Sir John Moore.
Hoy, 16 de Enero, es el aniversario de la batalla de Elviña o de la Coruña, como la llaman los ingleses. Enfrentó en 1809 a Franceses perseguidores y Británicos perseguidos, a las afueras de la ciudad de La Coruña.
De todos los personajes, grandes y pequeños que vivieron aquel momento clave de la época napoleónica (al menos para el espacio peninsular), destaca el recuerdo del general escocés, muerto en la ciudad por las heridas sufridas en la batalla, y que hoy descansa en un magnífico mausoleo, ya inaugurado por su enemigo el general Soult, en el jardín de San Carlos hecho sobre el castillo de la ciudad (de recomendadísima visita).
Siempre comento a los amigos, (en tono de broma, claro) que lo mejor que pudo hacer el emperador bizantino Constantino XI (del que hablaremos un día de estos) fue morirse. Mutatis mutandis podría aplicarse lo mismo a Sir John Moore.
No solo fue un comandante mediocre con moderado éxito en su carrera militar. En la Península, ni el ni su ejército consiguieron una mínima victoria sobre los invasores franceses.
Es curioso como los ingleses manipulan la historia a su conveniencia. Incluso el propio caso de la Batalla de Elviña, donde una huida precipitada a través de la península es calificada por ellos de tablas. Moore es el mismo caso: un general tibio, cuyo mandato fue criticado en su época por sus conciudadanos y colegas británicos, y que por haber muerto en combate (y por ser un alto mando, claro) se convirtió en un héroe nacional.
Tal y como escribió Charles Wolfe en su poema "The burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna":
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night, 5
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
And the lanthorn dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; 10
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 15
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow! 20
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that 's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him—
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done 25
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 30
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night, 5
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
And the lanthorn dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; 10
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 15
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow! 20
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that 's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him—
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done 25
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 30
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.
Está claro que la historia la escriben los vencedores y quien escribe su historia gana batallas... aunque sea después de muerto.
Comentarios
Publicar un comentario