ACT THIRDSCENE ISPAIN. A ROAD NEAR ASTORGA[The eye of the spectator rakes the road from the interior of acellar which opens upon it, and forms the basement of a desertedhouse, the roof doors, and shutters of which have been pulled downand burnt for bivouac fires. The season is the beginning ofJanuary, and the country is covered with a sticky snow. The roaditself is intermittently encumbered with heavy traffic, the surfacebeing churned to a yellow mud that lies half knee-deep, and at thenumerous holes in the track forming still deeper quagmires.In the gloom of the cellar are heaps of damp straw, in whichragged figures are lying half-buried, many of the men in theuniform of English regiments, and the women and children in cloutsof all descriptions, some being nearly naked. At the back of thecellar is revealed, through a burst door, an inner vault, whereare discernible some wooden-hooped wine-casks; in one sticks agimlet, and the broaching-cork of another has been driven in.The wine runs into pitchers, washing-basins, shards, chamber-vessels, and other extemporized receptacles. Most of the inmatesare drunk; some to insensibility.So far as the characters are doing anything they are contemplatingalmost incessant traffic outside, passing in one direction. Itincludes a medley of stragglers from the Marquis of ROMANA’SSpanish forces and the retreating English army under SIR JOHNMOORE—to which the concealed deserters belong.]FIRST DESERTERNow he’s one of the Eighty-first, and I’d gladly let that poor bladeknow that we’ve all that man can wish for here—good wine and buxomwomen. But if I do, we shan’t have room for ourselves—hey?[He signifies a man limping past with neither fire-lock norknapsack. Where the discarded knapsack has rubbed for weeksagainst his shoulder-blades the jacket and shirt are frettedaway, leaving his skin exposed.]SECOND DESERTERHe may be the Eighty-firsht, or th’ Eighty-second; but what I say is,without fear of contradiction, I wish to the Lord I was back in oldBristol again. I’d sooner have a nipperkin of our own real “Bristolmilk” than a mash-tub full of this barbarian wine!THIRD DESERTER’Tis like thee to be ungrateful, after putting away such a skinfulon’t. I am as much Bristol as thee, but would as soon be here asthere. There ain’t near such willing women, that are strictrespectable too, there as hereabout, and no open cellars.— Asthere’s many a slip in this country I’ll have the rest of myallowance now.[He crawls on his elbows to one of the barrels, and turning on hisback lets the wine run down his throat.]FORTH DESERTER [to a fifth, who is snoring]Don’t treat us to such a snoaching there, mate. Here’s some morecoming, and they’ll sight us if we don’t mind![Enter without a straggling flock of military objects, some withfragments of shoes on, others bare-footed, many of the latter’sfeet bleeding. The arms and waists of some are clutched by womenas tattered and bare-footed as themselves. They pass on.The Retreat continues. More of ROMANA’S Spanish limp along indisorder; then enters a miscellaneous group of English cavalrysoldiers, some on foot, some mounted, the rearmost of the latterbestriding a shoeless foundered creature whose neck is vertebraeand mane only. While passing it falls from exhaustion; the trooperextricates himself and pistols the animal through the head. Heand the rest pass on.]FIRST DESERTER [a new plashing of feet being heard]Here’s something more in order, or I am much mistaken. He cranesout.] Yes, a sergeant of the Forty-third, and what’s left of theirsecond battalion. And, by God, not far behind I see shining helmets.’Tis a whole squadron of French dragoons![Enter the sergeant. He has a racking cough, but endeavours, bystiffening himself up, to hide how it is wasting away his life.He halts, and looks back, till the remains of the Forty-third areabreast, to the number of some three hundred, about half of whomare crippled invalids, the other half being presentable and armedsoldiery.’SERGEANTNow show yer nerve, and be men. If you die to-day you won’t have todie to-morrow. Fall in! [The miscellany falls in.] All invalids andmen without arms march ahead as well as they can. Quick—maw-w-w-ch![Exeunt invalids, etc.] Now! Tention! Shoulder-r-r—fawlocks! [Orderobeyed.][The sergeant hastily forms these into platoons, who prime and load,and seem preternaturally changed from what they were into alertsoldiers.Enter French dragoons at the left-back of the scene. The rearplatoon of the Forty-third turns, fires, and proceeds. The nextplatoon covering them does the same. This is repeated severaltimes, staggering the pursuers. Exeunt French dragoons, givingup the pursuit. The coughing sergeant and the remnant of theForty-third march on.]FOURTH DESERTER [to a woman lying beside him]What d’ye think o’ that, my honey? It fairly makes me a man again.Come, wake up! We must be getting along somehow. [He regards thewoman more closely.] Why—my little chick? Look here, friends.[They look, and the woman is found to be dead.] If I didn’t thinkthat her poor knees felt cold!... And only an hour ago I sworeto marry her![They remain silent. The Retreat continues in the snow without,now in the form of a file of ox-carts, followed by a mixed rabbleof English and Spanish, and mules and muleteers hired by Englishofficers to carry their baggage. The muleteers, looking aboutand seeing that the French dragoons gave been there, cut the bandswhich hold on the heavy packs, and scamper off with their mules.]A VOICE [behind]The Commander-in-Chief is determined to maintain discipline, andthey must suffer. No more pillaging here. It is the worst caseof brutality and plunder that we have had in this wretched time![Enter an English captain of hussars, a lieutenant, a guard ofabout a dozen, and three men as prisoner.]CAPTAINIf they choose to draw lots, only one need be made an example of.But they must be quick about it. The advance-guard of the enemyis not far behind.[The three prisoners appear to draw lots, and the one on whom thelot falls is blindfolded. Exeunt the hussars behind a wall, withcarbines. A volley is heard and something falls. The wretchedin the cellar shudder.]FOURTH DESERTER’Tis the same for us but for this heap of straw. Ah—my doxy is theonly one of us who is safe and sound! [He kisses the dead woman.][Retreat continues. A train of six-horse baggage-waggons lumberspast, a mounted sergeant alongside. Among the baggage lie woundedsoldiers and sick women.]SERGEANT OF THE WAGGON-TRAINIf so be they are dead, ye may as well drop ’em over the tail-board.’Tis no use straining the horses unnecessary.[Waggons halt. Two of the wounded who have just died are takenout, laid down by the roadside, and some muddy snow scraped overthem. Exeunt waggons and sergeant.An interval. More English troops pass on horses, mostly shoelessand foundered.Enter SIR JOHN MOORE and officers. MOORE appears on the paleevening light as a handsome man, far on in the forties, theorbits of his dark eyes showing marks of deep anxiety. He istalking to some of his staff with vehement emphasis and gesture.They cross the scene and go on out of sight, and the squashingof their horses’ hoofs in the snowy mud dies away.]FIFTH DESERTER [incoherently in his sleep]Poise fawlocks—open pans—right hands to pouch—handle ca’tridge—bring it—quick motion-bite top well off—prime—shut pans—castabout—load—-FIRST DESERTER [throwing a shoe at the sleeper]Shut up that! D’ye think you are a ’cruity in the awkward squadstill?SECOND DESERTERI don’t know what he thinks, but I know what I feel! Would that Iwere at home in England again, where there’s old-fashioned tipple,and a proper God A’mighty instead of this eternal ’Ooman and baby;—ay, at home a-leaning against old Bristol Bridge, and no questionsasked, and the winter sun slanting friendly over Baldwin Street as’a used to do! ’Tis my very belief, though I have lost all surereckoning, that if I were there, and in good health, ’twould be NewYear’s day about now. What it is over here I don’t know. Ay, to-night we should be a-setting in the tap of the “Adam and Eve”—lifting up the tune of “The Light o’ the Moon.” ’Twer a romanticalthing enough. ’A used to go som’at like this [he sings in a nasaltone]:—“O I thought it had been day,And I stole from here away;But it proved to be the light o’ the moon!”[Retreat continues, with infantry in good order. Hearing thesinging, one of the officers looks around, and detaching a patrolenters the ruined house with the file of men, the body of soldiersmarching on. The inmates of the cellar bury themselves in thestraw. The officer peers about, and seeing no one prods the strawwith his sword.VOICES [under the straw]Oh! Hell! Stop it! We’ll come out! Mercy! Quarter![The lurkers are uncovered.]OFFICERIf you are well enough to sing bawdy songs, you are well enough tomarch. So out of it—or you’ll be shot, here and now!SEVERALYou may shoot us, captain, or the French may shoot us, or the devilmay take us; we don’t care which! Only we can’t stir. Pity thewomen, captain, but do what you will with us![The searchers pass over the wounded, and stir out those capableof marching, both men and women, so far as they discover them.They are pricked on by the patrol. Exeunt patrol and desertersin its charge.Those who remain look stolidly at the highway. The English Rear-guard of cavalry crosses the scene and passes out. An interval.It grows dusk.]SPIRIT IRONICQuaint poesy, and real romance of war!SPIRIT OF THE PITIESMock on, Shade, if thou wilt! But others findPoesy ever lurk where pit-pats poor mankind![The scene is cloaked in darkness.]SCENE IITHE SAME[It is nearly midnight. The fugitives who remain in the cellarhaving slept off the effects of the wine, are awakened by a newtramping of cavalry, which becomes more and more persistent. Itis the French, who now fill the road. The advance-guard havingpassed by, DELABORDE’S division, LORGE’S division, MERLE’Sdivision, and others, successively cross the gloom.Presently come the outlines of the Imperial Guard, and then, witha start, those in hiding realize their situation, and are wideawake. NAPOLÉON enters with his staff. He has just been overtakenby a courier, and orders those round him to halt.]NAPOLÉONLet there a fire be lit: Ay, here and now.The lines within these letters brook no pauseIn mastering their purport.[Some of the French approach the ruined house and, appropriatingwhat wood is still left there, heap it by the roadside and set italight. A mixed rain and snow falls, and the sputtering flamesthrow a glare all round.]SECOND DESERTER [under his voice]We be shot corpses! Ay, faith, we be! Why didn’t I stick toEngland, and true doxology, and leave foreign doxies and theirwine alone!... Mate, can ye squeeze another shardful from thecask there, for I feel my time is come!... O that I had but thebarrel of that firelock I throwed away, and that wasted powder toprime and load! This bullet I chaw to squench my hunger would dothe rest!... Yes, I could pick him off now!FIRST DESERTERYou lie low with your picking off, or he may pick off you! ThankGod the babies are gone. Maybe we shan’t be noticed, if we’ve butthe courage to do nothing, and keep hid.[NAPOLÉON dismounts, approaches the fire, and looks around.]NAPOLÉONAnother of their dead horses here, I see.OFFICERYes, sire. We have counted eighteen hundred oddFrom Benavente hither, pistoled thus.Some we’d to finish for them: headlong hasteSpared them no time for mercy to their brutes.One-half their cavalry now tramps afoot.NAPOLÉONAnd what’s the tale of waggons we’ve picked up?OFFICERSpanish and all abandoned, some four hundred;Of magazines and firelocks, full ten load;And stragglers and their girls a numerous crew.NAPOLÉONAy, devil—plenty those! Licentious onesThese English, as all canting peoples are.—And prisoners?OFFICERSeven hundred English, sire;Spaniards five thousand more.NAPOLÉON’Tis not amiss.To keep the new year up they run away![He soliloquizes as he begins tearing open the dispatches.]Nor Pitt nor Fox displayed such blunderingAs glares in this campaign! It is, indeed,Enlarging Folly to FoolhardinessTo combat France by land! But how expectAught that can claim the name of governmentFrom Canning, Castlereagh, and Perceval,Caballers all—poor sorry politicians—To whom has fallen the luck of reaping inThe harvestings of Pitt’s bold husbandry.[He unfolds a dispatch, and looks for something to sit on. A cloakis thrown over a log, and he settles to reading by the firelight.The others stand round. The light, crossed by the snow-flakes,flickers on his unhealthy face and stoutening figure. He sinksinto the rigidity of profound thought, till his features lour.]So this is their reply! They have done with me!Britain declines negotiating further—Flouts France and Russia indiscriminately.“Since one dethrones and keeps as prisonersThe most legitimate kings”—that means myself—“The other suffers their unworthy treatmentFor sordid interests”—that’s for Alexander!...And what is Georgy made to say besides?—“Pacific overtures to us are wilesWoven to unnerve the generous nations roundLately escaped the galling yoke of France,Or waiting so to do. Such, then, being seen,These tentatives must be regarded nowAs finally forgone; and crimson warBe faced to its fell worst, unflinchingly.”—The devil take their lecture! What am I,That England should return such insolence?[He jumps up, furious, and walks to and fro beside the fire.By and by cooling he sits down again.]Now as to hostile signs in Austria....[He breaks another seal and reads.]Ah,—swords to cross with her some day in spring!Thinking me cornered over here in SpainShe speaks without disguise, the covert pact’Twixt her and England owning now quite frankly,Careless how works its knowledge upon me.She, England, Germany: well—I can front them!That there is no sufficient force of FrenchBetween the Elbe and Rhine to prostrate her,Let new and terrible experienceSoon disillude her of! Yea; she may arm:The opportunity she late let slipWill not subserve her now!SPIRIT OF THE PITIESHas he no heart-hints that this Austrian court,Whereon his mood takes mould so masterful,Is rearing naively in its nursery-roomA future wife for him?SPIRIT OF THE YEARSThou dost but guess it,And how should his heart know?NAPOLÉON [opening and reading another dispatch]Now eastward. Ohe!—The Orient likewise looms full somberly....The Turk declines pacifically to yieldWhat I have promised Alexander. Ah!...As for Constantinople being his prizeI’ll see him frozen first. His flight’s too high!And showing that I think so makes him cool. [Rises.]Is Soult the Duke Dalmatia yet at hand?OFFICERHe has arrived along the Leon roadJust now, your Majesty; and only waitsThe close of your perusals.[Enter SOULT, who is greeted by NAPOLÉON.]FIRST DESERTERGood Lord deliver us from all great men, and take me back again tohumble life! That’s Marshal Soult the Duke of Dalmatia!SECOND DESERTERThe Duke of Damnation for our poor rear, by the look on’t!FIRST DESERTERYes—he’ll make ’em rub their poor rears before he has done with’em! But we must overtake ’em to-morrow by a cross-cut, please God!NAPOLÉON [pointing to the dispatches]Here’s matter enough for me, Duke, and to spare.The ominous contents are like the threatsThe ancient prophets dealt rebellious Judah!Austria we soon shall have upon our hands,And England still is fierce for fighting on,—Strange humour in a concord-loving land!So now I must to Paris straight away—At least, to Valladolid; so as to standMore apt for couriers than I do out hereIn this far western corner, and to markThe veerings of these new developments,And blow a counter-breeze....Then, too, there’s Lannes, still sweating at the siegeOf sullen Zaragoza as ’twere hell.Him I must further counsel how to closeHis twice too tedious battery.—You, then, Soult—Ney is not yet, I gather, quite come up?SOULTHe’s near, sire, on the Benavente road;But some hours to the rear I reckon, still.NAPOLÉON [pointing to the dispatches]Him I’ll direct to come to your supportIn this pursuit and harassment of MooreWherein you take my place. You’ll follow upAnd chase the flying English to the sea.Bear hard on them, the bayonet at their loins.With Merle’s and Mermet’s corps just gone ahead,And Delaborde’s, and Heudelet’s here at hand.While Lorge’s and Lahoussaye’s picked dragoonsWill follow, and Franceschi’s cavalry.To Ney I am writing, in case of need,He will support with Marchand and Mathieu.—Your total thus of seventy thousand odd,Ten thousand horse, and cannon to five score,Should near annihilate this British force,And carve a triumph large in history.[He bends over the fire and makes some notes rapidly.]I move into Astorga; then turn back,[Though only in my person do I turn]And leave to you the destinies of Spain.SPIRIT OF THE YEARSMore turning may be here than he design.In this small, sudden, swift turn backward, heSuggests one turning from his apogee![The characters disperse, the fire sinks, and snowflakes anddarkness blot out all.]SCENE IIIBEFORE CORUNA[The town, harbour, and hills at the back are viewed from anaerial point to the north, over the lighthouse known as theTower of Hercules, rising at the extremity of the tongue ofland on which La Coruna stands, the open ocean being in thespectator’s rear.In the foreground the most prominent feature is the walled oldtown, with its white towers and houses, shaping itself aloftover the harbour. The new town, and its painted fronts, showbright below, even on this cloudy winter afternoon. Furtheroff, behind the harbour—now crowded with British transportsof all sizes—is a series of low broken hills, intersected byhedges and stone walls.A mile behind these low inner hills is beheld a rocky chain ofouter and loftier heights that completely command the former.Nothing behind them is seen but grey sky.DUMB SHOWOn the inner hills aforesaid the little English army—a patheticfourteen thousand of foot only—is just deploying into line: HOPE’Sdivision is on the left, BAIRD’S to the right. PAGET with thereserve is in the hollow to the left behind them; and FRASER’Sdivision still further back shapes out on a slight rise to the right.This harassed force now appears as if composed of quite other thanthe men observed in the Retreat insubordinately straggling alonglike vagabonds. Yet they are the same men, suddenly stiffened andgrown amenable to discipline by the satisfaction of standing to theenemy at last. They resemble a double palisade of red stakes, theonly gaps being those that the melancholy necessity of scant numbersentails here and there.Over the heads of these red men is beheld on the outer hills thetwenty thousand French that have been pushed along the road at theheels of the English by SOULT. They have an ominous superiority,both in position and in their abundance of cavalry and artillery,over the slender lines of English foot. The left of this background,facing HOPE, is made up of DELABORDE’S and MERLE’S divisions, whilein a deadly arc round BAIRD, from whom they are divided only by thevillage of Elvina, are placed MERMET’S division, LAHOUSSAYE’S andLORGE’S dragoons, FRANCESCHI’S cavalry, and, highest up of all, aformidable battery of eleven great guns that rake the whole Britishline.It is now getting on for two o’clock, and a stir of activity haslately been noticed along the French front. Three columns arediscerned descending from their position, the first towards thedivision of SIR DAVID BAIRD, the weakest point in the English line,the next towards the centre, the third towards the left. A heavycannonade from the battery supports this advance.The clash ensues, the English being swept down in swathes by theenemy’s artillery. The opponents meet face to face at the villagein the valley between them, and the fight there grows furious.SIR JOHN MOORE is seen galloping to the front under the gloomy sky.SPIRIT OF THE PITIESI seem to vision in San Carlos’ garden,That rises salient in the upper town,His name, and date, and doing, set withinA filmy outline like a monument,Which yet is but the insubstantial air.SPIRIT OF THE YEARSRead visions as conjectures; not as more.When MOORE arrives at the front, FRASER and PAGET move to the right,where the English are most sorely pressed. A grape-shot strikesoff BAIRD’S arm. There is a little confusion, and he is borne tothe rear; while MAJOR NAPIER disappears, a prisoner.Intelligence of these misfortunes is brought to SIR JOHN MOORE.He goes further forward, and precedes in person the Forty-secondregiment and a battalion of the Guards who, with fixed bayonets,bear the enemy back, MOORE’S gestures in cheering them beingnotably energetic. Pursuers, pursued, and SIR JOHN himself passout of sight behind the hill. Dumb Show ends.[The point of vision descends to the immediate rear of theEnglish position. The early January evening has begun to spreadits shades, and shouts of dismay are heard from behind the hillover which MOORE and the advancing lines have vanished.Straggling soldiers cross in the gloom.]FIRST STRAGGLERHe’s struck by a cannon-ball, that I know; but he’s not killed,that I pray God A’mighty.SECOND STRAGGLERBetter he were. His shoulder is knocked to a bag of splinters.As Sir David was wownded, Sir John was anxious that the rightshould not give way, and went forward to keep it firm.FIRST STRAGGLERHe didn’t keep YOU firm, howsomever.SECOND STRAGGLERNor you, for that matter.FIRST STRAGGLERWell, ’twas a serious place for a man with no priming-horn, anda character to lose, so I judged it best to fall to the rear bylying down. A man can’t fight by the regulations without hispriming-horn, and I am none of your slovenly anyhow fighters.SECOND STRAGGLER’Nation, having dropped my flit-pouch, I was the same. If you’dhad your priming-horn, and I my flints, mind ye, we should havebeen there now? Then, forty-whory, that we are not is the faulto’ Government for not supplying new ones from the reserve!FIRST STRAGGLERWhat did he say as he led us on?SECOND STRAGGLER“Forty-second, remember Egypt!” I heard it with my own ears. Yes,that was his strict testament.FIRST STRAGGLER“Remember Egypt.” Ay, and I do, for I was there!... Upon mysalvation, here’s for back again, whether or no!SECOND STRAGGLERBut here. “Forty-second, remember Egypt,” he said in the veryeye of that French battery playing through us. And the next omenwas that he was struck off his horse, and fell on his back to theground. I remembered Egypt, and what had just happened too, sothorough well that I remembered the way over this wall!—CaptainHardinge, who was close to him, jumped off his horse, and he andone in the ranks lifted him, and are now bringing him along.FIRST STRAGGLERNevertheless, here’s for back again, come what will. RememberEgypt! Hurrah![Exit First straggler. Second straggler ponders, then suddenlyfollows First. Enter COLONEL ANDERSON and others hastily.]AN OFFICERNow fetch a blanker. He must be carried in.[Shouts heard.]COLONEL ANDERSONThat means we are gaining ground! Had fate but leftThis last blow undecreed, the hour had shoneA star amid these girdling days of gloom![Exit. Enter in the obscurity six soldiers of the Forty-secondbearing MOORE on their joined hands. CAPTAIN HARDINGE walksbeside and steadies him. He is temporarily laid down in theshelter of a wall, his left shoulder being pounded away, the armdangling by a shred of flesh.Enter COLONEL GRAHAM and CAPTAIN WOODFORD.]GRAHAMThe wound is more than serious, Woodford, far.Ride for a surgeon—one of those, perhaps,Who tend Sir David Baird? [Exit Captain Woodford.]His blood throbs forth so fast, that I have dark fearsHe’ll drain to death ere anything can be done!HARDINGEI’ll try to staunch it—since no skill’s in call.[He takes off his sash and endeavours to bind the wound with it.MOORE smiles and shakes his head.]There’s not much checking it! Then rent’s too gross.A dozen lives could pass that thoroughfare![Enter a soldier with a blanket. They lift MOORE into it. Duringthe operation the pommel of his sword, which he still wears, isaccidentally thrust into the wound.]I’ll loose the sword—it bruises you, Sir John.[He begins to unbuckle it.]MOORENo. Let it be! One hurt more matters not.I wish it to go off the field with me.HARDINGEI like the sound of that. It augurs wellFor your much-hoped recovery.MOORE [looking sadly at his wound]Hardinge, no:Nature is nonplussed there! My shoulder’s gone,And this left side laid open to my lungs.There’s but a brief breath now for me, at most....Could you—move me along—that I may glimpseStill how the battle’s going?HARDINGEAy, Sir John—A few yard higher up, where we can see.[He is borne in the blanket a little way onward, and lifted sothat he can view the valley and the action.]MOORE [brightly]They seem to be advancing. Yes, it is so![Enter SIR JOHN HOPE.]Ah, Hope!—I am doing badly here enough;But they are doing rarely well out there. [Presses HOPE’S hand.]Don’t leave! my speech may flag with this fierce pain,But you can talk to me.—Are the French checked?HOPEMy dear friend, they are borne back steadily.MOORE [his voice weakening]I hope England—will be satisfied—I hope my native land—will do me justice!...I shall be blamed for sending Craufurd offAlong the Orense road. But had I not,Bonaparte would have headed us that way....HOPEO would that Soult had but accepted battleBy Lugo town! We should have crushed him there.MOOREYes... yes.—But it has never been my lotTo owe much to good luck; nor was it then.Good fortune has been mine, but [bitterly] mostly soBy the exhaustion of all shapes of bad!...Well, this does not become a dying man;And others have been chastened more than IBy Him who holds us in His hollowed hand!...I grieve for Zaragoza, if, as said,The siege goes sorely with her, which it must.I heard when at Dahagun that late dayThat she was holding out heroically.But I must leave such now.—You’ll see my friendsAs early as you can? Tell them the whole;Say to my mother.... [His voice fails.]Hope, Hope, I have so much to charge you with,But weakness clams my tongue!... If I must dieWithout a word with Stanhope, ask him, Hope,To—name me to his sister. You may knowOf what there was between us?...Is Colonel Graham well, and all my aides?My will I have made—it is in Colborne’s chargeWith other papers.HOPEHe’s now coming up.[Enter MAJOR COLBORNE, principal aide-de-camp.]MOOREAre the French beaten, Colborne, or repulsed?Alas! you see what they have done too me!COLBORNEI do, Sir John: I am more than sad thereat!In brief time now the surgeon will be here.The French retreat—pushed from Elvina far.MOOREThat’s good! Is Paget anywhere about?COLBORNEHe’s at the front, Sir John.MOORERemembrance to him![Enter two surgeons.]Ah, doctors,—you can scarcely mend up me.—And yet I feel so tough—I have feverish fearsMy dying will waste a long and tedious while;But not too long, I hope!SURGEONS [after a hasty examination]You must be borneIn to your lodgings instantly, Sir John.Please strive to stand the motion—if you can;They will keep step, and bear you steadily.MOOREAnything.... Surely fainter ebbs that fire?COLBORNEYes: we must be advancing everywhere:Colbert their General, too, they have lost, I learn.[They lift him by stretching their sashes under the blanket, andbegin moving off. A light waggon enters.]MOOREWho’s in that waggon?HARDINGEColonel Wynch, Sir John.He’s wounded, but he urges you to take it.MOORENo. I will not. This suits.... Don’t come with me;There’s more for you to do out here as yet. [Cheerful shouts.]A-ha! ’Tis THIS way I have wished to die![Exeunt slowly in the twilight MOORE, bearers, surgeons, etc.,towards Coruna. The scene darkens.]SCENE IVCORUNA. NEAR THE RAMPARTS[It is just before dawn on the following morning, objects beingstill indistinct. The features of the elevated enclosure of SanCarlos can be recognized in dim outline, and also those of theOld Town of Coruna around, though scarcely a lamp is shining.The numerous transports in the harbour beneath have still theirriding-lights burning.In a nook of the town walls a lantern glimmers. Some Englishsoldiers of the Ninth regiment are hastily digging a grave therewith extemporized tools.]A VOICE [from the gloom some distance off]“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he thatbelieveth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.”[The soldiers look up, and see entering at the further end of thepatch of ground a slow procession. It advances by the light oflanterns in the hands of some members of it. At moments the fitfulrays fall upon bearers carrying a coffinless body rolled in ablanket, with a military cloak roughly thrown over by way of pall.It is brought towards the incomplete grave, and followed by HOPE,GRAHAM, ANDERSON, COLBORNE, HARDINGE, and several aides-de-camp,a chaplain preceding.]FIRST SOLDIERThey are here, almost as quickly as ourselves.There is no time to dig much deeper now:Level a bottom just as far’s we’ve got.He’ll couch as calmly in this scrabbled holeAs in a royal vault!SECOND SOLDIERWould it had been a foot deeper, here among foreigners, with strangemanures manufactured out of no one knows what! Surely we can givehim another six inches?FIRST SOLDIERThere is no time. Just make the bottom true.[The meagre procession approaches the spot, and waits while thehalf-dug grave is roughly finished by the men of the Ninth.They step out of it, and another of them holds a lantern to thechaplain’s book. The winter day slowly dawns.]CHAPLAIN“Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and isfull of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; hefleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.”[A gun is fired from the French battery not far off; then another.The ships in the harbour take in their riding lights.]COLBORNE [in a low voice]I knew that dawn would see them open fire.HOPEWe must perforce make swift use of out time.Would we had closed our too sad office sooner![As the body is lowered another discharge echoes. They glancegloomily at the heights where the French are ranged, and theninto the grave.]CHAPLAIN“We therefore commit his body to the ground. Earth to earth, ashesto ashes, dust to dust.” [Another gun.][A spent ball falls not far off. They put out their lanterns.Continued firing, some shot splashing into the harbour belowthem.]HOPEIn mercy to the living, who are thrustUpon our care for their deliverance,And run much hazard till they are embarked,We must abridge these duties to the dead,Who will not mind be they abridged or no.HARDINGEAnd could he mind, would be the man to bid it....HOPEWe shall do well, then, curtly to concludeThese mutilated prayers—our hurried best!—And what’s left unsaid, feel.CHAPLAIN [his words broken by the cannonade]“.... We give Thee hearty thanks for that it hath pleasedThee to deliver this our brother out of the miseries of thissinful world.... Who also hath taught us not to be sorry, asmen without hope, for them that sleep in Him.... Grant this,through Jesus Christ our Mediator and Redeemer.”OFFICERS AND SOLDIERSAmen![The diggers of the Ninth hastily fill in the grave, and the sceneshuts as the mournful figures retire.]SCENE VVIENNA. A CAFE IN THE STEPHANS-PLATZ[An evening between light and dark is disclosed, some lamps beinglit. The huge body and tower of St. Stephen’s rise into the skysome way off, the western gleam still touching the upper stonework.Groups of people are seated at the tables, drinking and readingthe newspapers. One very animated group, which includes anEnglishman, is talking loudly. A citizen near looks up from hisnewspaper.]CITIZEN [to the Englishman]I read, sir, here, the troubles you discussOf your so gallant army under Moore.His was a spirit baffled but not quelled,And in his death there shone a stoicismThat lent retreat the rays of victory.ENGLISHMANIt was so. While men chide they will admire him,And frowning, praise. I could nigh prophesyThat the unwonted crosses he has borneIn his career of sharp vicissitudeWill tinct his story with a tender charm,And grant the memory of his strenuous featsAs long a lease within the minds of menAs conquerors hold there.—Does the sheet give newsOf how the troops reached home?CITIZEN [looking up again at the paper]Yes; from your pressIt quotes that they arrived at Plymouth SoundMid dreadful weather and much suffering.It states they looked the very ghosts of men,So heavily had hunger told on them,And the fatigues and toils of the retreat.Several were landed dead, and many diedAs they were borne along. At Portsmouth, too,Sir David Baird, still helpless from his wound,Was carried in a cot, sheet-pale and thin,And Sir John Hope, lank as a skeleton.—Thereto is added, with authority,That a new expedition soon will fit,And start again for Spain.ENGLISHMANI have heard as much.CITIZENYou’ll do it next time, sir. And so shall we!SECOND CITIZEN [regarding the church tower opposite]You witnessed the High Service over thereThey held this morning? [To the Englishman.]ENGLISHMANAy; I did get in;Though not without hard striving, such the throng;But travellers roam to waste who shyly roamAnd I pushed like the rest.SECOND CITIZENOur young ArchduchessMaria Louisa was, they tell me, present?ENGLISHMANO yes: the whole Imperial family,And when the Bishop called all blessings downUpon the Landwehr colours there displayed,Enthusiasm touched the sky—she sharing it.SECOND CITIZENCommendable in her, and spirited,After the graceless insults to the CourtThe Paris journals flaunt—not voluntarily,But by his ordering. Magician-likeHe holds them in his fist, and at his squeezeThey bubble what he wills!... Yes, she’s a girlOf patriotic build, and hates the French.Quite lately she was overheard to sayShe had met with most convincing auguriesThat this year Bonaparte was starred to die.ENGLISHMANYour arms must render its fulfilment sure.SECOND CITIZENRight! And we have the opportunity,By upping to the war in suddenness,And catching him unaware. The pink and flowerOf all his veteran troops are now in SpainFully engaged with yours; while those he holdsIn Germany are scattered far and wide.FIRST CITIZEN [looking up again from his newspaper]I see here that he vows and guaranteesInviolate bounds to all our territoriesIf we but pledge to carry out forthwithA prompt disarmament. Since that’s his priceHell burn his guarantees! Too long he has fooled us.[To the Englishman] I drink, sir, to your land’s consistency.While we and all the kindred Europe StatesAlternately have wooed and warred him,You have not bent to blowing hot and cold,But held you sturdily inimical!ENGLISHMAN [laughing]Less Christian-like forgiveness mellows usThan Continental souls! [They drink.][A band is heard in a distant street, with shouting. Enter thirdand fourth citizens, followed by others.]FIRST CITIZENMore news afloat?THIRD AND FOURTH CITIZENSYea; an announcement that the Archduke CharlesIs given the chief command.FIRST, SECOND, ETC., CITIZENSHuzza! Right so![A clinking of glasses, rising from seats, and general enthusiasm.]SECOND CITIZENIf war had not so patly been declared,Our howitzers and firelocks of themselvesWould have gone off to shame us! This forenoonSome of the Landwehr met me; they are hotFor setting out, though but few months enrolled.ENGLISHMANThat moves reflection somewhat. They are youngFor measuring with the veteran file of France!FIRST CITIZENNapoléon’s army swarms with tender youth,His last conscription besomed into itThousands of merest boys. But he contrivesTo mix them in the field with seasoned frames.SECOND CITIZENThe sadly-seen mistake this country madeWas that of grounding hostile arms at all.We should have fought irreconcilably—Have been consistent as the English are.The French are our hereditary foes,And this adventurer of the saucy sword,This sacrilegious slighter of our shrines,Stands author of all our ills...Our harvest fields and fruits he trample on,Accumulating ruin in our land.Think of what mournings in the last sad war’Twas his to instigate and answer for!Time never can efface the glint of tearsIn palaces, in shops, in fields, in cots,From women widowed, sonless, fatherless,That then oppressed our eyes. There is no salveFor such deep harrowings but to fight again;The enfranchisement of Europe hangs thereon,And long she has lingered for the sign to crush him:That signal we have given; the time is come! [Thumping on the table.]FIFTH CITIZEN [at another table, looking up from his paper andspeaking across]I see that Russia has declined to aid us,And says she knows that Prussia likewise must;So that the mission of Prince SchwarzenbergTo Alexander’s Court has closed in failure.THIRD CITIZENAy—through his being honest—fatal sin!—Probing too plainly for the Emperor’s earsHis ominous friendship with Napoléon.ENGLISHMANSome say he was more than honest with the Tsar;Hinting that his becoming an allyMakes him accomplice of the CorsicanIn the unprincipled dark overthrowOf his poor trusting childish Spanish friends—Which gave the Tsar offence.THIRD CITIZENAnd our best bid—The last, most delicate dish—a tastelessness.FIRST CITIZENWhat was Prince Schwarzenberg’s best bid, I pray?THIRD CITIZENThe offer of the heir of Austria’s handFor Alexander’s sister the Grand-Duchess.ENGLISHMANHe could not have accepted, if or no:She is inscribed as wife for Bonaparte.FIRST CITIZENI doubt that text!ENGLISHMANTime’s context soon will show.SECOND CITIZENThe Russian Cabinet can not for longResist the ardour of the Russian ranksTo march with us the moment we achieveOur first loud victory![A band is heard playing afar, and shouting. People are seenhurrying past in the direction of the sounds. Enter sixthcitizen.]SIXTH CITIZENThe Archduke CharlesIs passing the Ringstrasse just by now,His regiment at his heels![The younger sitters jump up with animation, and go out, theelder mostly remaining.]SECOND CITIZENRealm never facedThe grin of a more fierce necessityFor horrid war, than ours at this tense time![The sounds of band-playing and huzzaing wane away. Citizensreturn.]FIRST CITIZENMore news, my friends, of swiftly swelling zeal?RE-ENTERED CITIZENSEre passing down the Ring, the Archduke pausedAnd gave the soldiers speech, enkindling themAs sunrise a confronting throng of panesThat glaze a many-windowed east facade:Hot volunteers vamp in from vill and plain—More than we need in the furthest sacrifice!FIRST, SECOND, ETC., CITIZENSHuzza! Right so! Good! Forwards! God be praised![They stand up, and a clinking of glasses follows, till theysubside to quietude and a reperusal of newspapers. Nightfallsucceeds. Dancing-rooms are lit up in an opposite street, anddancing begins. The figures are seen gracefully moving roundto the throbbing strains of a string-band, which plays a newwaltzing movement with a warlike name, soon to spread overEurope. The dancers sing patriotic words as they whirl. Thenight closes over.]
SPAIN. A ROAD NEAR ASTORGA[The eye of the spectator rakes the road from the interior of acellar which opens upon it, and forms the basement of a desertedhouse, the roof doors, and shutters of which have been pulled downand burnt for bivouac fires. The season is the beginning ofJanuary, and the country is covered with a sticky snow. The roaditself is intermittently encumbered with heavy traffic, the surfacebeing churned to a yellow mud that lies half knee-deep, and at thenumerous holes in the track forming still deeper quagmires.In the gloom of the cellar are heaps of damp straw, in whichragged figures are lying half-buried, many of the men in theuniform of English regiments, and the women and children in cloutsof all descriptions, some being nearly naked. At the back of thecellar is revealed, through a burst door, an inner vault, whereare discernible some wooden-hooped wine-casks; in one sticks agimlet, and the broaching-cork of another has been driven in.The wine runs into pitchers, washing-basins, shards, chamber-vessels, and other extemporized receptacles. Most of the inmatesare drunk; some to insensibility.So far as the characters are doing anything they are contemplatingalmost incessant traffic outside, passing in one direction. Itincludes a medley of stragglers from the Marquis of ROMANA’SSpanish forces and the retreating English army under SIR JOHNMOORE—to which the concealed deserters belong.]
FIRST DESERTERNow he’s one of the Eighty-first, and I’d gladly let that poor bladeknow that we’ve all that man can wish for here—good wine and buxomwomen. But if I do, we shan’t have room for ourselves—hey?[He signifies a man limping past with neither fire-lock norknapsack. Where the discarded knapsack has rubbed for weeksagainst his shoulder-blades the jacket and shirt are frettedaway, leaving his skin exposed.]
SECOND DESERTERHe may be the Eighty-firsht, or th’ Eighty-second; but what I say is,without fear of contradiction, I wish to the Lord I was back in oldBristol again. I’d sooner have a nipperkin of our own real “Bristolmilk” than a mash-tub full of this barbarian wine!
THIRD DESERTER’Tis like thee to be ungrateful, after putting away such a skinfulon’t. I am as much Bristol as thee, but would as soon be here asthere. There ain’t near such willing women, that are strictrespectable too, there as hereabout, and no open cellars.— Asthere’s many a slip in this country I’ll have the rest of myallowance now.[He crawls on his elbows to one of the barrels, and turning on hisback lets the wine run down his throat.]
FORTH DESERTER [to a fifth, who is snoring]Don’t treat us to such a snoaching there, mate. Here’s some morecoming, and they’ll sight us if we don’t mind![Enter without a straggling flock of military objects, some withfragments of shoes on, others bare-footed, many of the latter’sfeet bleeding. The arms and waists of some are clutched by womenas tattered and bare-footed as themselves. They pass on.The Retreat continues. More of ROMANA’S Spanish limp along indisorder; then enters a miscellaneous group of English cavalrysoldiers, some on foot, some mounted, the rearmost of the latterbestriding a shoeless foundered creature whose neck is vertebraeand mane only. While passing it falls from exhaustion; the trooperextricates himself and pistols the animal through the head. Heand the rest pass on.]
FIRST DESERTER [a new plashing of feet being heard]Here’s something more in order, or I am much mistaken. He cranesout.] Yes, a sergeant of the Forty-third, and what’s left of theirsecond battalion. And, by God, not far behind I see shining helmets.’Tis a whole squadron of French dragoons![Enter the sergeant. He has a racking cough, but endeavours, bystiffening himself up, to hide how it is wasting away his life.He halts, and looks back, till the remains of the Forty-third areabreast, to the number of some three hundred, about half of whomare crippled invalids, the other half being presentable and armedsoldiery.’
SERGEANTNow show yer nerve, and be men. If you die to-day you won’t have todie to-morrow. Fall in! [The miscellany falls in.] All invalids andmen without arms march ahead as well as they can. Quick—maw-w-w-ch![Exeunt invalids, etc.] Now! Tention! Shoulder-r-r—fawlocks! [Orderobeyed.][The sergeant hastily forms these into platoons, who prime and load,and seem preternaturally changed from what they were into alertsoldiers.Enter French dragoons at the left-back of the scene. The rearplatoon of the Forty-third turns, fires, and proceeds. The nextplatoon covering them does the same. This is repeated severaltimes, staggering the pursuers. Exeunt French dragoons, givingup the pursuit. The coughing sergeant and the remnant of theForty-third march on.]
FOURTH DESERTER [to a woman lying beside him]What d’ye think o’ that, my honey? It fairly makes me a man again.Come, wake up! We must be getting along somehow. [He regards thewoman more closely.] Why—my little chick? Look here, friends.[They look, and the woman is found to be dead.] If I didn’t thinkthat her poor knees felt cold!... And only an hour ago I sworeto marry her![They remain silent. The Retreat continues in the snow without,now in the form of a file of ox-carts, followed by a mixed rabbleof English and Spanish, and mules and muleteers hired by Englishofficers to carry their baggage. The muleteers, looking aboutand seeing that the French dragoons gave been there, cut the bandswhich hold on the heavy packs, and scamper off with their mules.]
A VOICE [behind]The Commander-in-Chief is determined to maintain discipline, andthey must suffer. No more pillaging here. It is the worst caseof brutality and plunder that we have had in this wretched time![Enter an English captain of hussars, a lieutenant, a guard ofabout a dozen, and three men as prisoner.]
CAPTAINIf they choose to draw lots, only one need be made an example of.But they must be quick about it. The advance-guard of the enemyis not far behind.[The three prisoners appear to draw lots, and the one on whom thelot falls is blindfolded. Exeunt the hussars behind a wall, withcarbines. A volley is heard and something falls. The wretchedin the cellar shudder.]
FOURTH DESERTER’Tis the same for us but for this heap of straw. Ah—my doxy is theonly one of us who is safe and sound! [He kisses the dead woman.][Retreat continues. A train of six-horse baggage-waggons lumberspast, a mounted sergeant alongside. Among the baggage lie woundedsoldiers and sick women.]
SERGEANT OF THE WAGGON-TRAINIf so be they are dead, ye may as well drop ’em over the tail-board.’Tis no use straining the horses unnecessary.[Waggons halt. Two of the wounded who have just died are takenout, laid down by the roadside, and some muddy snow scraped overthem. Exeunt waggons and sergeant.An interval. More English troops pass on horses, mostly shoelessand foundered.Enter SIR JOHN MOORE and officers. MOORE appears on the paleevening light as a handsome man, far on in the forties, theorbits of his dark eyes showing marks of deep anxiety. He istalking to some of his staff with vehement emphasis and gesture.They cross the scene and go on out of sight, and the squashingof their horses’ hoofs in the snowy mud dies away.]
FIFTH DESERTER [incoherently in his sleep]Poise fawlocks—open pans—right hands to pouch—handle ca’tridge—bring it—quick motion-bite top well off—prime—shut pans—castabout—load—-
FIRST DESERTER [throwing a shoe at the sleeper]Shut up that! D’ye think you are a ’cruity in the awkward squadstill?
SECOND DESERTERI don’t know what he thinks, but I know what I feel! Would that Iwere at home in England again, where there’s old-fashioned tipple,and a proper God A’mighty instead of this eternal ’Ooman and baby;—ay, at home a-leaning against old Bristol Bridge, and no questionsasked, and the winter sun slanting friendly over Baldwin Street as’a used to do! ’Tis my very belief, though I have lost all surereckoning, that if I were there, and in good health, ’twould be NewYear’s day about now. What it is over here I don’t know. Ay, to-night we should be a-setting in the tap of the “Adam and Eve”—lifting up the tune of “The Light o’ the Moon.” ’Twer a romanticalthing enough. ’A used to go som’at like this [he sings in a nasaltone]:—“O I thought it had been day,And I stole from here away;But it proved to be the light o’ the moon!”[Retreat continues, with infantry in good order. Hearing thesinging, one of the officers looks around, and detaching a patrolenters the ruined house with the file of men, the body of soldiersmarching on. The inmates of the cellar bury themselves in thestraw. The officer peers about, and seeing no one prods the strawwith his sword.
VOICES [under the straw]Oh! Hell! Stop it! We’ll come out! Mercy! Quarter![The lurkers are uncovered.]
OFFICERIf you are well enough to sing bawdy songs, you are well enough tomarch. So out of it—or you’ll be shot, here and now!
SEVERALYou may shoot us, captain, or the French may shoot us, or the devilmay take us; we don’t care which! Only we can’t stir. Pity thewomen, captain, but do what you will with us![The searchers pass over the wounded, and stir out those capableof marching, both men and women, so far as they discover them.They are pricked on by the patrol. Exeunt patrol and desertersin its charge.Those who remain look stolidly at the highway. The English Rear-guard of cavalry crosses the scene and passes out. An interval.It grows dusk.]
SPIRIT IRONICQuaint poesy, and real romance of war!
SPIRIT OF THE PITIESMock on, Shade, if thou wilt! But others findPoesy ever lurk where pit-pats poor mankind![The scene is cloaked in darkness.]
THE SAME[It is nearly midnight. The fugitives who remain in the cellarhaving slept off the effects of the wine, are awakened by a newtramping of cavalry, which becomes more and more persistent. Itis the French, who now fill the road. The advance-guard havingpassed by, DELABORDE’S division, LORGE’S division, MERLE’Sdivision, and others, successively cross the gloom.Presently come the outlines of the Imperial Guard, and then, witha start, those in hiding realize their situation, and are wideawake. NAPOLÉON enters with his staff. He has just been overtakenby a courier, and orders those round him to halt.]
NAPOLÉONLet there a fire be lit: Ay, here and now.The lines within these letters brook no pauseIn mastering their purport.[Some of the French approach the ruined house and, appropriatingwhat wood is still left there, heap it by the roadside and set italight. A mixed rain and snow falls, and the sputtering flamesthrow a glare all round.]
SECOND DESERTER [under his voice]We be shot corpses! Ay, faith, we be! Why didn’t I stick toEngland, and true doxology, and leave foreign doxies and theirwine alone!... Mate, can ye squeeze another shardful from thecask there, for I feel my time is come!... O that I had but thebarrel of that firelock I throwed away, and that wasted powder toprime and load! This bullet I chaw to squench my hunger would dothe rest!... Yes, I could pick him off now!
FIRST DESERTERYou lie low with your picking off, or he may pick off you! ThankGod the babies are gone. Maybe we shan’t be noticed, if we’ve butthe courage to do nothing, and keep hid.[NAPOLÉON dismounts, approaches the fire, and looks around.]
NAPOLÉONAnother of their dead horses here, I see.
OFFICERYes, sire. We have counted eighteen hundred oddFrom Benavente hither, pistoled thus.Some we’d to finish for them: headlong hasteSpared them no time for mercy to their brutes.One-half their cavalry now tramps afoot.
NAPOLÉONAnd what’s the tale of waggons we’ve picked up?
OFFICERSpanish and all abandoned, some four hundred;Of magazines and firelocks, full ten load;And stragglers and their girls a numerous crew.
NAPOLÉONAy, devil—plenty those! Licentious onesThese English, as all canting peoples are.—And prisoners?
OFFICERSeven hundred English, sire;Spaniards five thousand more.
NAPOLÉON’Tis not amiss.To keep the new year up they run away![He soliloquizes as he begins tearing open the dispatches.]Nor Pitt nor Fox displayed such blunderingAs glares in this campaign! It is, indeed,Enlarging Folly to FoolhardinessTo combat France by land! But how expectAught that can claim the name of governmentFrom Canning, Castlereagh, and Perceval,Caballers all—poor sorry politicians—To whom has fallen the luck of reaping inThe harvestings of Pitt’s bold husbandry.[He unfolds a dispatch, and looks for something to sit on. A cloakis thrown over a log, and he settles to reading by the firelight.The others stand round. The light, crossed by the snow-flakes,flickers on his unhealthy face and stoutening figure. He sinksinto the rigidity of profound thought, till his features lour.]So this is their reply! They have done with me!Britain declines negotiating further—Flouts France and Russia indiscriminately.“Since one dethrones and keeps as prisonersThe most legitimate kings”—that means myself—“The other suffers their unworthy treatmentFor sordid interests”—that’s for Alexander!...And what is Georgy made to say besides?—“Pacific overtures to us are wilesWoven to unnerve the generous nations roundLately escaped the galling yoke of France,Or waiting so to do. Such, then, being seen,These tentatives must be regarded nowAs finally forgone; and crimson warBe faced to its fell worst, unflinchingly.”—The devil take their lecture! What am I,That England should return such insolence?[He jumps up, furious, and walks to and fro beside the fire.By and by cooling he sits down again.]Now as to hostile signs in Austria....[He breaks another seal and reads.]Ah,—swords to cross with her some day in spring!Thinking me cornered over here in SpainShe speaks without disguise, the covert pact’Twixt her and England owning now quite frankly,Careless how works its knowledge upon me.She, England, Germany: well—I can front them!That there is no sufficient force of FrenchBetween the Elbe and Rhine to prostrate her,Let new and terrible experienceSoon disillude her of! Yea; she may arm:The opportunity she late let slipWill not subserve her now!
SPIRIT OF THE PITIESHas he no heart-hints that this Austrian court,Whereon his mood takes mould so masterful,Is rearing naively in its nursery-roomA future wife for him?
SPIRIT OF THE YEARSThou dost but guess it,And how should his heart know?
NAPOLÉON [opening and reading another dispatch]Now eastward. Ohe!—The Orient likewise looms full somberly....The Turk declines pacifically to yieldWhat I have promised Alexander. Ah!...As for Constantinople being his prizeI’ll see him frozen first. His flight’s too high!And showing that I think so makes him cool. [Rises.]Is Soult the Duke Dalmatia yet at hand?
OFFICERHe has arrived along the Leon roadJust now, your Majesty; and only waitsThe close of your perusals.[Enter SOULT, who is greeted by NAPOLÉON.]
FIRST DESERTERGood Lord deliver us from all great men, and take me back again tohumble life! That’s Marshal Soult the Duke of Dalmatia!
SECOND DESERTERThe Duke of Damnation for our poor rear, by the look on’t!
FIRST DESERTERYes—he’ll make ’em rub their poor rears before he has done with’em! But we must overtake ’em to-morrow by a cross-cut, please God!
NAPOLÉON [pointing to the dispatches]Here’s matter enough for me, Duke, and to spare.The ominous contents are like the threatsThe ancient prophets dealt rebellious Judah!Austria we soon shall have upon our hands,And England still is fierce for fighting on,—Strange humour in a concord-loving land!So now I must to Paris straight away—At least, to Valladolid; so as to standMore apt for couriers than I do out hereIn this far western corner, and to markThe veerings of these new developments,And blow a counter-breeze....Then, too, there’s Lannes, still sweating at the siegeOf sullen Zaragoza as ’twere hell.Him I must further counsel how to closeHis twice too tedious battery.—You, then, Soult—Ney is not yet, I gather, quite come up?
SOULTHe’s near, sire, on the Benavente road;But some hours to the rear I reckon, still.
NAPOLÉON [pointing to the dispatches]Him I’ll direct to come to your supportIn this pursuit and harassment of MooreWherein you take my place. You’ll follow upAnd chase the flying English to the sea.Bear hard on them, the bayonet at their loins.With Merle’s and Mermet’s corps just gone ahead,And Delaborde’s, and Heudelet’s here at hand.While Lorge’s and Lahoussaye’s picked dragoonsWill follow, and Franceschi’s cavalry.To Ney I am writing, in case of need,He will support with Marchand and Mathieu.—Your total thus of seventy thousand odd,Ten thousand horse, and cannon to five score,Should near annihilate this British force,And carve a triumph large in history.[He bends over the fire and makes some notes rapidly.]I move into Astorga; then turn back,[Though only in my person do I turn]And leave to you the destinies of Spain.
SPIRIT OF THE YEARSMore turning may be here than he design.In this small, sudden, swift turn backward, heSuggests one turning from his apogee![The characters disperse, the fire sinks, and snowflakes anddarkness blot out all.]
BEFORE CORUNA[The town, harbour, and hills at the back are viewed from anaerial point to the north, over the lighthouse known as theTower of Hercules, rising at the extremity of the tongue ofland on which La Coruna stands, the open ocean being in thespectator’s rear.In the foreground the most prominent feature is the walled oldtown, with its white towers and houses, shaping itself aloftover the harbour. The new town, and its painted fronts, showbright below, even on this cloudy winter afternoon. Furtheroff, behind the harbour—now crowded with British transportsof all sizes—is a series of low broken hills, intersected byhedges and stone walls.A mile behind these low inner hills is beheld a rocky chain ofouter and loftier heights that completely command the former.Nothing behind them is seen but grey sky.
DUMB SHOWOn the inner hills aforesaid the little English army—a patheticfourteen thousand of foot only—is just deploying into line: HOPE’Sdivision is on the left, BAIRD’S to the right. PAGET with thereserve is in the hollow to the left behind them; and FRASER’Sdivision still further back shapes out on a slight rise to the right.This harassed force now appears as if composed of quite other thanthe men observed in the Retreat insubordinately straggling alonglike vagabonds. Yet they are the same men, suddenly stiffened andgrown amenable to discipline by the satisfaction of standing to theenemy at last. They resemble a double palisade of red stakes, theonly gaps being those that the melancholy necessity of scant numbersentails here and there.Over the heads of these red men is beheld on the outer hills thetwenty thousand French that have been pushed along the road at theheels of the English by SOULT. They have an ominous superiority,both in position and in their abundance of cavalry and artillery,over the slender lines of English foot. The left of this background,facing HOPE, is made up of DELABORDE’S and MERLE’S divisions, whilein a deadly arc round BAIRD, from whom they are divided only by thevillage of Elvina, are placed MERMET’S division, LAHOUSSAYE’S andLORGE’S dragoons, FRANCESCHI’S cavalry, and, highest up of all, aformidable battery of eleven great guns that rake the whole Britishline.It is now getting on for two o’clock, and a stir of activity haslately been noticed along the French front. Three columns arediscerned descending from their position, the first towards thedivision of SIR DAVID BAIRD, the weakest point in the English line,the next towards the centre, the third towards the left. A heavycannonade from the battery supports this advance.The clash ensues, the English being swept down in swathes by theenemy’s artillery. The opponents meet face to face at the villagein the valley between them, and the fight there grows furious.SIR JOHN MOORE is seen galloping to the front under the gloomy sky.
SPIRIT OF THE PITIESI seem to vision in San Carlos’ garden,That rises salient in the upper town,His name, and date, and doing, set withinA filmy outline like a monument,Which yet is but the insubstantial air.
SPIRIT OF THE YEARSRead visions as conjectures; not as more.
When MOORE arrives at the front, FRASER and PAGET move to the right,where the English are most sorely pressed. A grape-shot strikesoff BAIRD’S arm. There is a little confusion, and he is borne tothe rear; while MAJOR NAPIER disappears, a prisoner.Intelligence of these misfortunes is brought to SIR JOHN MOORE.He goes further forward, and precedes in person the Forty-secondregiment and a battalion of the Guards who, with fixed bayonets,bear the enemy back, MOORE’S gestures in cheering them beingnotably energetic. Pursuers, pursued, and SIR JOHN himself passout of sight behind the hill. Dumb Show ends.[The point of vision descends to the immediate rear of theEnglish position. The early January evening has begun to spreadits shades, and shouts of dismay are heard from behind the hillover which MOORE and the advancing lines have vanished.Straggling soldiers cross in the gloom.]
FIRST STRAGGLERHe’s struck by a cannon-ball, that I know; but he’s not killed,that I pray God A’mighty.
SECOND STRAGGLERBetter he were. His shoulder is knocked to a bag of splinters.As Sir David was wownded, Sir John was anxious that the rightshould not give way, and went forward to keep it firm.
FIRST STRAGGLERHe didn’t keep YOU firm, howsomever.
SECOND STRAGGLERNor you, for that matter.
FIRST STRAGGLERWell, ’twas a serious place for a man with no priming-horn, anda character to lose, so I judged it best to fall to the rear bylying down. A man can’t fight by the regulations without hispriming-horn, and I am none of your slovenly anyhow fighters.
SECOND STRAGGLER’Nation, having dropped my flit-pouch, I was the same. If you’dhad your priming-horn, and I my flints, mind ye, we should havebeen there now? Then, forty-whory, that we are not is the faulto’ Government for not supplying new ones from the reserve!
FIRST STRAGGLERWhat did he say as he led us on?
SECOND STRAGGLER“Forty-second, remember Egypt!” I heard it with my own ears. Yes,that was his strict testament.
FIRST STRAGGLER“Remember Egypt.” Ay, and I do, for I was there!... Upon mysalvation, here’s for back again, whether or no!
SECOND STRAGGLERBut here. “Forty-second, remember Egypt,” he said in the veryeye of that French battery playing through us. And the next omenwas that he was struck off his horse, and fell on his back to theground. I remembered Egypt, and what had just happened too, sothorough well that I remembered the way over this wall!—CaptainHardinge, who was close to him, jumped off his horse, and he andone in the ranks lifted him, and are now bringing him along.
FIRST STRAGGLERNevertheless, here’s for back again, come what will. RememberEgypt! Hurrah![Exit First straggler. Second straggler ponders, then suddenlyfollows First. Enter COLONEL ANDERSON and others hastily.]
AN OFFICERNow fetch a blanker. He must be carried in.[Shouts heard.]
COLONEL ANDERSONThat means we are gaining ground! Had fate but leftThis last blow undecreed, the hour had shoneA star amid these girdling days of gloom![Exit. Enter in the obscurity six soldiers of the Forty-secondbearing MOORE on their joined hands. CAPTAIN HARDINGE walksbeside and steadies him. He is temporarily laid down in theshelter of a wall, his left shoulder being pounded away, the armdangling by a shred of flesh.Enter COLONEL GRAHAM and CAPTAIN WOODFORD.]
GRAHAMThe wound is more than serious, Woodford, far.Ride for a surgeon—one of those, perhaps,Who tend Sir David Baird? [Exit Captain Woodford.]His blood throbs forth so fast, that I have dark fearsHe’ll drain to death ere anything can be done!
HARDINGEI’ll try to staunch it—since no skill’s in call.[He takes off his sash and endeavours to bind the wound with it.MOORE smiles and shakes his head.]There’s not much checking it! Then rent’s too gross.A dozen lives could pass that thoroughfare![Enter a soldier with a blanket. They lift MOORE into it. Duringthe operation the pommel of his sword, which he still wears, isaccidentally thrust into the wound.]I’ll loose the sword—it bruises you, Sir John.[He begins to unbuckle it.]
MOORENo. Let it be! One hurt more matters not.I wish it to go off the field with me.
HARDINGEI like the sound of that. It augurs wellFor your much-hoped recovery.
MOORE [looking sadly at his wound]Hardinge, no:Nature is nonplussed there! My shoulder’s gone,And this left side laid open to my lungs.There’s but a brief breath now for me, at most....Could you—move me along—that I may glimpseStill how the battle’s going?
HARDINGEAy, Sir John—A few yard higher up, where we can see.[He is borne in the blanket a little way onward, and lifted sothat he can view the valley and the action.]
MOORE [brightly]They seem to be advancing. Yes, it is so![Enter SIR JOHN HOPE.]Ah, Hope!—I am doing badly here enough;But they are doing rarely well out there. [Presses HOPE’S hand.]Don’t leave! my speech may flag with this fierce pain,But you can talk to me.—Are the French checked?
HOPEMy dear friend, they are borne back steadily.
MOORE [his voice weakening]I hope England—will be satisfied—I hope my native land—will do me justice!...I shall be blamed for sending Craufurd offAlong the Orense road. But had I not,Bonaparte would have headed us that way....
HOPEO would that Soult had but accepted battleBy Lugo town! We should have crushed him there.
MOOREYes... yes.—But it has never been my lotTo owe much to good luck; nor was it then.Good fortune has been mine, but [bitterly] mostly soBy the exhaustion of all shapes of bad!...Well, this does not become a dying man;And others have been chastened more than IBy Him who holds us in His hollowed hand!...I grieve for Zaragoza, if, as said,The siege goes sorely with her, which it must.I heard when at Dahagun that late dayThat she was holding out heroically.But I must leave such now.—You’ll see my friendsAs early as you can? Tell them the whole;Say to my mother.... [His voice fails.]Hope, Hope, I have so much to charge you with,But weakness clams my tongue!... If I must dieWithout a word with Stanhope, ask him, Hope,To—name me to his sister. You may knowOf what there was between us?...Is Colonel Graham well, and all my aides?My will I have made—it is in Colborne’s chargeWith other papers.
HOPEHe’s now coming up.[Enter MAJOR COLBORNE, principal aide-de-camp.]
MOOREAre the French beaten, Colborne, or repulsed?Alas! you see what they have done too me!
COLBORNEI do, Sir John: I am more than sad thereat!In brief time now the surgeon will be here.The French retreat—pushed from Elvina far.
MOOREThat’s good! Is Paget anywhere about?
COLBORNEHe’s at the front, Sir John.
MOORERemembrance to him![Enter two surgeons.]Ah, doctors,—you can scarcely mend up me.—And yet I feel so tough—I have feverish fearsMy dying will waste a long and tedious while;But not too long, I hope!
SURGEONS [after a hasty examination]You must be borneIn to your lodgings instantly, Sir John.Please strive to stand the motion—if you can;They will keep step, and bear you steadily.
MOOREAnything.... Surely fainter ebbs that fire?
COLBORNEYes: we must be advancing everywhere:Colbert their General, too, they have lost, I learn.[They lift him by stretching their sashes under the blanket, andbegin moving off. A light waggon enters.]
MOOREWho’s in that waggon?
HARDINGEColonel Wynch, Sir John.He’s wounded, but he urges you to take it.
MOORENo. I will not. This suits.... Don’t come with me;There’s more for you to do out here as yet. [Cheerful shouts.]A-ha! ’Tis THIS way I have wished to die![Exeunt slowly in the twilight MOORE, bearers, surgeons, etc.,towards Coruna. The scene darkens.]
CORUNA. NEAR THE RAMPARTS[It is just before dawn on the following morning, objects beingstill indistinct. The features of the elevated enclosure of SanCarlos can be recognized in dim outline, and also those of theOld Town of Coruna around, though scarcely a lamp is shining.The numerous transports in the harbour beneath have still theirriding-lights burning.In a nook of the town walls a lantern glimmers. Some Englishsoldiers of the Ninth regiment are hastily digging a grave therewith extemporized tools.]
A VOICE [from the gloom some distance off]“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he thatbelieveth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.”[The soldiers look up, and see entering at the further end of thepatch of ground a slow procession. It advances by the light oflanterns in the hands of some members of it. At moments the fitfulrays fall upon bearers carrying a coffinless body rolled in ablanket, with a military cloak roughly thrown over by way of pall.It is brought towards the incomplete grave, and followed by HOPE,GRAHAM, ANDERSON, COLBORNE, HARDINGE, and several aides-de-camp,a chaplain preceding.]
FIRST SOLDIERThey are here, almost as quickly as ourselves.There is no time to dig much deeper now:Level a bottom just as far’s we’ve got.He’ll couch as calmly in this scrabbled holeAs in a royal vault!
SECOND SOLDIERWould it had been a foot deeper, here among foreigners, with strangemanures manufactured out of no one knows what! Surely we can givehim another six inches?
FIRST SOLDIERThere is no time. Just make the bottom true.[The meagre procession approaches the spot, and waits while thehalf-dug grave is roughly finished by the men of the Ninth.They step out of it, and another of them holds a lantern to thechaplain’s book. The winter day slowly dawns.]
CHAPLAIN“Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and isfull of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; hefleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.”[A gun is fired from the French battery not far off; then another.The ships in the harbour take in their riding lights.]
COLBORNE [in a low voice]I knew that dawn would see them open fire.
HOPEWe must perforce make swift use of out time.Would we had closed our too sad office sooner![As the body is lowered another discharge echoes. They glancegloomily at the heights where the French are ranged, and theninto the grave.]
CHAPLAIN“We therefore commit his body to the ground. Earth to earth, ashesto ashes, dust to dust.” [Another gun.][A spent ball falls not far off. They put out their lanterns.Continued firing, some shot splashing into the harbour belowthem.]
HOPEIn mercy to the living, who are thrustUpon our care for their deliverance,And run much hazard till they are embarked,We must abridge these duties to the dead,Who will not mind be they abridged or no.
HARDINGEAnd could he mind, would be the man to bid it....
HOPEWe shall do well, then, curtly to concludeThese mutilated prayers—our hurried best!—And what’s left unsaid, feel.
CHAPLAIN [his words broken by the cannonade]“.... We give Thee hearty thanks for that it hath pleasedThee to deliver this our brother out of the miseries of thissinful world.... Who also hath taught us not to be sorry, asmen without hope, for them that sleep in Him.... Grant this,through Jesus Christ our Mediator and Redeemer.”
OFFICERS AND SOLDIERSAmen![The diggers of the Ninth hastily fill in the grave, and the sceneshuts as the mournful figures retire.]
VIENNA. A CAFE IN THE STEPHANS-PLATZ[An evening between light and dark is disclosed, some lamps beinglit. The huge body and tower of St. Stephen’s rise into the skysome way off, the western gleam still touching the upper stonework.Groups of people are seated at the tables, drinking and readingthe newspapers. One very animated group, which includes anEnglishman, is talking loudly. A citizen near looks up from hisnewspaper.]
CITIZEN [to the Englishman]I read, sir, here, the troubles you discussOf your so gallant army under Moore.His was a spirit baffled but not quelled,And in his death there shone a stoicismThat lent retreat the rays of victory.
ENGLISHMANIt was so. While men chide they will admire him,And frowning, praise. I could nigh prophesyThat the unwonted crosses he has borneIn his career of sharp vicissitudeWill tinct his story with a tender charm,And grant the memory of his strenuous featsAs long a lease within the minds of menAs conquerors hold there.—Does the sheet give newsOf how the troops reached home?
CITIZEN [looking up again at the paper]Yes; from your pressIt quotes that they arrived at Plymouth SoundMid dreadful weather and much suffering.It states they looked the very ghosts of men,So heavily had hunger told on them,And the fatigues and toils of the retreat.Several were landed dead, and many diedAs they were borne along. At Portsmouth, too,Sir David Baird, still helpless from his wound,Was carried in a cot, sheet-pale and thin,And Sir John Hope, lank as a skeleton.—Thereto is added, with authority,That a new expedition soon will fit,And start again for Spain.
ENGLISHMANI have heard as much.
CITIZENYou’ll do it next time, sir. And so shall we!
SECOND CITIZEN [regarding the church tower opposite]You witnessed the High Service over thereThey held this morning? [To the Englishman.]
ENGLISHMANAy; I did get in;Though not without hard striving, such the throng;But travellers roam to waste who shyly roamAnd I pushed like the rest.
SECOND CITIZENOur young ArchduchessMaria Louisa was, they tell me, present?
ENGLISHMANO yes: the whole Imperial family,And when the Bishop called all blessings downUpon the Landwehr colours there displayed,Enthusiasm touched the sky—she sharing it.
SECOND CITIZENCommendable in her, and spirited,After the graceless insults to the CourtThe Paris journals flaunt—not voluntarily,But by his ordering. Magician-likeHe holds them in his fist, and at his squeezeThey bubble what he wills!... Yes, she’s a girlOf patriotic build, and hates the French.Quite lately she was overheard to sayShe had met with most convincing auguriesThat this year Bonaparte was starred to die.
ENGLISHMANYour arms must render its fulfilment sure.
SECOND CITIZENRight! And we have the opportunity,By upping to the war in suddenness,And catching him unaware. The pink and flowerOf all his veteran troops are now in SpainFully engaged with yours; while those he holdsIn Germany are scattered far and wide.
FIRST CITIZEN [looking up again from his newspaper]I see here that he vows and guaranteesInviolate bounds to all our territoriesIf we but pledge to carry out forthwithA prompt disarmament. Since that’s his priceHell burn his guarantees! Too long he has fooled us.[To the Englishman] I drink, sir, to your land’s consistency.While we and all the kindred Europe StatesAlternately have wooed and warred him,You have not bent to blowing hot and cold,But held you sturdily inimical!
ENGLISHMAN [laughing]Less Christian-like forgiveness mellows usThan Continental souls! [They drink.][A band is heard in a distant street, with shouting. Enter thirdand fourth citizens, followed by others.]
FIRST CITIZENMore news afloat?
THIRD AND FOURTH CITIZENSYea; an announcement that the Archduke CharlesIs given the chief command.
FIRST, SECOND, ETC., CITIZENSHuzza! Right so![A clinking of glasses, rising from seats, and general enthusiasm.]
SECOND CITIZENIf war had not so patly been declared,Our howitzers and firelocks of themselvesWould have gone off to shame us! This forenoonSome of the Landwehr met me; they are hotFor setting out, though but few months enrolled.
ENGLISHMANThat moves reflection somewhat. They are youngFor measuring with the veteran file of France!
FIRST CITIZENNapoléon’s army swarms with tender youth,His last conscription besomed into itThousands of merest boys. But he contrivesTo mix them in the field with seasoned frames.
SECOND CITIZENThe sadly-seen mistake this country madeWas that of grounding hostile arms at all.We should have fought irreconcilably—Have been consistent as the English are.The French are our hereditary foes,And this adventurer of the saucy sword,This sacrilegious slighter of our shrines,Stands author of all our ills...Our harvest fields and fruits he trample on,Accumulating ruin in our land.Think of what mournings in the last sad war’Twas his to instigate and answer for!Time never can efface the glint of tearsIn palaces, in shops, in fields, in cots,From women widowed, sonless, fatherless,That then oppressed our eyes. There is no salveFor such deep harrowings but to fight again;The enfranchisement of Europe hangs thereon,And long she has lingered for the sign to crush him:That signal we have given; the time is come! [Thumping on the table.]
FIFTH CITIZEN [at another table, looking up from his paper andspeaking across]I see that Russia has declined to aid us,And says she knows that Prussia likewise must;So that the mission of Prince SchwarzenbergTo Alexander’s Court has closed in failure.
THIRD CITIZENAy—through his being honest—fatal sin!—Probing too plainly for the Emperor’s earsHis ominous friendship with Napoléon.
ENGLISHMANSome say he was more than honest with the Tsar;Hinting that his becoming an allyMakes him accomplice of the CorsicanIn the unprincipled dark overthrowOf his poor trusting childish Spanish friends—Which gave the Tsar offence.
THIRD CITIZENAnd our best bid—The last, most delicate dish—a tastelessness.
FIRST CITIZENWhat was Prince Schwarzenberg’s best bid, I pray?
THIRD CITIZENThe offer of the heir of Austria’s handFor Alexander’s sister the Grand-Duchess.
ENGLISHMANHe could not have accepted, if or no:She is inscribed as wife for Bonaparte.
FIRST CITIZENI doubt that text!
ENGLISHMANTime’s context soon will show.
SECOND CITIZENThe Russian Cabinet can not for longResist the ardour of the Russian ranksTo march with us the moment we achieveOur first loud victory![A band is heard playing afar, and shouting. People are seenhurrying past in the direction of the sounds. Enter sixthcitizen.]
SIXTH CITIZENThe Archduke CharlesIs passing the Ringstrasse just by now,His regiment at his heels![The younger sitters jump up with animation, and go out, theelder mostly remaining.]
SECOND CITIZENRealm never facedThe grin of a more fierce necessityFor horrid war, than ours at this tense time![The sounds of band-playing and huzzaing wane away. Citizensreturn.]
FIRST CITIZENMore news, my friends, of swiftly swelling zeal?
RE-ENTERED CITIZENSEre passing down the Ring, the Archduke pausedAnd gave the soldiers speech, enkindling themAs sunrise a confronting throng of panesThat glaze a many-windowed east facade:Hot volunteers vamp in from vill and plain—More than we need in the furthest sacrifice!
FIRST, SECOND, ETC., CITIZENSHuzza! Right so! Good! Forwards! God be praised![They stand up, and a clinking of glasses follows, till theysubside to quietude and a reperusal of newspapers. Nightfallsucceeds. Dancing-rooms are lit up in an opposite street, anddancing begins. The figures are seen gracefully moving roundto the throbbing strains of a string-band, which plays a newwaltzing movement with a warlike name, soon to spread overEurope. The dancers sing patriotic words as they whirl. Thenight closes over.]