sort it was.

"Why here comes Tonal, bagpipes and all."

"Well, it isn't me, John, that's going to play to-night. Man, I wouldn't play to wake the childer' (children) and the poor women for anything."

"Sit down, Tonal. Sentries are set, and I'm off duty, in a way of speaking. We'll spend the night together. Raise a fire, Tonal."

"I will with pleasure. And glad I am to be with you, och! and och! the scenes, on in front yonder, where Dr. McLeod is labouring, like the big, good-hearted giant he is, are just too awful for anything. And is it a little child you've got, Tom?"

Tom laughed.

"It's my little daughter," he said, and then told the sad story.

The fire was soon lighted, and the wee one was fed and dried. Then Tom rolled her in his plaid again, and she went to sleep in his arms.

"I think," said Tonal, thoughtfully gazing at the fire, "that it's myself can find you a nurse for the wee thing."

"Yes, Tonal?"

"O, it is just a little Spanish lassie of sixteen, but an angel for all that; so brave, too, though you wouldn't think it to look at her. And so bonnie, I--I--I think, man, I've sort of lost my heart to the girl."

"Well," said my grandfather, "I thank Heaven, Tonal, that my heart is far away, near Dublin Bay. And my wife, too, was sick to come with me. Maybe, Tonal, she is praying for us now."

Tonal simply said:

"Well, John, and we'll pray for her and for the dear souls on the peaceful Braes of R----. It's well they don't know to-night of our sorrows, or sufferings, or dangers."

Then they got talking together of far-off homes and times long gone by, till, wearied at last, they fell sound asleep.

The dark day had not yet broken, however, before the retreat was once more commenced.

As long as the marching continued, Tom Grahame stuck to his prize--the little orphan.

But things grew worse and worse, and the waysides or hills were littered with the weary and dying or dead. Especially did the women and children suffer. Alas! these were only too often left to be mutilated and torn to pieces by Soult's savage soldiers.

But on the day when Colbert, the French general, was killed by our maddened though flying forces, and seven squadrons of cavalry that he led cut to pieces, Tom Grahame entrusted Annie, as he called the child, to the care of the girl who had so captivated poor Tonal.

Poor Tonal, I well may say; for that day, while leading a stirring charge, or cheering the men, at all events, with the sound of the sweet Highland bagpipe, he was struck down with a bullet, that not only went through his shoulder, but through the bagpipes as well.

I really think Tonal was more vexed at the accident to his pipes than that to himself.

My grandfather helped to carry Tonal off the field, and to place him under the care of McLeod. Nor did he leave him until assured by the doctor that his friend's wound was not mortal.

"Och!" said Tonal, "but the wound to my poor pipes is mortal, Dr. McLeod, and it isn't you yourself that can mend that same."

The girl had now to nurse both the orphan and her lover, Tonal. As often as not the child and she were borne in the same litter.

Almost daily the fighting continued, and Soult soon came to the conclusion that in the British, despite the fact that they were a retreating or flying army, he had no mean foe to deal with.

I am sorry to add, so demoralized did many of our troops become, that they frequently broke the ranks, and rushed pell-mell to seize food and wine from the Spanish villages, or wherever else it could be found. Many thus lost their lives who might otherwise have been spared.

The night of the eighth was a memorable one. On the previous day, so fearful was the onslaught of the British on the advancing foe, that about five hundred French lay dead on the field, and so disheartened was Soult, that he refused battle.

This night there was no rest for the wounded and weary, except the eternal rest, into which many sank. For after a hurried supper the march was resumed.

Afar off they could see the camp-fires of the French, and their own the British left burning to deceive the foe.

When, on the 13th day of January, they came near to Corunna at last, their spirits rose to a joy almost akin to deliverance at the sight of the sea. But, alas! they sank again almost as speedily, for here was no British fleet to receive them.

Now at last it must be death or victory.