Thus thought Massena, knowing nothing of the lines of Torres Vedras; and thus, too, thought the British Government at home, itself declaring that Wellington was ruining the country to no purpose, since in the end the British must be driven out with terrible loss and infamy that must make their name an opprobrium in the world.
But Wellington went his relentless way, and at tire end of the first week of October brought his army and the multitude of refugees safely within the amazing lines. The French, pressing hard upon their heels and confident that the end was near, were brought up sharply before those stupendous, unsuspected, impregnable fortifications.
After spending best part of a month in vain reconnoitering, Massena took up his quarters at Santarem, and thence the country was scoured for what scraps of victuals had been left to relieve the dire straits of the famished host of France. How the great marshal contrived to hold out so long in Santarem against the onslaught of famine and concomitant disease remains something of a mystery. An appeal to the Emperor for succour eventually brought Drouet with provisions, but these were no more than would keep his men alive on a retreat into Spain, and that retreat he commenced early in the following March, by when no less than ten thousand of his army had fallen sick.
Instantly Wellington was up and after him. The French retreat became a flight. They threw away baggage and ammunition that they might travel the lighter. Thus they fled towards Spain, harassed by the British cavalry and scarcely less by the resentful peasantry of Portugal, their line of march defined by an unbroken trail of carcasses, until the tattered remnants of that once splendid army found shelter across the Coira. Beyond this Wellington could not continue the pursuit for lack of means to cross the swollen river and also because provisions were running short.
But there for the moment he might rest content, his immediate object achieved and his stern strategy supremely vindicated.
On the heights above the yellow, turgid flood rode Wellington with a glittering staff that included O'Moy and Murray, the quartermaster-general. Through his telescope he surveyed with silent satisfaction the straggling columns of the French that were being absorbed by the evening mists from the sodden ground.
O'Moy, at his side, looked on without satisfaction. To him the close of this phase of the campaign which had justified his remaining in office meant the reopening of that painful matter that had been left in suspense by circumstances since that June day of last year at Monsanto. The resignation then refused from motives of expediency must again be tendered and must now be accepted.
Abruptly upon the general stillness came a sharply humming sound.
Within a yard of the spot where Wellington sat his horse a handful of soil heaved itself up and fell in a tiny scattered shower.
Immediately elsewhere in a dozen places was the phenomenon repeated. There was too much glitter about the staff uniforms and vindictive French sharpshooters were finding them an attractive mark.
"They are firing on us, sir!" cried O'Moy on a note of sharp alarm.
"So I perceive," Lord Wellington answered calmly, and leisurely he closed his glass, so leisurely that O'Moy, in impatient fear of his chief, spurred forward and placed himself as a screen between him and the line of fire.
Lord Wellington looked at him with a faint smile. He was about to speak when O'Moy pitched forward and rolled headlong from the saddle.
They picked him up unconscious but alive, and for once Lord Wellington was seen to blench as he flung down from his horse to inquire the nature of O'Moy's hurt. It was not fatal, but, as it afterwards proved, it was grave enough. He had been shot through the body, the right lung had been grazed and one of his ribs broken.
Two days later, after the bullet had been extracted, Lord Wellington went to visit him in the house where he was quartered.
Bending over him and speaking quietly, his lordship said that which brought a moisture to the eyes of Sir Terence and a smile to his pale lips. What actually were his lordship's words may be gathered from the answer he received.
"Ye're entirely wrong, then, and it's mighty glad I am. For now I need no longer hand you my resignation. I can be invalided home."
So he was; and thus it happens that not until now - when this chronicle makes the matter public - does the knowledge of Sir Terence's single but grievous departure from the path of honour go beyond the few who were immediately concerned with it. They kept faith with him because they loved him; and because they had understood all that went to the making of his sin, they condoned it.
If I have done my duty as a faithful chronicler, you who read, understanding too, will take satisfaction in that it was so.
