Beat the Drums Slowly (45 page)

The British had to retreat, and retreating in the face of the enemy has always been a difficult thing to do. Advancing farther into Spain meant that this would be an especially dangerous operation. It was also winter, a time of the year when armies rarely took the field, and the route led through extremely rugged terrain. The distances were smaller, and the weather less extreme, than in Napoleon’s more famous retreat from Moscow, but that should not make us underestimate the genuine hardship endured by Moore’s men.

Yet the speed with which discipline collapsed in many regiments remains surprising. Moore was clearly dismayed. Given his own approach to training and discipline, the readiness with which so many redcoats abandoned their sense of honour and duty was especially shocking. His orders to the army, and especially the officers, were clearly intended to shame them into greater efforts. Whenever there was the prospect of fighting, he and other observers were amazed by the rapid change in the redcoats’ attitudes and behaviour. Orders to withdraw quickly plunged them back into despair and indiscipline.

Drunkenness was a common problem in the army of the period – and indeed in wider society. Throughout the Peninsular War, large numbers of redcoats would drink themselves insensible at any opportunity. Looting was also hard to prevent – and when provisions were short was often quietly ignored. In the retreat to Corunna both were made worse by a sense that the Spanish villagers were unwilling to fight for their own country, or welcome the allies who were risking their lives on their behalf. The British soldiers felt humiliated and angry at having to retreat, and readily vented this on the property – and occasionally the persons – of the Spanish in their path. It was unfair, but is surely understandable.

Wellington’s army would suffer a major breakdown in discipline in many regiments during the retreat from Spain in 1812. Moore’s army was less experienced, and certainly far less hardened to campaigning. The British Army was still in the process of learning how to wage war on the continent of Europe. It was especially inexperienced at the higher levels of command. Generals and their staffs were having to learn how to lead and control large formations. Mistakes were made. The story of the dragoon who got drunk and failed to deliver a dispatch is true. Sir David Baird was blamed for this, since Moore’s ADC, who delivered the message to him, had offered to carry it himself if given a fresh mount. Instead Sir David followed the normal routine, and in this case the order was not delivered and several brigades underwent an unnecessary and especially arduous march at a time when the men were already fatigued. There were many failings in the supply and intelligence-gathering system. In time, such things would improve, and if mistakes were never eradicated altogether they became fewer. Later in the Peninsular War, Wellington’s army did all of these things better, but his system was a gradual creation taking much time and effort.

Moore commanded the army at a much earlier stage in its development, and in a strategic situation of extreme peril. The redcoats suffered severely from weather, hunger, disease and inadequate clothing. Many men ended up barefoot, their often poor-quality boots completely worn out. They had already marched a long way before the retreat began, and too many of the supplies stockpiled for the army’s use were destroyed rather than distributed. Once the retreat began, Moore drove his army on at a fast pace, determined to get ahead of the French pursuit. The marches were long by the standards of the day.

In spite of Moore’s best efforts, all of the regiments were accompanied by many of the soldiers’ wives and children. Some officers’ wives also shared in the hardships of the campaign. Two battalion commanders – both of whom were killed – had their wives with them. It is unlikely, however, that any officers brought with them an adult, unmarried daughter. As in
True Soldier Gentlemen
, Jane MacAndrews’ presence makes for a good story, but is not based on any real incident.

Soldiers’ wives were a tough breed. They helped to look after their own men, and also were paid to clean and mend the regiment’s clothing. Some were as prone to drunkenness as their menfolk, and the episodes of unconscious women lying in the snow, and in some cases freezing to death, are firmly based on reality. Others were said to be highly enthusiastic looters. Some were more respectable. The very proper Annie Rawson is based on a real sergeant’s wife, who carried her dog in a basket throughout the retreat. Speedy remarriage was very common for the women of the regiments.

Readers may struggle to believe that Jenny could have given birth and then fled so soon afterwards, but this is also firmly based on fact. With so many women following the regiments, it was inevitable that some were in more or less advanced stages of pregnancy. A significant number of women gave birth during the campaign in conditions that can only have been appalling. Some did so in the open air, and without any medical assistance, and it is unsurprising that sometimes the mother or the child or both perished. Several memoirs mention such terrible sights. Another remembered finding a six-or seven-month-old boy trying to suckle from the breast of his dead mother. In this case there was a happier outcome. A staff officer took the child, wrapping him in his cloak, and announced, ‘Unfortunate infant, you shall be my future care.’

One memoir tells of a Highlander whose wife went into labour near the end of the retreat. Comparatively fortunate in having the shelter of an outhouse and the attentions of the regimental surgeon, they dropped behind the column and the baby was born during the night. The surgeon left them, telling the soldier that he should surrender. The following morning, however, his wife refused to let him do this, and they both set off on foot to catch up with the army. The woman was barefoot, carrying her baby wrapped in an apron, and they had little or no food. Somehow they reached the British outposts.

The Corunna campaign was a grim business, and episodes from it clearly haunted many of the survivors for the rest of their lives. Yet many also took great pride in the conduct of their own regiments.

The British hussar regiments did well during the campaign, in spite of the unsatisfactory condition of their mounts and a woeful lack of horseshoes, and especially the nails required to fit them. At Sahagun, the 15th Hussars charged and broke two French regiments. At Benevente, the 10th Hussars drove the chasseurs of the Imperial Guard back across the River Esla. General Lefebre-Desnouettes was captured – probably by a German hussar, although the credit went to a private from the 10th Hussars. He spent much of his captivity in Cheltenham, where he was subsequently joined by his wife. Eventually he broke his parole – the promised word of an officer not to escape. Napoleon evidently approved and he was given a command in the attack on Russia in 1812.

I have attached the fictional 106th to Paget’s Reserve Division, which formed the rearguard for the bulk of the retreat. The battalion’s experiences are a combination of those of several of the genuine regiments in the reserve, and in particular the 28th and to a lesser extent the 20th. The action at Cacabellos on the 3rd January 1809 occurred much as described in the story. The day began with a punishment parade, and a number of men were flogged, although Paget gave a last-minute reprieve to a pair of redcoats due to be hanged. The lone soldier from the 95th who shot the French general was a wild individual named Tom Plunket, who on several occasions faced disciplinary action after bouts of drunkenness. The feat became legendary among the riflemen, although the only descriptions come from men who were not present at the action, and contradict each other in matters of detail. Although it is sometimes claimed that the incident was famous for the long range of his shot, it seems more likely that Plunket’s coolness was most admired.

Many of the other incidents in the novel actually occurred, including General Paget’s encounter with the paymaster and the subsequent abandonment of the army’s treasury. I have slightly telescoped some of the details of Sir John Moore’s wounding, for instance his words to the Highlander from the 42nd who had lost his leg, but apart from the presence of Williams, nothing has been invented, and his final hours and burial were as described. The same is true of the wider details of the Battle of Corunna.

Moore does seem genuinely to have considered fighting a defensive battle at Lugo. Both there and at other stages during the retreat he was concerned that the French might outflank him and threaten or even cut off his retreating army. The whole episode of Williams and his ragtag group of stragglers holding the bridge is an invention, exploiting this genuine strategic fear. A large force of stragglers from many different regiments did rally under the command of a Sergeant Newman of the 43rd Light Infantry and drove off the French cavalry as described in the story. This formed the basis for Williams’ private army. Having described so many scenes of discipline collapsing, it was also important to show just how ready to fight most redcoats proved themselves at every opportunity. Polish lancers of the Legion of the Vistula and a Provisional Regiment of French Cuirassiers were serving in the Iberian Peninsula at this time, but neither played any direct role in the operations against Moore’s army.

Some of Moore’s officers were critical of the pace he set from the beginning of the advance, feeling that he exhausted the troops. It was also suggested that he should have spent more time with the leading divisions, rather than tending to supervise the actions of the rearguard. Most of this was unfair. It was natural to want to be with the rearguard since this was directly under attack by the enemy. A serious defeat in any of these encounters would have threatened the entire army.

The British Army endured the rigours of the retreat, fought a successful rearguard action on a bigger scale at Corunna, and was able to embark and escape to England. Soult’s batteries opened fire while the ships were still in the bay, and there was considerable confusion and some losses, but the evacuation was an undoubted success. As at Dunkirk, one hundred and thirty-one years later, Britain was able to save its army from a campaign that had gone badly wrong. Also as at Dunkirk, the evacuation was a sign of failure, but it permitted the war to continue. In the months that followed there was a rather squalid – and depressingly modern – scramble to assign blame for the failure.

Moore had many critics, but his defenders were both zealous and extremely determined. Like all other generals, he doubtless made mistakes, but it is impossible to see how anyone could have produced a more successful outcome to the campaign. The threat posed by his army dislocated Napoleon’s plans. The Emperor left for Paris after failing to trap Moore’s army at the River Esla. It seems clear that he realised the campaign was unlikely to produce an outright and overwhelming success, of the sort that had concluded all of his campaigns up to this point. Therefore, he left Soult to manage the rest of the campaign. The marshal did the job competently, but for the remainder of 1809 the French armies in Spain proved unable to complete the subjugation of Spain and Portugal. The Peninsular War would continue, and the last judgement on Moore’s importance is best left to Wellington, who said simply that ‘We’d not have won without him’.

In April 1809, Sir Arthur Wellesley, as he still was, would return to take command of the British forces left behind by Moore to defend Portugal. He would not leave the Iberian Peninsula until he led his armies across the Pyrenees into France four years later. The 106th will accompany him for much of the way on that long and difficult journey.