Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated)

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Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) Page 830

by Thomas Hardy


  masses streaming out of the forest descend in three columns.

  They sing, shout, fling their shakos in the air and repeat words

  from the proclamation, their steel and brass flashing in the sun.

  They narrow their columns as they gain the three bridges, and begin

  to cross—horse, foot, and artillery.

  NAPOLEON has come from the tent in which he has passed the night

  to the high ground in front, where he stands watching through his

  glass the committal of his army to the enterprise. DAVOUT, NEY,

  MURAT, OUDINOT, Generals HAXEL and EBLE, NARBONNE, and others

  surround him.

  It is a day of drowsing heat, and the Emperor draws a deep breath

  as he shifts his weight from one puffed calf to the other. The

  light cavalry, the foot, the artillery having passed, the heavy

  horse now crosses, their glitter outshining the ripples on the

  stream.

  A messenger enters. NAPOLEON reads papers that are brought, and

  frowns.]

  NAPOLEON

  The English heads decline to recognize

  The government of Joseph, King of Spain,

  As that of "the now-ruling dynast";

  But only Ferdinand's!—I'll get to Moscow,

  And send thence my rejoinder. France shall wage

  Another fifty years of wasting war

  Before a Bourbon shall remount the throne

  Of restless Spain!... [A flash lights his eyes.]

  But this long journey now just set a-trip

  Is my choice way to India; and 'tis there

  That I shall next bombard the British rule.

  With Moscow taken, Russia prone and crushed,

  To attain the Ganges is simplicity—

  Auxiliaries from Tiflis backing me.

  Once ripped by a French sword, the scaffolding

  Of English merchant-mastership in Ind

  Will fall a wreck.... Vast, it is true, must bulk

  An Eastern scheme so planned; but I could work it....

  Man has, worse fortune, but scant years for war;

  I am good for another five!

  SPIRIT OF THE PITIES

  Why doth he go?—

  I see returning in a chattering flock

  Bleached skeletons, instead of this array

  Invincibly equipped.

  SPIRIT OF THE YEARS

  I'll show you why.

  [The unnatural light before seen usurps that of the sun, bringing

  into view, like breezes made visible, the films or brain-tissues of

  the Immanent Will, that pervade all things, ramifying through the

  whole army, NAPOLEON included, and moving them to Its inexplicable

  artistries.]

  NAPOLEON [with sudden despondency]

  That which has worked will work!—Since Lodi Bridge

  The force I then felt move me moves me on

  Whether I will or no; and oftentimes

  Against my better mind.... Why am I here?

  —By laws imposed on me inexorably!

  History makes use of me to weave her web

  To her long while aforetime-figured mesh

  And contemplated charactery: no more.

  Well, war's my trade; and whencesoever springs

  This one in hand, they'll label it with my name!

  [The natural light returns and the anatomy of the Will disappears.

  NAPOLEON mounts his horse and descends in the rear of his host to

  the banks of the Niemen. His face puts on a saturnine humour, and

  he hums an air.]

  Malbrough s'en va-t-en guerre,

  Mironton, mironton, mirontaine;

  Malbrough s'en va-t-en guerre,

  Ne sait quand reviendra!

  [Exeunt NAPOLEON and his staff.]

  SPIRIT SINISTER

  It is kind of his Imperial Majesty to give me a lead. [Sings.]

  Monsieur d'Malbrough est mort,

  Mironton, mironton, mirontaine;

  Monsieur d'Malbrough est mort,

  Est mort et enterre!

  [Anon the figure of NAPOLEON, diminished to the aspect of a doll,

  reappears in front of his suite on the plain below. He rides

  across the swaying bridge. Since the morning the sky has grown

  overcast, and its blackness seems now to envelope the retreating

  array on the other side of the stream. The storm bursts with

  thunder and lightning, the river turns leaden, and the scene is

  blotted out by the torrents of rain.]

  SCENE II

  THE FORD OF SANTA MARTA, SALAMANCA

  [We are in Spain, on a July night of the same summer, the air being

  hot and heavy. In the darkness the ripple of the river Tormes can

  be heard over the ford, which is near the foreground of the scene.

  Against the gloomy north sky to the left, lightnings flash

  revealing rugged heights in that quarter. From the heights comes

  to the ear the tramp of soldiery, broke and irregular, as by

  obstacles in their descent; as yet they are some distance off.

  On heights to the right hand, on the other side of the river,

  glimmer the bivouac fires of the French under MARMONT. The

  lightning quickens, with rolls of thunder, and a few large drops

  of rain fall.

  A sentinel stands close to the ford, and beyond him is the ford-

  house, a shed open towards the roadway and the spectator. It is

  lit by a single lantern, and occupied by some half-dozen English

  dragoons with a sergeant and corporal, who form part of a mounted

  patrol, their horses being picketed at the entrance. They are

  seated on a bench, and appear to be waiting with some deep intent,

  speaking in murmurs only.

  The thunderstorm increases till it drowns the noise of the ford

  and of the descending battalions, making them seem further off

  than before. The sentinel is about to retreat to the shed when

  he discerns two female figures in the gloom. Enter MRS. DALBIAC

  and MRS. PRESCOTT, English officers wives.]

  SENTINEL

  Where there's war there's women, and where there's women there's

  trouble! [Aloud] Who goes there?

  MRS. DALBIAC

  We must reveal who we are, I fear [to her companion]. Friends!

  [to sentinel].

  SENTINEL

  Advance and give the countersign.

  MRS. DALBIAC

  Oh, but we can't!

  SENTINEL

  Consequent which, you must retreat. By Lord Wellington's strict

  regulations, women of loose character are to be excluded from the

  lines for moral reasons, namely, that they are often employed by

  the enemy as spies.

  MRS. PRESCOTT

  Dear good soldier, we are English ladies benighted, having mistaken

  our way back to Salamanca, and we want shelter from the storm.

  MRS. DALBIAC

  If it is necessary I will say who we are.—I am Mrs. Dalbiac, wife

  of the Lieutenant-Colonel of the Fourth Light Dragoons, and this

  lady is the wife of Captain Prescott of the Seventh Fusileers. We

  went out to Christoval to look for our husbands, but found the army

  had moved.

  SENTINEL [incredulously]

  "Wives!" Oh, not to-day! I have heard such titles of courtesy

  afore; but they never shake me. "W" begins other female words than

  "wives!"—You'll have trouble, good dames, to get into Salamanca

  to-night. You'll be challenged all the way down, and shot without

  clergy if you can't give the countersign.

  MRS. PRESCOTT

&
nbsp; Then surely you'll tell us what it is, good kind man!

  SENTINEL

  Well—have ye earned enough to pay for knowing? Government wage is

  poor pickings for watching here in the rain. How much can ye stand?

  MRS. DALBIAC

  Half-a-dozen pesetas.

  SENTINEL

  Very well, my dear. I was always tender-hearted. Come along.

  [They advance and hand the money.] The pass to-night is "Melchester

  Steeple." That will take you into the town when the weather clears.

  You won't have to cross the ford. You can get temporary shelter in

  the shed there.

  [As the ladies move towards the shed the tramp of the infantry

  draws near the ford, which the downfall has made to purl more

  boisterously. The twain enter the shed, and the dragoons look

  up inquiringly.]

  MRS. DALBIAC [to dragoons]

  The French are luckier than you are, men. You'll have a wet advance

  across this ford, but they have a dry retreat by the bridge at Alba.

  SERGEANT OF PATROL [starting from a doze]

  The moustachies a dry retreat? Not they, my dear. A Spanish

  garrison is in the castle that commands the bridge at Alba.

  MRS. DALBIAC

  A peasant told us, if we understood rightly, that he saw the Spanish

  withdraw, and the enemy place a garrison there themselves.

  [The sergeant hastily calls up two troopers, who mount and ride off

  with the intelligence.]

  SERGEANT

  You've done us a good turn, it is true, darlin'. Not that Lord

  Wellington will believe it when he gets the news.... Why, if my

  eyes don't deceive me, ma'am, that's Colonel Dalbiac's lady!

  MRS. DALBIAC

  Yes, sergeant. I am over here with him, as you have heard, no doubt,

  and lodging in Salamanca. We lost our way, and got caught in the

  storm, and want shelter awhile.

  SERGEANT

  Certainly, ma'am. I'll give you an escort back as soon as the

  division has crossed and the weather clears.

  MRS. PRESCOTT [anxiously]

  Have you heard, sergeant, if there's to be a battle to-morrow?

  SERGEANT

  Yes, ma'am. Everything shows it.

  MRS. DAlBIAC [to MRS. PRESCOTT]

  Our news would have passed us in. We have wasted six pesetas.

  MRS. PRESCOTT [mournfully]

  I don't mind that so much as that I have brought the children from

  Ireland. This coming battle frightens me!

  SPIRIT OF THE YEARS

  This is her prescient pang of widowhood.

  Ere Salamanca clang to-morrow's close

  She'll find her consort stiff among the slain!

  [The infantry regiments now reach the ford. The storm increases

  in strength, the stream flows more furiously; yet the columns of

  foot enter it and begin crossing. The lightning is continuous;

  the faint lantern in the ford-house is paled by the sheets of

  fire without, which flap round the bayonets of the crossing men

  and reflect upon the foaming torrent.]

  CHORUS OF THE PITIES [aerial music]

  The skies fling flame on this ancient land!

  And drenched and drowned is the burnt blown sand

  That spreads its mantle of yellow-grey

  Round old Salmantica to-day;

  While marching men come, band on band,

  Who read not as a reprimand

  To mortal moils that, as 'twere planned

  In mockery of their mimic fray,

  The skies fling flame.

  Since sad Coruna's desperate stand

  Horrors unsummed, with heavy hand,

  Have smitten such as these! But they

  Still headily pursue their way,

  Though flood and foe confront them, and

  The skies fling flame.

  [The whole of the English division gets across by degrees, and

  their invisible tramp is heard ascending the opposite heights as

  the lightnings dwindle and the spectacle disappears.]

  SCENE III

  THE FIELD OF SALAMANCA

  [The battlefield—an undulating and sandy expanse—is lying

  under the sultry sun of a July afternoon. In the immediate

  left foreground rises boldly a detached dome-like hill known

  as the Lesser Arapeile, now held by English troops. Further

  back, and more to the right, rises another and larger hill of

  the kind—the Greater Arapeile; this is crowned with French

  artillery in loud action, and the French marshal, MARMONT, Duke

  of RAGUSA, stands there. Further to the right, in the same

  plane, stretch the divisions of the French army. Still further

  to the right, in the distance, on the Ciudad Rodrigo highway, a

  cloud of dust denotes the English baggage-train seeking security

  in that direction. The city of Salamanca itself, and the river

  Tormes on which it stands, are behind the back of the spectator.

  On the summit of the lesser hill, close at hand, WELLINGTON, glass

  at eye, watches the French division under THOMIERE, which has become

  separated from the centre of the French army. Round and near him

  are aides and other officers, in animated conjecture on MARMONT'S

  intent, which appears to be a move on the Ciudad Rodrigo road

  aforesaid, under the impression that the English are about to

  retreat that way.

  The English commander descends from where he was standing to a nook

  under a wall, where a meal is roughly laid out. Some of his staff

  are already eating there. WELLINGTON takes a few mouthfuls without

  sitting down, walks back again, and looks through his glass at the

  battle as before. Balls from the French artillery fall around.

  Enter his aide-de-camp, FITZROY SOMERSET.]

  FITZROY SOMERSET [hurriedly]

  The French make movements of grave consequence—

  Extending to the left in mass, my lord.

  WELLINGTON

  I have just perceived as much; but not the cause.

  [He regards longer.]

  Marmont's good genius is deserting him!

  [Shutting up his glass with a snap, WELLINGTON calls several aides

  and despatches them down the hill. He goes back behind the wall

  and takes some more mouthfuls.]

  By God, Fitzroy, if we shan't do it now!

  [to SOMERSET].

  Mon cher Alava, Marmont est perdu!

  [to his SPANISH ATTACHE].

  FITZROY SOMERSET

  Thinking we mean to attack on him,

  He schemes to swoop on our retreating-line.

  WELLINGTON

  Ay; and to cloak it by this cannonade.

  With that in eye he has bundled leftwardly

  Thomiere's division; mindless that thereby

  His wing and centre's mutual maintenance

  Has gone, and left a yawning vacancy.

  So be it. Good. His laxness is our luck!

  [As a result of the orders sent off by the aides, several British

  divisions advance across the French front on the Greater Arapeile

  and elsewhere. The French shower bullets into them; but an English

  brigade under PACK assails the nearer French on the Arapeile, now

  beginning to cannonade the English in the hollows beneath.

  Light breezes blow toward the French, and they get in their faces

  the dust-clouds and smoke from the masses of English in motion, and

  a powerful sun in their eyes.

  MARMONT and his staff are sitting on the
top of the Greater Arapeile

  only half a cannon-shot from WELLINGTON on the Lesser; and, like

  WELLINGTON, he is gazing through his glass.

  SPIRIT OF RUMOUR

  Appearing to behold the full-mapped mind

  Of his opponent, Marmont arrows forth

  Aide after aide towards the forest's rim,

  To spirit on his troops emerging thence,

  And prop the lone division Thomiere,

  For whose recall his voice has rung in vain.

  Wellington mounts and seeks out Pakenham,

  Who pushes to the arena from the right,

  And, spurting to the left of Marmont's line,

  Shakes Thomiere with lunges leonine.

  When the manoeuvre's meaning hits his sense,

  Marmont hies hotly to the imperilled place,

  Where see him fall, sore smitten.—Bonnet rides

  And dons the burden of the chief command,

  Marking dismayed the Thomiere column there

  Shut up by Pakenham like bellows-folds

  Against the English Fourth and Fifth hard by;

  And while thus crushed, Dragoon-Guards and Dragoons,

  Under Le Marchant's hands [of Guernsey he],

  Are launched upon them by Sir Stapleton,

  And their scathed files are double-scathed anon.

  Cotton falls wounded. Pakenham's bayoneteers

  Shape for the charge from column into rank;

  And Thomiere finds death thereat point-blank!

  SEMICHORUS I OF THE PITIES [aerial music]

  In fogs of dust the cavalries hoof the ground;

  Their prancing squadrons shake the hills around:

  Le Marchant's heavies bear with ominous bound

  Against their opposites!

  SEMICHORUS II

  A bullet crying along the cloven air

  Gouges Le Marchant's groin and rankles there;

  In Death's white sleep he soon joins Thomiere,

  And all he has fought for, quits!

  [In the meantime the battle has become concentrated in the middle

  hollow, and WELLINGTON descends thither from the English Arapeile.

  The fight grows fiercer. COLE and LEITH now fall wounded; then

  BERESFORD, who directs the Portuguese, is struck down and borne

  away. On the French side fall BONNET who succeeded MARMONT in

  command, MANNE, CLAUSEL, and FEREY, the last hit mortally.

  Their disordered main body retreats into the forest and disappears;

  and just as darkness sets in, the English stand alone on the crest,

  the distant plain being lighted only by musket-flashes from the

  vanquishing enemy. In the close foreground vague figures on

  horseback are audible in the gloom.

 

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