Perceiving that the skirmishers of the Borderers were also falling back before a peppery cloud of little voltigeurs in light green.
"Mr. Kennedy," said Moore, "ride to the Honourable Colonel Crawford—tell him to advance at once in line; I will lead on the regiments here."
Quentin, who was tolerably well mounted, dashed up to where Cosmo, cold and stern as ever, sat on his horse at the head of the regiment.
"Colonel Crawford," said he, with a profound salute, "it is Sir John Moore's order that you advance with the bayonet—the whole left wing is to be thrown forward."
Cosmo's eyes flashed and dilated with anger at having to take an order from Quentin; he frowned and lingered.
"Did you hear me, Colonel Crawford—that your battalion is to charge?"
"Orders, and fromyou?" said Cosmo, grinding his teeth.
"From Sir John Moore," urged Quentin, breathlessly.
Now there is at times a wild impulse which seizes the heart of man and will make him set, it may be, the fate of all his future—it may be life itself, upon the issue of a single chance; and such a daring impulse now fired the soul of Quentin.
"Twenty-fifth," he exclaimed, brandishing his sabre, "you are to advance—prepare to charge."
"Dare you give orders here?" cried Cosmo, hoarse with passion, and scarcely knowing what he said; "I follow none—let all who dare follow me. Rohallion leads, but follows none."
"Come on thentogether."
"Forward—double quick—charge!" they cried together with their horses neck and neck rushing onward, while the battalion, with a loud hurrah, fell upon the enemy, bayoneting the skirmishers and closing on the main body.
"Bravo, Kennedy!" cried old Middleton, waving his rusty sabre; "I wish Dick Warriston was here to see you to-day. It's a proud man he'd be, for dearly he loved you, lad. Whoop! here we are right on the top of the vagabonds," he added, as the front rank of a sallow-visaged, grimly-bearded, grey-coated French column broke in disorder and gave way before the furious advance of the Borderers, whose two field officers were at that moment unhorsed.
Middleton's charger received a ball in its counter and he had a narrow escape from another, which buried itself in a great old silver hunting-watch which he wore in his fob, and was known as the "regimental clock." Quentin perceived him scrambling up, however, unhurt, just as he had hurried to the assistance of Cosmo, who, some twenty yards in front of the corps, had been knocked from his saddle in the mêlée by two Frenchmen, who had their muskets withdrawn, bayonets fixed, and butts upwards, to pin him to the earth on which he lay helpless.
Dashing spurs into his horse, Quentin rushed upon one, and rode him right down, at the same moment burying his sabre in the body of the other. The first voltigeur was only stunned; but the second fell, wallowing in blood.
Quentin dragged Cosmo up, and assisted him to remount.
"I thank Heaven, sir," said he; "I was just in time to save your life."
"From any other hands than yours it had been welcome," said he, haughtily; "however, I thank you. Sound, bugler, to halt, and re-form on the colours!"
As Quentin rode away, the proud consciousness in his heart, that he had returned great good for great evil, gave place to another. He saw the second Frenchman rolling in blood on the ground, and clutching the grass in his agony. Then a sensation of deadly sickness came over his destroyer's heart—a sensation that he could neither analyse nor describe. So he spurred madly toward the extreme left, where Sir John Moore by accident found himself in front of his old regiment, the 51st, in which he had served as ensign.
With a voice and face alike expressive of animation, he waved his cocked-hat and called upon them as his old comrades to advance to the charge. At that moment the light company of the 76th set the example, and the whole left wing rushed furiously on the French with the bayonet. There was a dreadful yell and shock; scores of men tumbled over each other, many never to rise again; the butt-end was freely used, and in a minute or less, the French attack was routed, leaving four hundred dead, dotting all the slope. In the front rank of the 51st, Brigade-Major David Roberts engaged a French officer hand to hand and slew him; but the major's sword-arm was shattered by two bullets fired by two French soldiers, who were instantly bayoneted by an Irishman of the 51st, named Connor. He killed a few more, while his hand was in, for which he was promoted on the spot.
After this Soult made no further attack, and thus it became apparent to Moore, that the wary and skilful old veteran was only waiting until Laborde's division, which was in the rear, should come up, together with a portion of the sixth corps, which was marching by the way of Val des Orres.
All the next day the two armies remained embattled in sight of each other, almost without firing a shot—Soult waiting and Moore watching—the foe coming on hourly in fresh force, till "the darkness fell, and with it the English general's hope to engage his enemy on equal terms."
Quentin spent the evening of that anxious day in the bivouac of his old friends the Borderers, who were sharing as usual the contents of their havresacks and canteens, and congratulating each other on escapes, for save a few contusions none had been hit, and none were absent save Monkton, who was stationed with a picquet of twenty men at the bend of the Minho. Before and after an action, there is an effect that remains for a time on the minds and manner of both officers and men. The former show more kindness and suavity to the latter, and generally the latter to each other. There is more kindness, less silly banter, more quietness and seriousness, and the oath is seldom heard, even on the tongue of a fool. It may be, that all have felt eternity nearer them than usual, and yet in time of war, the soldier is face to face with it daily.
Large fires were lighted all along the British line, and in their glare, the piles of arms were seen to flash and glitter, while for warmth, the weary soldiers lay beside them in close ranks on the damp earth.
"A plucky thing that was of yours to-day, Kennedy," said Middleton, "sabreing the voltigeur and remounting the colonel. You leftme, your old friend, to shift for myself, however."
"I saw you were in no danger, major," said Quentin, with some confusion; "and being independent now of Crawford, I wished—I wished——"
"To heap ashes on his head; I fear I am not generous enough to have acted as you did, and marred a step in the regiment."
"A shot grazed my caphere," said a captain named Drummond; "another inch, and there had been a company vacant."
"I wonder what the devil Moore is loitering here for?" asked some one.
"Kennedy's on the staff now; he ought to know the secrets of the bureau," said Colville.
"Has anything oozed out, Quentin?" asked Askerne.
"He can tell us that we'll attack the French position about daybreak, before Loison, Laborde, or Ney can join," said Colyear, laughing.
"Ney is at Villa Franca," added Captain Winton, a grave and thoughtful officer (who fought a duel at Merida). "I suspect Moore remains here, in expectation of being attackedbeforethese reinforcements come up."
"Now would be the time to fall back in the night towards Vigo, and take up a position to cover the embarkation," said Askerne.
"Right, Rowland," responded Quentin; "we are only able to fight one battle, and desperation will make us do so well. And it is not meant that after winning a battle we should enter Castile again with a handful of jaded men, and not an ally to aid us between Corunna and the ridges of the Sierra Morena. I heard Moore himself say this."
"Who comes here?" they heard a sentinel challenge at a distance.
"What comes here would be more grammatical, my friend," replied a dolorous voice which they knew, as four soldiers appeared, half supporting and half carrying an officer.
"What is all that?" asked Middleton.
"The mangled remains of William Monkton, esquire, lieutenant, 25th Foot," replied that personage, as the soldiers laid him on the turf near the watchfire.
"What is the matter, Willie? are you wounded?" asked Askerne, putting a canteen of grog to the sufferer's mouth.
"I should think so! a devil of a runaway horse from the enemy's lines came smash over me. I say, Doctor Salts-and-senna," he added to the assistant surgeon, who had joined the group; "I am not past your skill, I hope?"
"Why, Monkton, you haven't even a bone broken," said the doctor, half angrily, as he rapidly felt him all over; "you are sadly bruised, though, and will have to ride, if we continue the retreat."
At that moment Hardinge galloped up to Cosmo, who was sitting on a fallen tree, cloaked and alone, near his horse, for his officers seldom cared to join him, or he to join them.
"Colonel Crawford," said he, hurriedly, but loud enough to be heard by all, "the whole line is to fall instantly back towards Corunna by a forced night march. All the fires are to be kept brightly burning to deceive the enemy, and all movements will be made left about, to prevent the clashing of the pouches being heard. Move in silence, as we must completely mask our retreat. Mr. Kennedy, you will be so good as take these orders without delay along the line, and desire the 51st, the 76th, and the cavalry of the left flank, to fall back and be off, without sound of bugle. Thirty-five miles in our rear, the bridge of Betanzos is being undermined; that point once passed, and the bridge blown up, we shall be safe!"
It was indeed time to fall back. Soult's first reinforcements had come up in overwhelming force, and in the stores of Lugo there was not bread foronemore day's subsistence. The troops were exhorted by Moore to keep order and "to make a great exertion, which he trusted would be thelastrequired of them."
At ten o'clock the march began.
In rear of the position the country was encumbered by intricate lanes and stone walls; but officers who had examined all the avenues were selected to guide the columns, and just as a dreadful storm of wind and rain, mixed with icy sleet, burst forth upon that devoted army, the rearward march began, and when the dull January morning stole slowly in, save a few wretched, barefooted, and worn-out stragglers, nothing remained of the British position in front of Lugo but the drenched and soddened dead bodies of those who had fallen in the conflict, and the smouldering ashes of the long line of watch-fires, that extended from the mountains towards the bend of the Minho.
"Soft; I did but dream.O, coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight,Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.What do I fear? Myself? there's none else by."Richard III.
Sir John Moore and General Paget, with the cavalry, covered the retreat; the former ordered several small bridges to be destroyed to check the enemy's advance; but such was the inefficiency of the engineer force, that in every instance the minesfailed. The rain, the wind, and the sleet continued; more soldiers perished by the way, and more stragglers were taken or sabred by the enemy's light horse; then again demoralization and despair pervaded the ranks. So numerous did the stragglers of all corps become, that more than once they found themselves strong enough to face about and check the cavalry of Lallemand and Ribeaupierre. The Guards, Artillery, and Highlanders alone preserved their discipline.
So great was the fatigue endured by the troops, that, on the evening of the 10th, when the 3rd battalion of the Royal Scots entered Betanzos, it mustered, under the colours, nine officers, three sergeants, andthreeprivates; "all the rest had dropped on the roads, and many did not rejoin for three days."
At this place, which is a village at the foot of a hill, where the Mandeo was crossed by a wooden bridge, on which the engineers were hard at work, they were attacked by Ribeaupierre's dragoons, who, however, were repulsed by the 23th Regiment; the bridge was destroyed, and its beams and planks hurled into the swollen stream, which swept them away to the Gulf of Ferrol.
And here a party of straggling invalids, exhausted by fatigue, were closely pressed by the French cavalry; a Sergeant Newman, of the 2nd battalion of the 43rd, who was himself nearly worn out, rallied them with his pike, and gradually collected four hundred men of all regiments. With great presence of mind, he formed those poor fellows into subdivisions, and made them fire and retire by sections, each re-forming in rear of the others, so that he most effectually covered the retreat of the disabled men who covered all that fearful road—conduct so spirited that he was publicly thanked by Generals Fraser and Fane.
The destruction of the bridge more decidedly secured the retreat; but more men perished between Betanzos and Lugo than anywhere else, since that rearward march began. Moore, by his energy, massed the army, now reduced to fourteen thousand infantry, which, on the morning of the llth January, fell back on Corunna, under his immediate and personal superintendence.
"Stanhope," said he to his favourite aide-de-camp, who was almost ever by his side, "we are now within a few miles of Corunna; ride forward with me, as I am all anxiety to see if our fleet is in the bay—Kennedy will accompany us."
Quentin bowed, put spurs to his horse, and quitting Paget's cavalry rearguard together, they rode rapidly along the line of march to the front.
They soon reached the heights of Corunna, and saw the town beneath them about four miles distant; then a sad expression stole over Moore's handsome face, but no exclamation escaped him.
Not a ship was visible in the Bays of Orsan or Betanzos, nor in the harbour of the town; the Roads of Ferrol and all the expanse of water were open and empty!
Fortune was against him and his army, for contrary winds detained the fleet of men-of-war and transports at Vigo, a hundred and twenty miles distant by sea.
The morning was sunny, and Corunna on its fortified peninsula—theCorun, or "tongue of land" of the Celts—was seen distinctly, with all its strong bastions and gothic spires; its almost land-locked harbour, guarded by the castles of San Martino and Santa Cruz, with the flag of King Ferdinand VII. flying on the fort of San Antonio (which crowns a high and insular rock), and on the Pharos of Hercules.
For Sir John Moore there was nothing left now but to prepare to defend the position in front of the town till the fleet should come round. He quartered his army in Corunna and its suburbs; the reserve he posted at El Burgo, on the river Mero, the bridge of which he destroyed.
He also sent an engineer officer with a party of sappers to blow up the bridge of Cambria. Some delay took place in the ignition of the mine, and he despatched Quentin Kennedy to the officer with an angry expostulation.
Mortified by repeated failures elsewhere during the retreat, the officer was anxious to perform this duty effectually. He approached the mine to examine it, and at that moment it exploded!
Quentin felt the earth shake beneath his feet; the arch of the bridge sprung upward like a huge lid; a column of dark earth, stones, and dust, spouted into the air to descend in ruins, bringing with them the mutilated fragments of the poor engineer officer, who was literally blown to pieces; but this was a mere squib when compared with the explosion of two magazines containing four thousand casks of powder, which were blown up on the 13th, to prevent them from falling into the hands of the enemy. On this occasion, says an eye-witness, "there ensued a crash like the bursting forth of a volcano; the earth trembled for miles, the rocks were torn from their bases, and the agitated waters rolled the vessels as in a storm; a vast column of smoke and dust, shooting out fiery sparks from its sides, arose perpendicularly and slowly to a great height, and then a shower of stones and fragments of all kinds bursting out of it with a roaring sound, killed several persons who remained too near the spot. A stillness, only interrupted by the lashing of the waves on the shore, succeeded, and the business of the war went on."
All this powder had been sent from England and left there, by the red-tapists of the time, to be destroyed thus, while more than once the armies of Britain and Spain had been before the enemy with their pouches empty!
In Corunna, the jaded British had now breathing time, but the exulting French were still pouring on. Some of Moore's staff suggested that he should send a flag of truce to Soult and negotiate for permission to embark unmolested—a suggestion which his undaunted heart rejected with scorn and anger.
"I rely on my own powers," said he, "for defying the enemy, and extricating with honour my troops from their perilous position."
Food, shelter, and rest restored vigour, and force of habit brought discipline back to the ranks; fresh ammunition was served out, and in many instances the men were supplied with new firelocks in lieu of those rusted and worn by the weather during the retreat; but hearty were the cheers that rung in Corunna when, on the evening of the 14th, the fleet of transports from Vigo were seen bearing slowly into the harbour, under full sail, and coming each in succession to anchor. At the same time, however, an orderly, sent by Sir David Baird, came spurring in hot haste to announce that the French had repaired the bridge of El Burgo, and that their cavalry and artillery were crossing the Mero, a few miles from Corunna.
With the rest of the staff, Quentin passed all that night in his saddle, riding between the town and beach with orders and instructions, for, under cover of the friendly darkness, the whole of the women and children, sick and wounded, dismounted dragoons, all the best horses—the useless were shot on the beach—and fifty-two pieces of cannon were embarked; eleven six-pounders and one field howitzer being only retained for immediate service.
"Hardinge," said Moore, as his staff rode into the upper town, "you will ride over to Sir David Baird; you, Major Colborne, to Lord Paget; and you, Kennedy, to General Leith, to say, that at daybreak,if the French do not move, they are to fall back with their corps for instant embarkation."
And with these welcome orders, the three aides-de-camp separated at full speed.
On this night of anxiety and bustle, the Master of Rohallion remained idly in his billet, a pretty villa, the windows of which faced the little bay of Orsan, with the suburb of the Pescadera extending from its garden on the west towards the mainland.
Paget and some other friends of his, after seeing their sound horses embarked and the useless shot, had supped with him. No one expected any engagement to take place now; they made light of past sorrows, spoke laughingly of the amusements that awaited them at home, and drank deeply.
Any momentary emotion of gratitude felt by Cosmo for the noble manner in which young Kennedy saved his life at Lugo was completely forgotten now, all the recollection of that event being completely merged in a whirlwind of rage at the aide-de-camp for having taunted him to the charge, and for actually daring to lead on the battalion in the face of so many superior officers!
Cosmo had never wearied of descanting on this military enormity, and all night long, as he became inflamed by what he imbibed, he consulted with Paget, Burrard, and others, as to whether he should call Kennedy out or bring him before a court-martial again.
The former mode of proceeding at Alva having failed "to smash him," they were averse to another, and all were of opinion that for the latter course Cosmo had allowed too many days to elapse.
"Trouble your head no more about it," said Paget, while playing with the tassels of his gold sash; "we'll laugh the affair over at Brighton in a few days or so. Soothe your mind, meantime, by the study of these classic frescoes. I wonder who the devil decorated this villa!"
"Cupid and Psyche," said Burrard, who had been adding a few decorations, such as beards and tails, with a burnt cork; "Pyramus and Thisbe; and, by Jove, the story of Leda!"
"Egad! such lively imaginations and odd propensities those pagan fellows had! Au revoir, Crawford; we'll have thegénéralebeaten for the last time on Spanish ground to-morrow, and then hey for the high road to Old England!" added the gay hussar, who, before six months were past, figured in an elopement, a duel, and damages to the tune of twenty thousand pounds—an affair that made more noise in the world of fashion than even the Spanish campaign.
Cosmo was at last alone, and though he mixed a glass of brandy with a goblet of champagne, he felt strange and sad thoughts stealing over him.
He was hot and flushed, and his heart beat tumultuously and anxiously, he knew not why. He threw open the sash of one of the lofty windows, which were divided in lattice-fashion from the ceiling to the floor, and looked out upon the night.
It was silent, clear, and starry, and not a sound broke the calm stillness, save the chafing of the waves on the rocks that bordered the bay.
The snow had melted, and the garden of the villa being thickly planted with evergreens, looked quite unlike a winter one.
Cosmo's brain, at least his whole nervous system, seemed to have received a shock by that fall from his horse at Lugo. He was restless, feverish, and anxious, without knowing why; for being brave as man could be, he had no fear for the morrow, and really cared very little whether a battle was fought or not.
"What is this that is stealing over me—can it be illness?" he asked of himself.
Thoughts and memories of home, his family, and many an old and once tender association that he had long forgotten were stealing over him now, together with an uncontrollable sadness and depression of mind: his father's cheerful voice, his mother's loving face, came vividly to recollection, with emotions of tenderness for which he could not account—emotions which he strove to repress as unnatural to him, and which actually provoked him, by the strange pertinacity with which they thrust themselves upon his fancy.
"Pshaw!" said he, "that deuced tumble in front of the enemy has unmanned me—and that fellow, too! Confound him," he muttered through his clenched teeth, "I hate him!"
At that moment the great bell of the citadel tolled the hour of three. He arose and stepped out into the garden. The last note of that deep and full but distant bell, yet vibrated in the stilly air; the stars were reflected in the dark waters of the bay, and the light that shone in the great Pharos of Hercules, three hundred feet above it, as it revolved slowly on its ancient tower, cast tremulous rays at regular intervals far across the sea on one side and the inlet of Orsan on the other.
The ocean breeze came gratefully to the flushed brow of Cosmo, who suddenly perceived near him a man in a strange uniform.
He stood in the centre of the garden walk at a short distance from the open window, his figure being clearly defined against the starry sky beyond, and by a ray of light which shone from the room Cosmo could perceive that his dress was scarlet.
Supposing he was some straggler or other man who should be in quarters, Crawford, whose step was somewhat unsteady, walked boldly up to the tall stranger, who remained silent and immovable.
He wore an old-fashioned flowing red coat without a collar, but having deep cuffs, all profusely laced; a large brigadier wig and three-cornered hat, sleeve ruffles, and a long slender sword, and he stood with his right hand firmly planted on a walking cane. His bearing was noble and lofty; his long, pale, and handsome features, in which Cosmo recognised a startling likeness ofhis own, wore a deathlike hue, and his eyes were sad and stony in expression.
Cosmo Crawford attempted to speak, but the words failed on his lips; he felt the hair bristle on his scalp, and a thrill of terror pass all over him as the figure, phantom, fancy, or whatever it was, pointed with its thin white hand tothe plain before Corunna, and then the whole outline began to fade, the stars shone through it, and it seemed to melt away into space!
An icy horror came over Cosmo, and his soul trembled as he remembered the bugbear of his boyhood, the story of the haunted gate at Rohallion, and the wraith of his uncle John the Master, who had been slain by the side of Cornwallis in America. He rushed back to the room and flung himself panting on a sofa.
Then with a furious oath at his own timidity, folly, or fancy, he issued boldly into the garden again, but nothing was there save the laurel bushes that bordered the lonely walk where he had seen that wondrous and fantastic dream.
All seemed still—horribly so—all save the beating of his heart and the rustling of the regimental colours, which the night wind stirred, and which, in virtue of his rank, were always lodged in his apartment.
"Was that a warning?—bah! And the cup of wine!" he exclaimed. "By this time to-morrow night," he reflected, "I may have been again in battle. I may be safe and scatheless, or dreadfully mutilated and beggared for life, or by this hour—dreadful thought, I may be in eternity! I may have learned the secret of life and death, of existence and extinction, and this body may be lying stark, stripped, and bloody, with its glazed eyes fixed on the stars of heaven! Bah! another glass of wine, then!"
Cosmo slept but little that night, and it was with a stern and gloomy foreboding of evil that he saw the day dawn stealing over the dark grey sea and the lofty citadel of Corunna.
"Marked you yon moving mass, the dark arrayOf yon deep column wind its sullen way?Low o'er its barded brow, the plumed boast,Glittering and gay, of France's wayward host,With gallant bearing wings its venturous flight,Cowers o'er its kindred bands, and waves them to the fight."LORD GRENVILLE.
The army was now rid of every incumbrance, and all was prepared for the withdrawal of the fighting men as soon as darkness should again set in, and four o'clock in the afternoon of the 16th was the time fixed by Moore for doing so; but lo! at two o'clock on that anxious day a messenger came from Sir John Hope to state that the whole French army, then in position on the heights above Corunna, was getting under arms—that a general movement was taking place along the entire line, twenty thousand strong!
"Stand to your arms—unpile, unpile!" was the cry from right to left.
Long ere this, the whole British army had been in position.
Sir David Baird held the right with his division, while Sir John Hope's was formed across the main road, with its left towards the Mero river; but the whole of this combined line was exposed to, and almost enfiladed by, a brigade of French guns posted on the rocks above the little village of Elvina.
Fraser's division remained before the gates of Corunna to watch the coast road, and be prepared to advance on any point.
But all the advantage, in strength of position, of horse, foot, and artillery, was in favour of the enemy. The only cavalry in the field with Moore werefortytroopers of the 15th Hussars, under the command of a lieutenant named Knight.
Opposed to Hope and Baird's slender line were the heavy divisions of Delaborde, Merle, and Merniet, while the cavalry of the French left, under De Lahausaye, Lorge, Franceschi, Ribeaupierre, and others, were thrown forward, almost in echelon and in heavy columns, along the whole British right, hemming them in between the Mero and the harbour of Corunna, and menacing even the rear so far as San Cristoval, a mile beyond Sir David Baird, whom, however, Fraser and Lord Paget covered.
Joy sparkled in Moore's eyes as he rode along the line at the head of his staff, and to Colonel Graham of Balgowan he expressed his regret that "the lateness of the hour and the shortness of the evening would prevent them from profiting by the victory which he confidently anticipated."
The afternoon was dull and sunless; grey clouds covered all the louring sky; the sea towards the offing looked black and stormy, and the ramparts of Corunna, washed by the white waves from the west, seemed hard, sombre, and gloomy; but the British were in high spirits and full of hope at the prospect of giving a graceful and a glorious close to this inauspicious campaign.
Through Moore's telescope, which he lent him, Quentin swept the French lines. He could see the masses of the Old Guard in their tall grenadier caps, grey great-coats and enormous scarlet epaulettes; then the ordinary infantry of the line, in their short-waisted blue coatees and wide scarlet trousers, advancing in three dense columns along the heights towards the British position. He could see the guns being unlimbered and prepared for service on the ridge of rock that covered the flank of the infantry; and he could also see the cavalry of the left; the cuirassiers of Lahausaye in helmets and corslets of brass, with flowing scarlet plumes and straight swords of great length; the chasseurs of Lorge and Ribeaupierre, in light green, with their horse-hair plumes all floating like a sea of red and white; then the picturesque column of Franceschi, in which were a corps of Polish lancers, with all their tricoloured bannerols fluttering; and some of the Mamelukes of the Imperial Guard, with white turbans and crosses of gold, all brandishing their crooked sabres and loading the heavy air with uncouth and tumultuous cries.
On the other hand were the cool and silent British infantry; steady and still they stood in their solid ranks, their arms loaded, primed, and "ordered," the bayonets fixed and colours flying; and no sound was heard along all their line, save when the pipers of the Black Watch, the 92nd, or some other Scottish regiment, played loud, in defiance of the advancing foe, some historical or traditionary air of the clan or tribe from whence its name was taken or its ranks were filled.
To the 42nd, with the 4th and 50th, was entrusted the defence of the extreme right, the weakest point of the line, and ontheir maintenance of whichthe safety and honour of the army rested.
As Quentin passed his old battalion in Hope's division on the road that led from Aris to Corunna, he saluted Cosmo, but received no response. Grim as Ajax, the Master was advancing with his eyes fixed on the enemy and his left hand clutching his gathered reins. At that moment perhaps, he thought less of the horrid dream of yesternight—for a dream he assuredly deemed it—than of the ruinous bonds, the crushing mortgages, the post-obits, and secret loans at fifty and sixty per cent., that a French bullet might that day close, together with his own existence, and he actually felt a species of grim satisfaction that thereby the crew of money-lenders would be outwitted.
"This is a day that will live in history, major," said Quentin, as he passed jolly old Middleton, in rear of the corps, trotting his barrel-bellied cob, an animal of grave and solemn deportment.
"Likely enough, lad," replied the other; "but I've seen too many of these historical days now, and I would sell cheaply alike my share in them, with the chance of being honourably mentioned by some future Hume or Smollett."
"So, Monkton, you've recovered your Lugo mishap."
"Quite, Kennedy," replied that individual, whom he overtook marching on the left flank of his company; "never felt jollier in my life—breakfasted about twelve to-day with Middleton and Colville on mulled claret dashed with old brandy. So we are going to engage at last! Well, I hope we shall polish off old Johnny Soult, and get on board betimes—then ho, for Old England!"
"There, gentlemen, is the first gun!" exclaimed Rowland Askerne, with his eyes full of animation, as he pointed with his sword to a field-piece that flashed on the rocks above Elvina. Then a 12-pound shot hummed harmlessly through the air along the whole line of Baird's division.
"Tyrol, tra la, la lira!" sang the reckless Monkton; "this begins the game in earnest!"
"At such a time how can you be so thoughtless, Willie?" said Askerne, with some asperity; and now, from the great French battery on the rocks, the shot and shell fell thick and fast upon the British line, while, led by the Duke of Dalmatia in person, the three solid columns of Delaborde, Neale, and Merniet, descended with yells to the assault, tricolours waving, swords flashing, and eagles brandished.
A cloud of skirmishers preceded them, and the white puffs of smoke that spirted from among the underwood, the low dykes, hedgerows and laurel bushes, marked where they nestled and took quiet "pot shots" at the old 95th, and other British sharp-shooters, who fell back in disorder, as the light six-pounders failed to protect them against the French heavy guns, which swept Moore's line to the centre, with round shot, grape, and canister.
From his master in the art of war, Sir Ralph Abercrombie, Moore had learned that the presence of a commander is always most useful near that point at which the greatest struggle is likely to occur; thus he remained near Lord Bentinck's brigade, and close to the 42nd, on the extreme right, and there Quentin and his staff accompanied him.
The French left carried the village of Elvina, and dividing into two great masses, one poured on against Baird's front, and the other assailed his right under cover of their gun battery, while their right assailed Hope at the pretty hamlet of Palavia Abaxo. And now the roar and carnage of the battle became general all over the field; men were falling fast on every side, "and human lives were lavished everywhere;" Baird's left arm was shattered by a grape-shot, and he was taken from the front to have it amputated; Middleton was struck about the same time, in the left side.
Lifting his cocked-hat, and bowing almost to his holsters, while a cloud of hair-powder flew about his head, this fine old soldier said, faintly, to the Master of Rohallion—
"I am wounded, colonel, and have the honour to request you will order another officer to take command of the left." He then ambled away on his old nag towards Corunna.
"Close in, men—fill up the gaps," was the incessant cry of the officers and sergeants; "close up the rear ranks—close up!" and cheerily they did so, those brave hearts and true.
As it was, the sparks of the flints, the burning of priming (many of the muskets being bushed with brass), caused many of the front rank men to have their cheeks bleeding by splinters or scorched by powder; but these were constant occurrences before the days of percussion locks and caps.
The fire of the enemy was terrible, and all who were not wounded had narrow escapes. Quentin had no less than three during the first hour; a ball struck one of his holster pipes, another tore through his havresack, smashing his ration biscuits, and a third perforated his shako, and had he been an inch taller, he had been a dead man. The first tightening of the heart relaxed—the first wild thrill of anxiety over, and Quentin felt as cool as the oldest veteran there.
The light field guns as they retired from Elvina came tearing past with blood and human hair upon their wheels and on the hoofs of their galloping horses, showing the carnage through which they had passed; but they were again unlimbered and brought into action to check the dragoons of Lorge, who menaced the right with pistol and sabre.
Sir John, who, with eagle eye, had been watching the movements of the enemy through the openings in the white smoke which rolled along the slopes and filled all the hollows, observed that no more infantry were coming on than those which outflanked the right of Baird's division, now commanded by his successor.
"Kennedy," said he to Quentin, whose coolness delighted and even amused him, "ride to my friend Paget, and order him to wheel to the right of the French advance, to menace and attack their gun battery. Stanhope, spur on to Fraser and order him to support Paget."
While his aides rode off with these orders, he threw back the 4th Regiment in person, and opened a heavy fire on the French, now pouring along the valley on his right, while the old "Half Hundred" and the Black Watch confronted those who were breaking through Elvina.
"Well done, 50th—well done, my majors!" he exclaimed to two favourite officers who led the corps; but in the deadly struggle that ensued, one, Major Charles Napier, was taken prisoner, and the other, the Honourable Major Stanhope, was mortally wounded.
Strewed with killed and wounded, the field was now a veritable hell upon earth, all along the lines in the valley and on the hills.
The boom of the heavy guns from the rock pealed solemnly on the ear, and their bright red flashes came luridly out of the dusky vapour where the haze of a winter eve and the smoke of battle mingled.
Then there was the shrill scream of the shells as they soared aloft, describing fiery arcs through the cold grey sky, seeming to streak it with light; and there was thewhirror deephumof the cannon shot as they tore along the corpse-strewn ground, or through the empty air.
After delivering his orders to Lord Paget, Quentin turned his horse to the right and pursued the Aris road in rear of Hope's division, rushing at full speed over a great cork tree which the cannon shot had cut down; but he reined up for a moment near the flank of the Borderers.
Issuing from Palavia Abaxo, a corps of Delaborde's came furiously on with a savage yell, their bayonets fixed and tricolours flying defiantly, though torn by grape and musketry.
They were grenadiers of the Imperial Guard, and their long grey coats seemed black and sombre amid the smoke. Twice those men, the heroes of Austerlitz and Marengo, wavered, though never ceasing to pour in their fire; for the resolute aspect of the Borderers—calm and voiceless, but determined—seemed to arrest them, so the human surge paused in its onward roll.
Then it was that the Master of Rohallion, though cold-blooded, or animated chiefly by that selfish cosmopolitanism which is so peculiar to the Scottish aristocracy, felt something of his father's gallant spirit swell up in his heart.
"The 50th and the Highlanders are carrying all before them on the right," cried he, raising himself in his stirrups and brandishing his sword, "come on, 25th, let them see that we on the left are brother Scotsmen, as well as British soldiers—follow me—charge!"
And now, with a loud hurrah and like a living wall, while the pipes rung shrill and high, the regiment rushed headlong on the foe, and plunging into the mass with the bayonet, hurled it back in ruin and bloody disorder beyond the village.
In this charge poor Rowland Askerne fell dead with a ball in his heart; Colville perished under five bayonet wounds; Colyear had the staff of the king's colour broken in his hand, and many others fell killed and wounded; but Cosmo, as if his life was a charmed one, yet escaped unhurt, and re-formed the corps in splendid order close to the village of Palavia Abaxo.
Quentin, who had only checked his horse to witness his old comrades make this most glorious charge, galloped on towards the right, where he found the foe still pressing forward, and Moore, sword in hand, at the head of the 42nd, most of whose pouches were now empty.
"My brave Highlanders!" the general exclaimed, "you have still your bayonets—remember Egypt!"
With a wild cheer, their plumes and tartans waving amid the smoke, the Celts rushed on and drove the French back in disorder upon Elvina.
A few minutes after this, just as Quentin dismounted to breathe his horse, and just as Captain (afterwards General and Viscount) Hardinge came forward to report that the Guards were advancing to support Bentinck's brigade, a round shot from the enemy's battery on those fatal rocks passed through them.
By the velocity of the ball, the mere force of the air, Quentin was knocked down, breathless and panting. When he staggered up, he found the general lying near him, and a startled group gathering round them.
The same ballhad mortally wounded Sir John Moore, by shattering his left breast and shoulder. Hurled from his saddle, he now lay on his back, bleeding and dying!
"Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,As his corse to the ramparts we hurried,Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
"We buried him darkly at dead of night,The sods with our bayonets turning,By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,And the lantern dimly burning."CHARLES WOLFE.
Moore's first impulse was to struggle into a sitting posture, and, while resting on his right hand, to watch the wild conflict between the French and Highlanders at Elvina. Not a sigh of pain escaped him, as he bent his keen blue eyes on the corps engaged in front; but on seeing the black and crimson plumes of the 42nd triumphantly waving in the village, a smile of gratification stole over his handsome face, and he allowed himself to be borne to the rear by six Highlanders and guardsmen, Quentin Kennedy and Captain Hardinge assisting to keep him in an easy position with the sash of the latter.
"Report to General Hope that I am wounded," said he, calmly, "and desire him to assume the command."
Quentin observed that Sir John's sword had got entangled in the wound, and that the hilt was actually entering it. On this, Captain Hardinge kindly and gently attempted to unbuckle it.
"Never mind it, dear Hardinge," said the dying hero; "I had rather it should go out of the field with me."
Fast flowed the blood, and the torture of the complicated wound was terrible! His hands were become cold and clammy, and his face grew deadly pale in the dusky twilight.
"Colonel Graham of Balgowan, and Captain Woodford of the Guards, are both gone for surgeons," said Quentin, in his ear, while Captain Hardinge now strove in vain to stop the crimson current with his sash; "they will soon be here."
"You will recover from your injuries," said Hardinge; "I can perceive it, Sir John, by the expression of your eyes."
"No, Hardinge," said he, gravely; "I feel that to be impossible!"
Several times he made the bearers turn him round that he might behold the field of battle, and then a sublime expression stole over his fine face on seeing that everywhere the French were falling back, and that his slender army, after all its sufferings, was triumphant!
At this moment a spring waggon passed, in which lay Colonel Wynch, of the 4th Regiment, who was wounded.
"Who's in that blanket?" asked the colonel, faintly.
"Sir John Moore, most severely wounded," replied Quentin.
On hearing this, the good colonel, though bleeding fast, insisted on letting his general have the waggon; but the Highlanders urged that they would carry him easier in the blanket, "so they proceeded with him to his quarters in Corunna, weeping as they went."
Still the echoing musketry pealed through the murky air, and still the death-dealing blaze reddened the dusk of the coming evening. Heavily it volleyed at times in the intervals between the cannon on the rocks, and through the mingled haze up came the blood-red disc of the winter moon. Great clouds of white powder smoke crept sluggishly along the earth, and through it the flashes of the French guns above Elvina came redly and luridly out.
On being brought to his billet in Corunna, Sir John Moore was laid on a pallet and examined, and then all could see the terrible nature of his wound.
The entire left shoulder was shattered; the arm hung by a piece of skin; the ribs over the heart were stripped of flesh and bruised to pieces, and the muscles of the breast were torn in long strips that had become interlaced by the recoil of the fatal cannon-ball.
In the dusk of the gloomy apartment, where he lay rapidly dying on a poor mattrass, he recognised the face of Colonel Anderson, an old friend and comrade of twenty years and more. It was the third time Anderson had seen him borne from a field thus steeped in blood, but never before so awfully mangled. Moore pressed the hand of his old friend, who was deeply moved.
"Anderson," said he, with a sad smile, "you know I have always wished to die in this way."
Anderson answered only with his tears, yet he was a weather-beaten soldier, who had looked death in the face on many a hard-fought field.
"Are the French beaten?" Moore asked of all who came in, successively, and the assurances that they were retiring fast soothed his dying moments.
"I hope the people of England will be satisfied—I hope my dear country will do me justice!" said he, with touching earnestness; "oh, Anderson, you will see my friends at home as soon as you can—tell them everything—my poor mother——" Here his voice completely failed him; he became deeply agitated; but after a pause said, "Hope—Hope—I have much to say to him, but am too weak now! Are all my aides-de-camp well?"
"Yes," replied Anderson, who did not wish to distress him by the information that young Captain Burrard was mortally wounded.
"I have made my will, and—and—have remembered all my servants. Colbourne has it—tell Willoughby that Colbourne is to get his lieutenant-colonelcy.—Oh, it is a great satisfaction to me that we have beaten the French. Is Paget in the room?"
"No," replied Anderson, in a low voice.
"It is General Paget, I mean; remember me to him—he is a fine fellow! I feel myself so strong—ah, I fear that I shall be a long time in dying!"
In the intervals of his faint and disjointed remarks the boom of the distant artillery was occasionally heard, and their fitful flashes reddened the walls and windows of the room where he lay.
"Is that young lieutenant of the Fusiliers—Kennedy—is, is he here?"
"I am here, sir," said Quentin, in a choking voice.
"I cannot see you—the light of my eyes fails me now. I meant—I meant—for you."
What he "meant" to have done, Quentin was fated never to know.
In broken accents the general thanked the surgeons politely for the care they had taken; and apologized for the trouble he gave them. He then said to the son of Earl Stanhope, who served on his staff,
"Remember me—Stanhope—to—your sister."
He referred to the famous and brilliant Lady Hester Stanhope, whom he was said to have loved, and who died in Syria in 1839. Here his voice again completely failed him, and while pressing to his breast the hand of Colonel Anderson, who had saved his life at St. Lucia, he expired without a struggle in his forty-eighth year......
All stood in silence around the pallet whereon that brave gentleman and Christian soldier lay dead, and some time elapsed before they could realize the full extent of the calamity which had befallen them, and with moistened eyes they watched the pale still face, the fallen jaw, the shattered and blood-soaked form.
Just as Colonel Anderson knelt down to close the eyes of his dead friend and commander, Quentin Kennedy, with a heavy sigh in his throat, a sob in his breast, issued from the house, and grasping the sabre of Colbert, Moore's doubly-prized gift, he leaped on his horse, and, as if to relieve himself from thoughts of grief and sorrow, galloped towards the battle-field.
The night was now quite dark, and Sir John Hope had succeeded in following out Moore's dispositions so well, that he had driven the whole French line so far back that the British had now advanced far beyond their original position.
All Soult's ammunition was expended, though his troops were still the most numerous. He could not advance, and neither could he retreat, as the rain-swollen Mero was foaming along in full flood in his rear, and the rudely re-constructed bridge of El Burgo was his only avenue for escape.
It was now that Hope ordered a great line of watch-fires to be lighted by the picquets, and to have them kept burning to deceive the enemy, while the wounded, so far as possible, were carried off, and the whole army embarked, covered by Rowland Hill's brigade, which was posted in and near the ramparts of the citadel.
The field presented a scene of unexampled horror as Quentin rode back towards Corunna. Worn out by the long day passed under arms, the troops fell back, in somewhat shattered order, by companies and regiments towards the beach, the shadow of night concealing innumerable episodes of suffering, of solitary and unpitied dissolution.
The British loss was estimated at eight hundred, the French at three thousand men, so superior were our arms and firing.
In a place where the dead lay thick there sat a piper of the 92nd; he was wounded and bleeding to death, yet he played to his retreating comrades so long as strength remained, and then lay back dead, with the mouth-piece of the chanter between his relaxed jaws.
Everywhere in the dark Quentin heard voices calling for water.
"Un verre de l'eau, pour l'amour de Dieu!" cried many a poor Frenchman unheeded, as the columns fell back in fierce exultation upon Corunna, in many instances double quick.
Quentin rode back to the town, a three-miles' distance, and having neither post nor duty to repair to, went straight through the dark and crowded streets, which were full of soldiers and terrified citizens, to the house where he had seen his beloved leader expire. The door stood open; the mansion was dark, empty, chilly, and silent, and the body had been removed, he knew not where.
Just as he was turning away irresolute whether to inquire for the Borderers and get into one of the hundred boats now plying in the dark with war-worn troops, between the mole and fleet of transports, or whether he should join the staff of General Hill, whose brigade still occupied the citadel, a mounted staff-officer passed near him, and, by the light of a torch held by a Spaniard, who ran through the street, they recognised each other.
"'Tis well I have met you, Kennedy—come this way—we are about to pay the last earthly rites to poor Sir John Moore."
He who spoke was Captain Hardinge, and Kennedy, without a word, for his heart was very full, accompanied him into the strong old citadel of Corunna. The church bells were tolling midnight, and all was pitchy blackness around, for the moon was hidden; but in the dim distance, along the abandoned position on the hills, a line of watch-fires burned like dim and wavering stars to deceive the beaten but yet too powerful enemy.
The dim light of a lantern, upheld by a soldier, shone faintly on a group of officers who stood near, silent, sad, and thoughtful, and leaning on their swords. All were bareheaded. Beside them lay a body muffled in a blue cloak and a blanket soaked with blood—the mutilated remains of Moore, for whom no coffin could be procured.
Close by, a party of the 9th or East Norfolk Regiment were digging a grave, and there stood the chaplain-general, book in hand, but without a surplice, for the sound of distant cannon announced that the French, already discovering that they were foiled, were pushing on to St. Lucia, and hastened the interment.
The "lantern dimly burning" was held by Sergeant Rollo, of the Artillery, who died lately at Tynemouth, in his eighty-second year, and by its fitful light the body was deposited in its last home.
"Aid me, good gentlemen," said Colonel Anderson, with a broken voice, as the aides-de-camp lowered the remains into the rudely-dug hole, Quentin as the youngest carrying the feet. "It is a strange fatality, this! He always said that if he fell in battle, he wished to be buried where he died, and you see, gentlemen, his wish has been fulfilled."
Near him lay his countryman, General Anstruther, who had died of suffering and privations on the march.
Hastily the burial service was read, and the soldiers of the brave old 9th covered him up, literally, "the sod with their bayonets turning."
All lingered for a few minutes near the spot, and when they withdrew, there was not an eye unmoistened among them.
Thus passed away Sir John Moore, like Wolfe, in the moment of victory!
"A soldier from his earliest youth," says General Napier, "he thirsted for the honours of his profession, and feeling that he was worthy to lead a British army, hailed the fortune that placed him at the head of the troops destined for Spain. The stream of time passed rapidly, and the inspiring hopes of triumph disappeared, but the austerer glory of suffering remained; with a firm heart he accepted that gift of a severe fate, and confiding in the strength of his genius, disregarded the clamours of presumptuous ignorance; opposing sound military views to the foolish projects so insolently thrust upon him by the ambassador, he conducted a long and arduous retreat with sagacity, intelligence, and fortitude. No insult could disturb, no falsehood deceive him, no remonstrances shake his determination; fortune frowned without subduing his constancy; death struck, and the spirit of the man remained unbroken, when his shattered body scarcely afforded it habitation. Having done all that was just towards others, he remembered what was due to himself. Neither the shock of the mortal blow, nor the lingering hours of acute pain which preceded his dissolution, could quell the pride of his gallant heart, or lower the feeling with which (conscious of merit) he asserted his right to the gratitude of the country he had served so truly.
"If glory be a distinction,for such a man death is not a leveller!"
"The storm of fight is hushed; the mingled roarOf charging squadrons swells the blast no more:Gone are the bands of France; the crested prideOf war, which lately clothed the mountain side,Gone—as the winter cloud which tempests bear,In broken shadows through the waste of air."
Grey dawn came slowly in, stealing over land and sea, as Quentin rode from the citadel of Corunna.
It was difficult to believe that one night—one short night only—filled the interval of time since the fierce excitement of yesterday. Within those few hours how much had happened! Many an eye that met his with a kind smile was sightless now, and many a cheerful and hearty voice with which he was familiar was silenced for ever.
When passing through one of the streets, he came suddenly upon Sir John Hope, who now commanded the army, and who said, while reining in his horse, which looked jaded and weary as himself—
"Oh—glad I've seen you, Mr. Kennedy; is your horse fresh?"
"Tolerably so, sir," replied Quentin.
"Then you will oblige me by riding round by the Santiago road, over the ground where Fraser's division was posted yesterday, before he advanced to support Paget, and bring off any stragglers you may see there. We have not a moment to lose, as the French are getting several guns into position above the San Diego Point, to open on our transports."
Without waiting for an answer, and as if his expressed wish was quite sufficient, the general cantered off towards the mole.
No way delighted with this duty, in the grey twilight of the morning, Quentin galloped through the Pescadera, quitted the outer fortifications, issued upon the road that led to Santiago de Compostella, and ere long found himself on that which he had now no heart to look upon—the field of battle—that vast sepulchre—that ripe harvest of death and suffering!
The dead were there mutilated in every conceivable mode, and lying in every conceivable position; some lay in little piles where the grape had mowed them down. Red-coat and blue-coat, Frank and Briton, the red-trowsered Celt of Gaul and the kilted Celt of Scotland, lay over each other in heaps, many of them yet in the death clutch of each other, but all sleeping peacefully the long, long slumber that knows no waking. It was a sad and terrible homily!
Muskets smashed at the stock, swords broken, bayonets bent, caps crushed; belts, plumes, and epaulettes torn; drums broken and bugles trod flat; half-buried shot and exploded shells, strewed all the ground, which was furrowed, torn up, and soaked in blood; trees were barked and lopped by the passing bullets, and hedges were scorched by fire.
Already the plunderers had been at work; an officer, covered with wounds, lay stripped, nearly nude, so his uniform had doubtless been a rich one. He was quite dead, and wore on his left arm a bracelet of female hair—a love relic; his head rested in the lap of a beautiful Spanish girl, so dark that she was half like a mulatto or gitana of Granada, and such she appeared to be by her picturesque costume. She was weeping bitterly, and over her dark cheeks and quivering lips the hot tears fell upon the cold face of the dead man. Her sobs were quite inaudible, for her grief was too deep for utterance.
Close by, with the medals of many an honourable battle on his breast, lay a grey-haired grenadier of the Garde Impériale, who had died about twenty minutes before, and the calm of dissolution was smoothing out the wrinkles that care, it might be a hidden sorrow, had traced upon his now ghastly face—so smoothly then that he became in aspect almost young again, as when, perhaps, a conscript he left his father's cottage and his mother's arms.
As Quentin rode on many called to him for succour that he was unable to yield, and to their piteous cries he was compelled to turn a deaf ear. Many lay wounded, faint and unseen, among the long rich grass, where they were lulled alike by weakness and the hum of insect life awaking with the rising sun; and these scarcely noticed him as he trotted slowly past, carefully guiding his horse among them.
Tormented by thirst, many crawled, like bruised worms, to where a little runnel ran down the green slope from San Cristoval, and drank thirstily of its water in the hollow of their hands, and without a shudder, though the purity of the stream was tainted by blood, for further up lay a soldier of the Cameron Highlanders, dead, with his head buried in the stream. He, too, had crawled there; but the weight of his knapsack had pressed his head and shoulders below the water, and thus, unable to rise from weakness, the poor fellow had actually been choked in a hole about twelve inches deep.
No stragglers were visible, and an awful stillness had succeeded to the roar of sound that rung there yesternight; and now from his reverie Quentin was roused by the boom of a cannon at a distance. Others followed rapidly, and at irregular intervals. It was the French guns above St. Lucia firing over the flat point of San Diego on the last of the transports and the last of our troops who were embarking. Hill's brigade had now left the citadel, and Beresford, with the rearguard, had already put off from the shore.
Such were the startling tidings Quentin received from a mounted Spaniard, a fellow not unlike a contrabandista, who passed, spurring with his box-stirrups recklessly over the field towards Santiago. On hearing this, Quentin instantly galloped towards the harbour.
It was too late now to think of getting his horse off, so he resolved to abandon it and take the first boat he could obtain. The last of the troops were gone now in the English launches, and not a single Spanish barquero could he prevail upon to put off; and so furious was the cannonade which the French had opened from the headland to the southward of Corunna, that many of the masters of our crowded transports cut their cables; four ran foul of each other and went aground in shoal water. Then, amid the cries, cheers, uproar, and a thousand other sounds on land and sea, the troops were removed from them to others, and they were set on fire, while the first ships of the fleet were standing out to sea, and had already made an offing.
This delay nearly proved favourable to Quentin. A Spanish boatman at last offered for ten duros to take him off to the nearest ship, which lay about a mile distant; but just as he dismounted to embark, a yell of rage and terror was uttered by the crowd upon the mole, and a party of French light dragoons rode through them recklessly, treading some under foot and sabreing others.
At the risk of being pistolled, Quentin was about to spring into the sea, when an officer made an attempt to cut him down, but his cap saved his head from the first stroke. In wild desperation, with one hand he clung to the chasseur's bridle, and with the other strove to grasp his uplifted sword-arm.
"Rendez-vous!" cried the Frenchman, furiously.
"Eugene—sauvez-moi!" was all that Quentin could utter, ere his assailant, whom at that moment he recognised, cut him over the head, and he fell, blinded in his own blood.
It was thelastblow struck in our first campaign in Spain.
When Quentin partially recovered he found himself supported in the arms of the young Lieutenant de Ribeaupierre, who was profuse in his exclamations of sorrow and regret as he bound the wound up with his own hands, and led him away from the mole, expressing genuine anxiety and commiseration.
"Take care of your prisoner, M. le Lieutenant," said an officer, authoritatively. "Sangdieu!we have not picked up so many!"
"I shall be answerable for him. Ah, mon Dieu! why did I not know you sooner? Why did you not speak first, my dear friend?" Ribeaupierre continued to repeat.
The captain of his troop gave them a stern and scrutinizing glance. He was a forbidding looking man, with that swaggering spur-and-sabre-clattering bearing peculiar to some of those who had found their epaulettes on the barricades or among the ruins of the Bastile—a species of military ruffian, whose bearing was tempered only by the politeness which all military discipline—French especially—infuses in the manners of men.
"Take his sword away," said this personage, gruffly.
"Eugene, ask him if I may retain it—it was the last gift of Sir John Moore?" said Quentin, with intense anxiety.
"That is well—you shall keep it, monsieur," said the gruff captain; "Sir John Moore was indeed a soldier!"
"Am I, then, a prisoner?" said Quentin, with a sigh of intense bitterness, as he looked after the distant ships, now beyond even the range of the guns at San Diego, and bearing away with all their sails set—away for England!
"My captain has seen you—it must be so," replied Ribeaupierre, leading him into the city; "but prisoner or not, remember, mon ami, that you are withme."
The measured tramp of infantry was now heard, and guarded by fixed bayonets, some thirty or forty British prisoners passed with an air of sullen defiance in their faces and bearing. They were men of all regiments, gleaned up on the field or in the suburbs, and they were marched towards the citadel. Quentin gave a convulsive start as he recognised the face of Cosmo among them!
He saw Quentin covered with blood—wounded to all appearance severely, and a prisoner too; so he gave him a parting smile full of malignity and hate.
Quentin cared not for this, he sprang forward to speak with him; but at that moment the blood burst forth afresh, his senses reeled, and he fainted.
On that evening the tricolour was seen hoisted half-mast high on the citadel of Corunna, and the British fleet, though "far away on the billow," could hear the French artillery as they fired a funeral salute over the grave of Sir John Moore, in a spirit that was worthy of France and the best days of France's chivalry!
True it is, indeed, that "he whose talents exacted the praises of Soult, of Wellington, and of NAPOLEON, could be no ordinary soldier."
But there was one in whose heart a blank remained that no posthumous honours could ever fill up—the heart of his mother, to whom Sir John Moore was ever a tender and affectionate son, and whom he loved with great filial devotion.
It was not for some weeks after all this that Quentin learned that the Master of Rohallion had been sent a prisoner of war to Verdun, in the department of the Meuse, where his fierce pride having procured him the enmity of the commandant, he could never effect an exchange; thus he remained on parole five long and miserable years, even until the battle of Toulouse was fought; and, in the meantime, worthy old Jack Middleton recovered from his wound, and was appointed lieutenant-colonel of the 2nd Battalion of the King's Own Borderers.