The Spanish Bride

3

It was not until the 28th June that the Light division at last broke camp. The Salamanca forts had fallen on the previous day, after a protracted siege, and the same evening Marmont began to retreat towards the Douro.

‘Didn’t I say we should soon be on the march?’ demanded George Simmons, very hot and dusty, but jubilant. ‘Now we’ll show the Johnny Petits!’

He expressed the feelings of the whole army; but Lord Wellington had reason to be less sanguine. Only he knew how insecure was his position in Spain. Not all his victories had sufficed to silence powerful enemies at home. He had no illusions: a defeat would in probability mean his recall. His successes at Ciudad Rodrigo and at Badajos were all very well in their way, but had been costly, and had had no effect upon the main French armies. He wanted a victory, a big victory, but he was not going to run any risks to win it. To make matters more difficult, General Picton, who had been slightly wounded at Badajos, had had to relinquish his command of the Fighting division, and was in hospital at Salamanca. A grim old dog, Picton: foul-mouthed as any trooper, but one of his lordship’s best and most trusted Generals for all that. His lordship handed over the Fighting division to his brother-in-law, Ned Pakenham, perhaps the only man who could have taken the command of it to Picton’s satisfaction. Graham would be the next General to leave his lordship: a more serious business, that, for Graham, no soldier by profession, could be trusted to manoeuvre on his own. He was suffering, however, from some sort of eye-trouble, and would have to go home.

These preoccupations, which made his lordship curter even than usual, did not weigh much with the rest of the army. Heat and thirst excluded other considerations from nearly every mind, for the plain that lay between Salamanca and the Douro was parched and treeless, so that the columns marched in clouds of reddish dust which got into men’s throats, and under their eyelids, and sifted into their clothes to rasp against their sticky bodies. One or two unwise souls, feeling themselves unable to bear the weight of their shakos, which seemed to tighten about their heads like iron bands, discarded them, and suffered all the tortures of sunstroke in consequence. Hardened campaigners, knowing that the first drink out of a water-flask made the craving for water only more insistent, refrained from broaching their flasks for as long as possible; but young soldiers could scarcely be restrained from draining theirs within the first few hours of the march.

It was thought that the Guards suffered most on long, scorching marches, and the Light Bobs least. The Gentlemen’s Sons, trained to a smartness of step and bearing that made them the admiration of all beholders, could never bring themselves to adopt the famous slouch which carried the Light Bobs unbeautifully over such incredible distances. But even the Light Bobs found the march towards the Douro more than ordinarily wearing. There seemed to be no water to be had for mile upon sweltering mile. The heat-haze danced and wavered before eyeballs that felt red-hot between dust-inflamed lids. Occasionally a soldier would lurch out of the column, and sink down exhausted on the road; and once a man went suddenly mad, and began to scream abuse in a cracked, maniacal voice. They said it was the sight of a bleached skeleton which had turned his brain, but the bones were after all only horses’ bones, and a common enough sight in all conscience. It was more probably thirst: when they overpowered him, it was seen that his tongue was blackened and swollen.

Brigade-Major Smith, harassed by boils, very busy now that the army was on the march, was anxious for his Juana, but whenever he came riding down the length of the column in search of her, dreading to find her wilting under the merciless sun, he found her sitting erect in her saddle, as gay as you please, staunchly disclaiming any extraordinary fatigue. Was she tired? Was she thirsty? Would she ride on one of the spring-wagons in the rear? Madre de Dios, de ninguno manera! George Simmons had told her all about those spring-wagons. She thanked her Enrique, but she desired nothing, and ailed nothing. ‘Nada me duele,’ she said always, when solicitous friends thought her pale, or flagging.

‘By Jove, m’dear, you’re the best soldier in the army!’ said old Vandeleur, patting her shoulder. ‘An example to us all, eh, Harry?’

It took the army five days to reach the Douro, where they found the French encamped upon the opposite bank. The Light division occupied the ground about Rueda, a blessed spot, abounding in wine-cellars which were huge caves hewn out of the rocks, so full of wine-casks that even the depredations of a thirsty army seemed to make little diminution in the store of liquor.

It was very pleasant at Rueda, with nothing to do but to watch the French across the river, to drink oneself into a stupor in the vaults, or to bathe in the Douro, exchanging good-humoured abuse with the enemy, similarly disporting themselves. ‘Coming across, Johnny Petit?’ would sing out a British private, wallowing in the cool water. ‘When we choose, sacri boeuftake!’ the answer would flash back. ‘You will run then, be sure!’

‘Come across, and see what we’ll give you!’ ‘In good time! Wait till we come to take back Salamanca!’ ‘You take back Salamanca? That’s a good one!’

‘‘But tell us, sacries pommes de terre, why do you not come across to us?’ ‘We will when we’ve finished up the wine on this side!’

This retort served well enough to bring the interchange to an end, but it is doubtful whether any of the Englishmen cooling themselves in the river knew the real reason for their inactivity. ‘Our orficers,’ said a stout individual, inspecting a blister on his heel, ‘are too bloody-well took up with dancing, that’s why.’ He added, thoughtfully, a groundless libel on the morals of his commanders, which was an instant success with his audience. The fact was that Lord Wellington, confronting the enemy across the Douro, considered the locality and the season quite unsuitable for an offensive action. The French held the bridge at Tordesillas, and the various fords were still too deep to permit of his crossing by them. If the Spanish Army of Galicia could bring the siege of Astorga to a close, and come up to threaten Marmont’s rear, the consequent diversion would place him in a more favourable position, but he had learned not to rely too much upon his Spanish allies. The Light and 4th divisions, forming the right wing of the army before Rueda and La Seca, found nothing to complain of during their fortnight’s sojourn there. Rueda was a charming little town, its female population much above the average, its light, sharp, white wines most palatable. Dancing was certainly the order of the day, and as only half of each division was obliged to bivouac before the towns each night, as a precautionary measure, there were always plenty of officers off duty to partner the ladies of Rueda to impromptu balls.