are here worse off than in a hostile country,” wrote our commander; “never was an army so ill used:  we had no assistance from the Spanish army:  we were obliged to unload our ammunition and our treasure in order to employ the cars in the removal of our sick and wounded.”  Meanwhile Soult, with 50,000 men, was threading his way easily through the mountains and threatened to cut us off from Portugal:  but by a rapid retreat Wellesley saved his army, vowing that he would never again trust Spanish offers of help.[214]

Far more dispiriting was the news that reached the Austrian negotiators from the North Sea.  There the British Government succeeded in eclipsing all its former achievements in forewarning foes and disgusting its friends.  Very early in the year, the men of Downing Street knew that Austria was preparing to fight Napoleon and built her hopes of success, partly on the Peninsular War, partly on a British descent in Hanover, where everything was ripe for revolution.  Unfortunately, we were still, formally, at war with her:  and the conclusion of the treaty of peace was so long delayed at Vienna that July was almost gone before the Austrian ratification reached London, and our armada set sail from Dover.[215] The result is well known.  Official favouritism handed over the command of 40,000 troops to the Earl of Chatham, who wasted precious days in battering down the walls of Flushing when he should have struck straight at the goal now aimed at, Antwerp.  That fortress was therefore ready to beat him off; and he finally withdrew his army into the Isle of Walcheren, into whose fever-laden swamps Napoleon had refused to send a single French soldier.  A tottering remnant was all that survived by the close of the year:  and the climax of our national disgrace was reached when a court-martial acquitted the commanders.  Napoleon would have had them shot.

Helpless as the old monarchies were to cope with Napoleon, a wild longing for vengeance was beginning to throb among the peoples.  It showed itself in a remarkable attempt on his life during a review at Schoenbrunn.  A delicate youth named Staps, son of a Thuringian pastor, made his way to the palace, armed with a long knife, intending to stab him while he read a petition (October 12th).  Berthier and Rapp, noting the lad’s importunity, had him searched and brought before Napoleon.  “What did you mean to do with that knife?” asked the Emperor.  “Kill you,” was the reply.  “You are an idiot or an Illuminat.”  “I am not an idiot and do not know what an Illuminat is.”  “Then you are diseased.”  “No, I am quite well.”  “Why do you wish to kill me?” “Because you are the curse of my Fatherland.”  “You are a fanatic; I will forgive you and spare your life.”  “I want no forgiveness.”  “Would you thank me if I pardoned you?” “I would seek to kill you again.”  The quiet firmness with which Staps gave these replies and then went to his doom made a deep impression on Napoleon; and he sought to hurry on the conclusion of peace with these odd Germans whom he could conquer but not convince.