La Coruña, Battle of, La Coruña, Spain, 1809 -- Juvenile fiction; Moore, John, Sir 1761-1809 -- Juvenile fiction
"Just look at that, boys," he said. "Isn't it better for you to be
standing here like dacent men, ready to do your duty, than to be rolling
about in a state like those drunken blackguards, for the sake of half an
hour's pleasure? Sure it is enough to make every mother's son of you swear
off liquor till ye get home again. When the French get inside the town
there is not one of the drunken bastes that won't be either killed or
marched away a thousand miles to a French prison, and all for half an
hour's drink."
The lesson was indeed a striking one, and careless as many of the men
were, it brought home to them with greater force than ever before in their
lives, not only the folly but the degradation of drunkenness. A few
minutes later, General Moore, who was riding up and down the line,
inspecting the condition of the men in each regiment, came along.
"Your men look very well, Colonel," he said, as he reached the Fusiliers.
"How many are you short of your number?"
"Not a man, General; I am happy to say that there was not a single one
that did not answer when his name was called."
"That is good, indeed," the general said, warmly. "I am happy to say that
all the regiments of the rear-guard have turned out well, and shown
themselves worthy of the trust reposed in them; none, however, can give so
good a report as you have done. I selected your regiment to strengthen
this division from the excellent order that I observed you kept along the
line of march, and I am glad indeed that it has shown itself so worthy of
the honour. March your regiment across to the side of the street, let the
others pass you, and fall in at the rear of the column. I shall give the
Mayo Fusiliers the post of honour, as a mark of my warm approbation for
the manner in which they have turned out."
Scarcely had the troops left the town when the French cavalry poured in.
Now that it was too late, the sense of danger penetrated the brains of the
revellers, and the mob of disbanded Spanish and British soldiers and
camp-followers poured out from the cellars. Few of the soldiers had the
sense even to bring up their muskets. Most of those who did so were too
drunk to use them, and the French troopers rode through the mob, sabring
them right and left, and trampling them under foot, and then, riding
forward without a pause, set out in pursuit of the retiring columns. As
they came clattering along the road the colonel ordered the last two
companies to halt, and when the head of the squadron was within fifty
yards of them, and the troopers were beginning to check their horses, a
heavy volley was poured in, which sent them to the right-about as fast as
they had come, and emptied a score of saddles. Then the two companies
formed fours again, and went on at the double until they reached the rear
of the column.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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