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.

VOICE OF WELLINGTON I thought they looked as they’d be scurrying soon!

VOICE OF AN AIDE Foy bears into the wood in middling trim; Maucune strikes out for Alba-Castle bridge.

VOICE OF WELLINGTON Speed the pursuit, then, towards the Huerta ford; Their only scantling of escape lies there; The river coops them semicircle-wise, And we shall have them like a swathe of grass Within a sickle’s curve!

VOICE OF AIDE Too late, my lord. They are crossing by the aforesaid bridge at Alba.

VOICE OF WELLINGTON Impossible. The guns of Carlos rake it Sheer from the castle walls.

VOICE OF AIDE Tidings have sped Just now therefrom, to this undreamed effect: That Carlos has withdrawn the garrison: The French command the Alba bridge themselves!

VOICE OF WELLINGTON Blast him, he’s disobeyed his orders, then! How happened this? How long has it been known?

VOICE OF AIDE Some ladies some few hours have rumoured it, But unbelieved.

VOICE OF WELLINGTON Well, what’s done can’t be undone.... By God, though, they’ve just saved themselves thereby From capture to a man!

VOICE OF A GENERAL We’ve not struck ill, Despite this slip, my lord.... And have you heard That Colonel Dalbiac’s wife rode in the charge Behind her spouse to-day?

VOICE OF WELLINGTON Did she though: did she! Why that must be Susanna, whom I know— A Wessex woman, blithe, and somewhat fair.... Not but great irregularities Arise from such exploits.—And was it she I noticed wandering to and fro below here, Just as the French retired?

VOICE OF ANOTHER OFFICER Ah no, my lord. That was the wife of Prescott of the Seventh, Hoping beneath the heel of hopelessness, As these young women will!—Just about sunset She found him lying dead and bloody there, And in the dusk we bore them both away.18

VOICE OF WELLINGTON Well, I’m damned sorry for her. Though I wish The women-folk would keep them to the rear: Much awkwardness attends their pottering round! [The talking shapes disappear, and as the features of the field grow undistinguishable the comparative quiet is broken by gay notes from guitars and castanets in the direction of the city, and other sounds of popular rejoicing at Wellington’s victory. People come dancing out from the town, and the merry-making continues till midnight, when it ceases, and darkness and silence prevail everywhere.]

SEMICHORUS I OF THE YEARS [aerial music] What are Space and Time? A fancy!— Lo, by Vision’s necromancy Muscovy will now unroll; Where for cork and olive-tree Starveling firs and birches be.

SEMICHORUS II Though such features lie afar From events Peninsular, These, amid their dust and thunder, Form with those, as scarce asunder, Parts of one compacted whole.

CHORUS Marmont’s aide, then, like a swallow Let us follow, follow, follow, Over hill and over hollow, Past the plains of Teute and Pole! [There is semblance of a sound in the darkness as of a rushing through the air.]