The Dynasts: An Epic-Drama of the War with Napoleon

  SPAIN.  A ROAD NEAR ASTORGA

    [The eye of the spectator rakes the road from the interior of a
    cellar which opens upon it, and forms the basement of a deserted
    house, the roof doors, and shutters of which have been pulled down
    and burnt for bivouac fires.  The season is the beginning of
    January, and the country is covered with a sticky snow.  The road
    itself is intermittently encumbered with heavy traffic, the surface
    being churned to a yellow mud that lies half knee-deep, and at the
    numerous holes in the track forming still deeper quagmires.

    In the gloom of the cellar are heaps of damp straw, in which
    ragged figures are lying half-buried, many of the men in the
    uniform of English regiments, and the women and children in clouts
    of all descriptions, some being nearly naked.  At the back of the
    cellar is revealed, through a burst door, an inner vault, where
    are discernible some wooden-hooped wine-casks; in one sticks a
    gimlet, 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 inmates
    are drunk; some to insensibility.

    So far as the characters are doing anything they are contemplating
    almost incessant traffic outside, passing in one direction.  It
    includes a medley of stragglers from the Marquis of ROMANA’S
    Spanish forces and the retreating English army under SIR JOHN
    MOORE—to which the concealed deserters belong.]

  FIRST DESERTER

  Now he’s one of the Eighty-first, and I’d gladly let that poor blade
  know that we’ve all that man can wish for here—good wine and buxom
  women.  But if I do, we shan’t have room for ourselves—hey?

    [He signifies a man limping past with neither fire-lock nor
    knapsack.  Where the discarded knapsack has rubbed for weeks
    against his shoulder-blades the jacket and shirt are fretted
    away, leaving his skin exposed.]

  SECOND DESERTER

  He 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 old
  Bristol again.  I’d sooner have a nipperkin of our own real “Bristol
  milk” than a mash-tub full of this barbarian wine!

  THIRD DESERTER

  ’Tis like thee to be ungrateful, after putting away such a skinful
  on’t.  I am as much Bristol as thee, but would as soon be here as
  there.  There ain’t near such willing women, that are strict
  respectable too, there as hereabout, and no open cellars.— As
  there’s many a slip in this country I’ll have the rest of my
  allowance now.

    [He crawls on his elbows to one of the barrels, and turning on his
    back 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 more
  coming, and they’ll sight us if we don’t mind!

    [Enter without a straggling flock of military objects, some with
    fragments of shoes on, others bare-footed, many of the latter’s
    feet bleeding.  The arms and waists of some are clutched by women
    as tattered and bare-footed as themselves.  They pass on.

    The Retreat continues.  More of ROMANA’S Spanish limp along in
    disorder; then enters a miscellaneous group of English cavalry
    soldiers, some on foot, some mounted, the rearmost of the latter
    bestriding a shoeless foundered creature whose neck is vertebrae
    and mane only.  While passing it falls from exhaustion; the trooper
    extricates himself and pistols the animal through the head.  He
    and 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 cranes
  out.] Yes, a sergeant of the Forty-third, and what’s left of their
  second 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, by
    stiffening himself up, to hide how it is wasting away his life.
    He halts, and looks back, till the remains of the Forty-third are
    abreast, to the number of some three hundred, about half of whom
    are crippled invalids, the other half being presentable and armed
    soldiery.’

  SERGEANT

  Now show yer nerve, and be men.  If you die to-day you won’t have to
  die to-morrow.  Fall in!  [The miscellany falls in.]  All invalids and
  men without arms march ahead as well as they can.  Quick—maw-w-w-ch!
  [Exeunt invalids, etc.]  Now! Tention! Shoulder-r-r—fawlocks!  [Order
  obeyed.]

    [The sergeant hastily forms these into platoons, who prime and load,
    and seem preternaturally changed from what they were into alert
    soldiers.

    Enter French dragoons at the left-back of the scene.  The rear
    platoon of the Forty-third turns, fires, and proceeds.  The next
    platoon covering them does the same.  This is repeated several
    times, staggering the pursuers.  Exeunt French dragoons, giving
    up the pursuit.  The coughing sergeant and the remnant of the
    Forty-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 the
  woman more closely.]  Why—my little chick?  Look here, friends.
  [They look, and the woman is found to be dead.]  If I didn’t think
  that her poor knees felt cold!... And only an hour ago I swore
  to 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 rabble
    of English and Spanish, and mules and muleteers hired by English
    officers to carry their baggage.  The muleteers, looking about
    and seeing that the French dragoons gave been there, cut the bands
    which hold on the heavy packs, and scamper off with their mules.]

  A VOICE [behind]

  The Commander-in-Chief is determined to maintain discipline, and
  they must suffer.  No more pillaging here.  It is the worst case
  of brutality and plunder that we have had in this wretched time!

    [Enter an English captain of hussars, a lieutenant, a guard of
    about a dozen, and three men as prisoner.]

  CAPTAIN

  If 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 enemy
  is not far behind.

    [The three prisoners appear to draw lots, and the one on whom the
    lot falls is blindfolded.  Exeunt the hussars behind a wall, with
    carbines.  A volley is heard and something falls.  The wretched
    in the cellar shudder.]

  FOURTH DESERTER

  ’Tis the same for us but for this heap of straw.  Ah—my doxy is the
  only one of us who is safe and sound!  [He kisses the dead woman.]

    [Retreat continues.  A train of six-horse baggage-waggons lumbers
    past, a mounted sergeant alongside.  Among the baggage lie wounded
    soldiers and sick women.]

  SERGEANT OF THE WAGGON-TRAIN

  If 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 taken
    out, laid down by the roadside, and some muddy snow scraped over
    them.  Exeunt waggons and sergeant.

    An interval.  More English troops pass on horses, mostly shoeless
    and foundered.

    Enter SIR JOHN MOORE and officers.  MOORE appears on the pale
    evening light as a handsome man, far on in the forties, the
    orbits of his dark eyes showing marks of deep anxiety.  He is
    talking to some of his staff with vehement emphasis and gesture.
    They cross the scene and go on out of sight, and the squashing
    of 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—cast
  about—load—-

  FIRST DESERTER [throwing a shoe at the sleeper]

  Shut up that!  D’ye think you are a ’cruity in the awkward squad
  still?

  SECOND DESERTER

  I don’t know what he thinks, but I know what I feel!  Would that I
  were 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 questions
  asked, and the winter sun slanting friendly over Baldwin Street as
  ’a used to do!  ’Tis my very belief, though I have lost all sure
  reckoning, that if I were there, and in good health, ’twould be New
  Year’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 romantical
  thing enough.  ’A used to go som’at like this [he sings in a nasal
  tone]:—

            “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 the
    singing, one of the officers looks around, and detaching a patrol
    enters the ruined house with the file of men, the body of soldiers
    marching on.  The inmates of the cellar bury themselves in the
    straw.  The officer peers about, and seeing no one prods the straw
    with his sword.

  VOICES [under the straw]

  Oh! Hell!  Stop it!  We’ll come out!  Mercy!  Quarter!

    [The lurkers are uncovered.]

  OFFICER

  If you are well enough to sing bawdy songs, you are well enough to
  march.  So out of it—or you’ll be shot, here and now!

  SEVERAL

  You may shoot us, captain, or the French may shoot us, or the devil
  may take us; we don’t care which!  Only we can’t stir.  Pity the
  women, captain, but do what you will with us!

    [The searchers pass over the wounded, and stir out those capable
    of marching, both men and women, so far as they discover them.
    They are pricked on by the patrol.  Exeunt patrol and deserters
    in 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 IRONIC

       Quaint poesy, and real romance of war!

  SPIRIT OF THE PITIES

       Mock on, Shade, if thou wilt!  But others find
       Poesy 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 cellar
    having slept off the effects of the wine, are awakened by a new
    tramping of cavalry, which becomes more and more persistent.  It
    is the French, who now fill the road.  The advance-guard having
    passed by, DELABORDE’S division, LORGE’S division, MERLE’S
    division, and others, successively cross the gloom.

    Presently come the outlines of the Imperial Guard, and then, with
    a start, those in hiding realize their situation, and are wide
    awake.  NAPOLÉON enters with his staff.  He has just been overtaken
    by a courier, and orders those round him to halt.]

  NAPOLÉON

  Let there a fire be lit: Ay, here and now.
  The lines within these letters brook no pause
  In mastering their purport.

    [Some of the French approach the ruined house and, appropriating
    what wood is still left there, heap it by the roadside and set it
    alight.  A mixed rain and snow falls, and the sputtering flames
    throw a glare all round.]

  SECOND DESERTER [under his voice]

  We be shot corpses!  Ay, faith, we be!  Why didn’t I stick to
  England, and true doxology, and leave foreign doxies and their
  wine alone!... Mate, can ye squeeze another shardful from the
  cask there, for I feel my time is come!... O that I had but the
  barrel of that firelock I throwed away, and that wasted powder to
  prime and load!  This bullet I chaw to squench my hunger would do
  the rest!... Yes, I could pick him off now!

  FIRST DESERTER

  You lie low with your picking off, or he may pick off you!  Thank
  God the babies are gone.  Maybe we shan’t be noticed, if we’ve but
  the courage to do nothing, and keep hid.

    [NAPOLÉON dismounts, approaches the fire, and looks around.]

  NAPOLÉON

  Another of their dead horses here, I see.

  OFFICER

  Yes, sire.  We have counted eighteen hundred odd
  From Benavente hither, pistoled thus.
  Some we’d to finish for them: headlong haste
  Spared them no time for mercy to their brutes.
  One-half their cavalry now tramps afoot.

  NAPOLÉON

  And what’s the tale of waggons we’ve picked up?

  OFFICER

  Spanish and all abandoned, some four hundred;
  Of magazines and firelocks, full ten load;
  And stragglers and their girls a numerous crew.

  NAPOLÉON

  Ay, devil—plenty those!  Licentious ones
  These English, as all canting peoples are.—
  And prisoners?

  OFFICER

            Seven 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 blundering
  As glares in this campaign!  It is, indeed,
  Enlarging Folly to Foolhardiness
  To combat France by land!  But how expect
  Aught that can claim the name of government
  From Canning, Castlereagh, and Perceval,
  Caballers all—poor sorry politicians—
  To whom has fallen the luck of reaping in
  The harvestings of Pitt’s bold husbandry.

    [He unfolds a dispatch, and looks for something to sit on.  A cloak
    is 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 sinks
    into 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 prisoners
  The most legitimate kings”—that means myself—
  “The other suffers their unworthy treatment
  For sordid interests”—that’s for Alexander!...
  And what is Georgy made to say besides?—
  “Pacific overtures to us are wiles
  Woven to unnerve the generous nations round
  Lately escaped the galling yoke of France,
  Or waiting so to do.  Such, then, being seen,
  These tentatives must be regarded now
  As finally forgone; and crimson war
  Be 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 Spain
  She 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 French
  Between the Elbe and Rhine to prostrate her,
  Let new and terrible experience
  Soon disillude her of!  Yea; she may arm:
  The opportunity she late let slip
  Will not subserve her now!

  SPIRIT OF THE PITIES

       Has he no heart-hints that this Austrian court,
       Whereon his mood takes mould so masterful,
       Is rearing naively in its nursery-room
       A future wife for him?

  SPIRIT OF THE YEARS

            Thou 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 yield
  What I have promised Alexander.  Ah!...
  As for Constantinople being his prize
  I’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?

  OFFICER

  He has arrived along the Leon road
  Just now, your Majesty; and only waits
  The close of your perusals.

    [Enter SOULT, who is greeted by NAPOLÉON.]

  FIRST DESERTER

  Good Lord deliver us from all great men, and take me back again to
  humble life!  That’s Marshal Soult the Duke of Dalmatia!

  SECOND DESERTER

  The Duke of Damnation for our poor rear, by the look on’t!

  FIRST DESERTER

  Yes—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 threats
  The 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 stand
  More apt for couriers than I do out here
  In this far western corner, and to mark
  The veerings of these new developments,
  And blow a counter-breeze....

  Then, too, there’s Lannes, still sweating at the siege
  Of sullen Zaragoza as ’twere hell.
  Him I must further counsel how to close
  His twice too tedious battery.—You, then, Soult—
  Ney is not yet, I gather, quite come up?

  SOULT

  He’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 support
  In this pursuit and harassment of Moore
  Wherein you take my place.  You’ll follow up
  And 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 dragoons
  Will 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 YEARS

       More turning may be here than he design.
       In this small, sudden, swift turn backward, he
       Suggests one turning from his apogee!

    [The characters disperse, the fire sinks, and snowflakes and
    darkness blot out all.]

  BEFORE CORUNA

    [The town, harbour, and hills at the back are viewed from an
    aerial point to the north, over the lighthouse known as the
    Tower of Hercules, rising at the extremity of the tongue of
    land on which La Coruna stands, the open ocean being in the
    spectator’s rear.

    In the foreground the most prominent feature is the walled old
    town, with its white towers and houses, shaping itself aloft
    over the harbour.  The new town, and its painted fronts, show
    bright below, even on this cloudy winter afternoon.  Further
    off, behind the harbour—now crowded with British transports
    of all sizes—is a series of low broken hills, intersected by
    hedges and stone walls.

    A mile behind these low inner hills is beheld a rocky chain of
    outer and loftier heights that completely command the former.
    Nothing behind them is seen but grey sky.

  DUMB SHOW

  On the inner hills aforesaid the little English army—a pathetic
  fourteen thousand of foot only—is just deploying into line: HOPE’S
  division is on the left, BAIRD’S to the right.  PAGET with the
  reserve is in the hollow to the left behind them; and FRASER’S
  division still further back shapes out on a slight rise to the right.

  This harassed force now appears as if composed of quite other than
  the men observed in the Retreat insubordinately straggling along
  like vagabonds.  Yet they are the same men, suddenly stiffened and
  grown amenable to discipline by the satisfaction of standing to the
  enemy at last.  They resemble a double palisade of red stakes, the
  only gaps being those that the melancholy necessity of scant numbers
  entails here and there.

  Over the heads of these red men is beheld on the outer hills the
  twenty thousand French that have been pushed along the road at the
  heels 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, while
  in a deadly arc round BAIRD, from whom they are divided only by the
  village of Elvina, are placed MERMET’S division, LAHOUSSAYE’S and
  LORGE’S dragoons, FRANCESCHI’S cavalry, and, highest up of all, a
  formidable battery of eleven great guns that rake the whole British
  line.

  It is now getting on for two o’clock, and a stir of activity has
  lately been noticed along the French front.  Three columns are
  discerned descending from their position, the first towards the
  division of SIR DAVID BAIRD, the weakest point in the English line,
  the next towards the centre, the third towards the left.  A heavy
  cannonade from the battery supports this advance.

  The clash ensues, the English being swept down in swathes by the
  enemy’s artillery.  The opponents meet face to face at the village
  in 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 PITIES

       I seem to vision in San Carlos’ garden,
       That rises salient in the upper town,
       His name, and date, and doing, set within
       A filmy outline like a monument,
       Which yet is but the insubstantial air.

  SPIRIT OF THE YEARS

       Read 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 strikes
  off BAIRD’S arm.  There is a little confusion, and he is borne to
  the 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-second
  regiment and a battalion of the Guards who, with fixed bayonets,
  bear the enemy back, MOORE’S gestures in cheering them being
  notably energetic.  Pursuers, pursued, and SIR JOHN himself pass
  out of sight behind the hill.  Dumb Show ends.

    [The point of vision descends to the immediate rear of the
    English position.  The early January evening has begun to spread
    its shades, and shouts of dismay are heard from behind the hill
    over which MOORE and the advancing lines have vanished.

    Straggling soldiers cross in the gloom.]

  FIRST STRAGGLER

  He’s struck by a cannon-ball, that I know; but he’s not killed,
  that I pray God A’mighty.

  SECOND STRAGGLER

  Better he were.  His shoulder is knocked to a bag of splinters.
  As Sir David was wownded, Sir John was anxious that the right
  should not give way, and went forward to keep it firm.

  FIRST STRAGGLER

  He didn’t keep YOU firm, howsomever.

  SECOND STRAGGLER

  Nor you, for that matter.

  FIRST STRAGGLER

  Well, ’twas a serious place for a man with no priming-horn, and
  a character to lose, so I judged it best to fall to the rear by
  lying down.  A man can’t fight by the regulations without his
  priming-horn, and I am none of your slovenly anyhow fighters.

  SECOND STRAGGLER

  ’Nation, having dropped my flit-pouch, I was the same.  If you’d
  had your priming-horn, and I my flints, mind ye, we should have
  been there now?  Then, forty-whory, that we are not is the fault
  o’ Government for not supplying new ones from the reserve!

  FIRST STRAGGLER

  What 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 my
  salvation, here’s for back again, whether or no!

  SECOND STRAGGLER

  But here.  “Forty-second, remember Egypt,” he said in the very
  eye of that French battery playing through us.  And the next omen
  was that he was struck off his horse, and fell on his back to the
  ground.  I remembered Egypt, and what had just happened too, so
  thorough well that I remembered the way over this wall!—Captain
  Hardinge, who was close to him, jumped off his horse, and he and
  one in the ranks lifted him, and are now bringing him along.

  FIRST STRAGGLER

  Nevertheless, here’s for back again, come what will.  Remember
  Egypt!  Hurrah!

    [Exit First straggler.  Second straggler ponders, then suddenly
    follows First.  Enter COLONEL ANDERSON and others hastily.]

  AN OFFICER

  Now fetch a blanker.  He must be carried in.

    [Shouts heard.]

  COLONEL ANDERSON

  That means we are gaining ground!  Had fate but left
  This last blow undecreed, the hour had shone
  A star amid these girdling days of gloom!

    [Exit.  Enter in the obscurity six soldiers of the Forty-second
    bearing MOORE on their joined hands.  CAPTAIN HARDINGE walks
    beside and steadies him.  He is temporarily laid down in the
    shelter of a wall, his left shoulder being pounded away, the arm
    dangling by a shred of flesh.

    Enter COLONEL GRAHAM and CAPTAIN WOODFORD.]

  GRAHAM

  The 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 fears
  He’ll drain to death ere anything can be done!

  HARDINGE

  I’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.  During
    the operation the pommel of his sword, which he still wears, is
    accidentally thrust into the wound.]

  I’ll loose the sword—it bruises you, Sir John.

    [He begins to unbuckle it.]

  MOORE

  No.  Let it be!  One hurt more matters not.
  I wish it to go off the field with me.

  HARDINGE

  I like the sound of that.  It augurs well
  For 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 glimpse
  Still how the battle’s going?

  HARDINGE

            Ay, Sir John—
  A few yard higher up, where we can see.

    [He is borne in the blanket a little way onward, and lifted so
    that 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?

  HOPE

  My 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 off
  Along the Orense road.  But had I not,
  Bonaparte would have headed us that way....

  HOPE

  O would that Soult had but accepted battle
  By Lugo town!  We should have crushed him there.

  MOORE

  Yes... yes.—But it has never been my lot
  To owe much to good luck; nor was it then.
  Good fortune has been mine, but [bitterly] mostly so
  By the exhaustion of all shapes of bad!...
  Well, this does not become a dying man;
  And others have been chastened more than I
  By 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 day
  That she was holding out heroically.
  But I must leave such now.—You’ll see my friends
  As 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 die
  Without a word with Stanhope, ask him, Hope,
  To—name me to his sister.  You may know
  Of what there was between us?...
  Is Colonel Graham well, and all my aides?
  My will I have made—it is in Colborne’s charge
  With other papers.

  HOPE

       He’s now coming up.

    [Enter MAJOR COLBORNE, principal aide-de-camp.]

  MOORE

  Are the French beaten, Colborne, or repulsed?
  Alas! you see what they have done too me!

  COLBORNE

  I 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.

  MOORE

  That’s good!  Is Paget anywhere about?

  COLBORNE

  He’s at the front, Sir John.

  MOORE

       Remembrance to him!

    [Enter two surgeons.]

  Ah, doctors,—you can scarcely mend up me.—
  And yet I feel so tough—I have feverish fears
  My dying will waste a long and tedious while;
  But not too long, I hope!

  SURGEONS [after a hasty examination]

            You must be borne
  In to your lodgings instantly, Sir John.
  Please strive to stand the motion—if you can;
  They will keep step, and bear you steadily.

  MOORE

  Anything.... Surely fainter ebbs that fire?

  COLBORNE

  Yes: we must be advancing everywhere:
  Colbert their General, too, they have lost, I learn.

    [They lift him by stretching their sashes under the blanket, and
    begin moving off.  A light waggon enters.]

  MOORE

  Who’s in that waggon?

  HARDINGE

            Colonel Wynch, Sir John.
  He’s wounded, but he urges you to take it.

  MOORE

  No.  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 being
    still indistinct.  The features of the elevated enclosure of San
    Carlos can be recognized in dim outline, and also those of the
    Old Town of Coruna around, though scarcely a lamp is shining.
    The numerous transports in the harbour beneath have still their
    riding-lights burning.

    In a nook of the town walls a lantern glimmers.  Some English
    soldiers of the Ninth regiment are hastily digging a grave there
    with extemporized tools.]

  A VOICE [from the gloom some distance off]

  “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that
  believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.”

    [The soldiers look up, and see entering at the further end of the
    patch of ground a slow procession.  It advances by the light of
    lanterns in the hands of some members of it.  At moments the fitful
    rays fall upon bearers carrying a coffinless body rolled in a
    blanket, 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 SOLDIER

  They 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 hole
  As in a royal vault!

  SECOND SOLDIER

  Would it had been a foot deeper, here among foreigners, with strange
  manures manufactured out of no one knows what!  Surely we can give
  him another six inches?

  FIRST SOLDIER

  There is no time.  Just make the bottom true.

    [The meagre procession approaches the spot, and waits while the
    half-dug grave is roughly finished by the men of the Ninth.
    They step out of it, and another of them holds a lantern to the
    chaplain’s book.  The winter day slowly dawns.]

  CHAPLAIN

  “Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is
  full of misery.  He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he
  fleeth 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.

  HOPE

  We 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 glance
    gloomily at the heights where the French are ranged, and then
    into the grave.]

  CHAPLAIN

  “We therefore commit his body to the ground.  Earth to earth, ashes
  to 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 below
    them.]

  HOPE

  In mercy to the living, who are thrust
  Upon 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.

  HARDINGE

  And could he mind, would be the man to bid it....

  HOPE

  We shall do well, then, curtly to conclude
  These 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 pleased
  Thee to deliver this our brother out of the miseries of this
  sinful world.... Who also hath taught us not to be sorry, as
  men without hope, for them that sleep in Him.... Grant this,
  through Jesus Christ our Mediator and Redeemer.”

  OFFICERS AND SOLDIERS

  Amen!

    [The diggers of the Ninth hastily fill in the grave, and the scene
    shuts as the mournful figures retire.]

  VIENNA.  A CAFE IN THE STEPHANS-PLATZ

    [An evening between light and dark is disclosed, some lamps being
    lit.  The huge body and tower of St. Stephen’s rise into the sky
    some way off, the western gleam still touching the upper stonework.
    Groups of people are seated at the tables, drinking and reading
    the newspapers.  One very animated group, which includes an
    Englishman, is talking loudly.  A citizen near looks up from his
    newspaper.]

  CITIZEN [to the Englishman]

  I read, sir, here, the troubles you discuss
  Of your so gallant army under Moore.
  His was a spirit baffled but not quelled,
  And in his death there shone a stoicism
  That lent retreat the rays of victory.

  ENGLISHMAN

  It was so.  While men chide they will admire him,
  And frowning, praise.  I could nigh prophesy
  That the unwonted crosses he has borne
  In his career of sharp vicissitude
  Will tinct his story with a tender charm,
  And grant the memory of his strenuous feats
  As long a lease within the minds of men
  As conquerors hold there.—Does the sheet give news
  Of how the troops reached home?

  CITIZEN [looking up again at the paper]

            Yes; from your press
  It quotes that they arrived at Plymouth Sound
  Mid 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 died
  As 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.

  ENGLISHMAN

       I have heard as much.

  CITIZEN

  You’ll do it next time, sir.  And so shall we!

  SECOND CITIZEN [regarding the church tower opposite]

  You witnessed the High Service over there
  They held this morning?  [To the Englishman.]

  ENGLISHMAN

            Ay; I did get in;
  Though not without hard striving, such the throng;
  But travellers roam to waste who shyly roam
  And I pushed like the rest.

  SECOND CITIZEN

            Our young Archduchess
  Maria Louisa was, they tell me, present?

  ENGLISHMAN

  O yes: the whole Imperial family,
  And when the Bishop called all blessings down
  Upon the Landwehr colours there displayed,
  Enthusiasm touched the sky—she sharing it.

  SECOND CITIZEN

  Commendable in her, and spirited,
  After the graceless insults to the Court
  The Paris journals flaunt—not voluntarily,
  But by his ordering.  Magician-like
  He holds them in his fist, and at his squeeze
  They bubble what he wills!... Yes, she’s a girl
  Of patriotic build, and hates the French.
  Quite lately she was overheard to say
  She had met with most convincing auguries
  That this year Bonaparte was starred to die.

  ENGLISHMAN

  Your arms must render its fulfilment sure.

  SECOND CITIZEN

  Right!  And we have the opportunity,
  By upping to the war in suddenness,
  And catching him unaware.  The pink and flower
  Of all his veteran troops are now in Spain
  Fully engaged with yours; while those he holds
  In Germany are scattered far and wide.

  FIRST CITIZEN [looking up again from his newspaper]

  I see here that he vows and guarantees
  Inviolate bounds to all our territories
  If we but pledge to carry out forthwith
  A prompt disarmament.  Since that’s his price
  Hell 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 States
  Alternately 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 us
  Than Continental souls!  [They drink.]

    [A band is heard in a distant street, with shouting.  Enter third
    and fourth citizens, followed by others.]

  FIRST CITIZEN

       More news afloat?

  THIRD AND FOURTH CITIZENS

  Yea; an announcement that the Archduke Charles
  Is given the chief command.

  FIRST, SECOND, ETC., CITIZENS

       Huzza!  Right so!

    [A clinking of glasses, rising from seats, and general enthusiasm.]

  SECOND CITIZEN

  If war had not so patly been declared,
  Our howitzers and firelocks of themselves
  Would have gone off to shame us!  This forenoon
  Some of the Landwehr met me; they are hot
  For setting out, though but few months enrolled.

  ENGLISHMAN

  That moves reflection somewhat.  They are young
  For measuring with the veteran file of France!

  FIRST CITIZEN

  Napoléon’s army swarms with tender youth,
  His last conscription besomed into it
  Thousands of merest boys.  But he contrives
  To mix them in the field with seasoned frames.

  SECOND CITIZEN

  The sadly-seen mistake this country made
  Was 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 tears
  In palaces, in shops, in fields, in cots,
  From women widowed, sonless, fatherless,
  That then oppressed our eyes.  There is no salve
  For 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 and
                  speaking across]

  I see that Russia has declined to aid us,
  And says she knows that Prussia likewise must;
  So that the mission of Prince Schwarzenberg
  To Alexander’s Court has closed in failure.

  THIRD CITIZEN

  Ay—through his being honest—fatal sin!—
  Probing too plainly for the Emperor’s ears
  His ominous friendship with Napoléon.

  ENGLISHMAN

  Some say he was more than honest with the Tsar;
  Hinting that his becoming an ally
  Makes him accomplice of the Corsican
  In the unprincipled dark overthrow
  Of his poor trusting childish Spanish friends—
  Which gave the Tsar offence.

  THIRD CITIZEN

            And our best bid—
  The last, most delicate dish—a tastelessness.

  FIRST CITIZEN

  What was Prince Schwarzenberg’s best bid, I pray?

  THIRD CITIZEN

  The offer of the heir of Austria’s hand
  For Alexander’s sister the Grand-Duchess.

  ENGLISHMAN

  He could not have accepted, if or no:
  She is inscribed as wife for Bonaparte.

  FIRST CITIZEN

  I doubt that text!

  ENGLISHMAN

       Time’s context soon will show.

  SECOND CITIZEN

  The Russian Cabinet can not for long
  Resist the ardour of the Russian ranks
  To march with us the moment we achieve
  Our first loud victory!

    [A band is heard playing afar, and shouting.  People are seen
    hurrying past in the direction of the sounds.  Enter sixth
    citizen.]

  SIXTH CITIZEN

            The Archduke Charles
  Is passing the Ringstrasse just by now,
  His regiment at his heels!

    [The younger sitters jump up with animation, and go out, the
    elder mostly remaining.]

  SECOND CITIZEN

            Realm never faced
  The grin of a more fierce necessity
  For horrid war, than ours at this tense time!

    [The sounds of band-playing and huzzaing wane away.  Citizens
    return.]

  FIRST CITIZEN

  More news, my friends, of swiftly swelling zeal?

  RE-ENTERED CITIZENS

  Ere passing down the Ring, the Archduke paused
  And gave the soldiers speech, enkindling them
  As sunrise a confronting throng of panes
  That 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., CITIZENS

  Huzza!  Right so!  Good!  Forwards!  God be praised!

    [They stand up, and a clinking of glasses follows, till they
    subside to quietude and a reperusal of newspapers.  Nightfall
    succeeds.  Dancing-rooms are lit up in an opposite street, and
    dancing begins.  The figures are seen gracefully moving round
    to the throbbing strains of a string-band, which plays a new
    waltzing movement with a warlike name, soon to spread over
    Europe.  The dancers sing patriotic words as they whirl.  The
    night closes over.]