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.
