The Spanish Bride

9

The bivouac was the worst imaginable, but Harry found that some of the Portuguese in the brigade had built a large fire, and bought it from them for a dollar. The pack-mules had all been sent on, so there was nothing to eat but acorns, no tent to shelter Juana from the drenching rain, and no change of clothes for her. She assured Harry-that she was not at all hungry, and not very cold either, but her face looked pinched and white, while as for the Padre, he might, Harry said, have been drawn for the Knight of the Woeful Countenance. The saddles were placed in a circle round the fire; wet steamed out of Juana’s clothes, but as fast as the fire drew out the moisture from them, the rain soaked them again. Kincaid, who was acting Brigade-Major to the 1st brigade, saw Harry for a few moments, and told him that acorns were quite palatable if roasted: rather like chestnuts; so West collected a hat-full, and they held them over the fire in the lid of somebody’s canteen. Juana, munching resolutely, said they tasted very peculiar, and she was glad she was not a pig. ‘Nasty?’ Harry asked.

‘Oh no, not nasty! Just strange.’

‘My poor sweet!’ Harry said, peeling another, and popping it into her mouth. ‘Why? I am enjoying myself very much, I assure you.’

‘Oh, Juana, how I love you!’ he said unsteadily. ‘Good! I love you too.’

She fell asleep presently, with her cheek on her hand, one side of her pleasantly warm, the other cold and muddy. The Padre, his damp cloak drawn right over him, slept too, and snored cavernously. Harry sat up, feeding the fire, but he had had no rest for three days, and try as he would he could not keep awake.

Juana awoke in the small hours, roused by cold. She struggled up on her elbow, still half-asleep, and in the grip of a shuddering fit of ague. Harry was lying sound asleep between her and the fire. Juana burst into tears, and shook him. He woke with a start. ‘Juana? What is it, my heart?’

‘You are horrible, and thoughtless, and cruel, and stupid!’ sobbed Juana through chattering teeth. ‘Why must you lie just there, espadachin? I hate you!’

‘Oh, my sweet, I’m so sorry!’ Harry said remorsefully. ‘I must have fallen between you and the fire. Don’t cry, queridissima! I didn’t mean to do it.’

He gathered her into his arms. She stopped crying at once, and rubbed her eyes. ‘Oh, how foolish!’ she said, snuggling close up against him. ‘I was asleep! And now I have waked you up, when you must have been nice and warm! I am very sorry, Enrique.’ ‘Darling, darling!’ Harry said, kissing the damp curls that were tickling his chin. ‘No: bad wife!’

murmured Juana, drifting back into sleep.

The rain ceased a little before daybreak. The Light division had expected to march at dawn, but were held up by the 1st division, which they were to follow, and which made no movement. Harry was able to find a mule for the Padre, and Juana managed to dry her clothes, and to seek out George Simmons, who was seriously alarmed by his brother Joe’s condition.

The river began to fall almost at once, and it was expected that the French would effect a crossing before noon. General Alten, who saw no profit in any brush with the enemy at this juncture, sent off more than one messenger to Sir William Stewart, who had been in command of the 1st division since Paget’s capture by the French. ‘What the devil ails the old man?’ Barnard demanded. ‘I think he is mad,’ said Alten calmly.

Time went on, the sun broke through the clouds; and still the 1st division did not move. Suddenly a Guards officer appeared, picking his way daintily on a blood horse. ‘Oh, Christ! The Honourable Arthur!’ said Charlie Beckwith.’

‘My deah Beckwith!’ said Arthur Upton, perceiving him and riding up dose. ‘You could not inform me where I could get a paysano? The 1st division can’t move: we have no guide.’ ‘Oh, damn, is that it?’ exclaimed Beckwith. ‘We’ll do anything to get you out of the way! Come to Harry Smith! He has a paysano, I know. Harry, Harry! Where the devil are you, man? Here, the 1st want a guide! Trot out your cutthroats!’

Harry, as usual, had three or four natives of the district under guard, and was able to hand one over to the Honourable Arthur, who went delicately away again, drawling his thanks. The Light division had formed a battle-front, but it was presently ascertained that instead of forcing a crossing of the Huebra the French were dismissed, and were all engaged in drying their clothes.

The division marched at last, in cold but dry weather. As Harry was seeing the last of the rear-guard off, he heard himself hailed, though faintly, and looking round, saw a Rifleman lying under a tree, with his leg bound up. He recognized the man, and rode up to him. ‘O’Donnell! Why, my poor fellow, this won’t do!’

‘Don’t leave me here, Mr Smith!’ O’Donnell said imploringly. ‘Are you badly hurt?’

‘It’s me leg, sir. Got me thigh fractured yesterday by a cannonball. Don’t leave me, sir! Please, don’t!’

Harry hesitated. There was no provision for wounded men in the column. The casualties had to be left behind, where it was hoped that they would presently be picked up by the enemy. The French treated their prisoners perfectly well, of course. It was no use being sentimental about it; you could not help every wounded or sick man who came, in your way. But Harry knew this man for as gallant a Rifleman as ever breathed. He said in his quick way: ‘There’s only one way I know of helping you, and I believe it won’t do. Could you ride on a gun-tumbril?’

‘Oh, yes sir, I can ride!’ O’Donnell said gratefully. ‘Only don’t leave me!’ ‘Wait, then. I’ll see what can be done,’ Harry said, and galloped off to where Ross was riding ahead with his six-pounders.

‘You damned fool!’ Ross said, when the matter was explained to him. ‘Very well, you can take one of my guns back. And I think you’re crazy, Smith, d’you hear me?’ ‘And I think you’re the best of good fellows!’ Harry said, reining back to allow the gun to be detached from the troop.

When they hoisted the wounded man on to the tumbril, it was plain that the slightest movement caused him great agony. He almost lost consciousness, but by an effort of will managed to cling to his senses, and to thank the gunner for so cheerfully giving up his seat. ‘I shall do now,’ he said, but they could only just catch the words, so faintly were they spoken. The gunner said that he was welcome, but he thought privately that Brigade-Major Smith was wasting his time, and the Rifleman would never last out half a day’s march. As a matter of fact, O’Donnell died two hours later, but the gunner, resuming his seat then, said that perhaps he would have chosen that rather than have been taken prisoner. Nothing more was seen of the French, who were finding it impossible to subsist any longer upon an already ravaged countryside. The day was marked by frosts, and by horrid sights encountered all along the line of march. The horses and the oxen seemed to be dying like flies; and the sick men who fell out of the column, to be shepherded on later by the cavalry in the rear, were growing steadily more numerous. A diversion was created by Sir William Stewart, a nice old gentleman, quite incapable of obeying an order (said Lord Wellington), who prevailed upon the commanders of the 5th and 7th divisions to join him in deserting the prescribed line of march to follow a route of his own choosing. Both these commanders were newcomers, and it was not until they found Sir William’s route blocked by the Army of Galicia, which had been ordered to follow it, that they realized how unwise they had been to listen to him. All three divisions were finally discovered by Lord Wellington himself, who had set out to look for them, waiting in the mud until the Spaniards in front of them should have moved on. ‘You see, gentlemen, I know my own business best,’ said his lordship, in withering accents.

The weather grew colder and colder, but on the following day, the eighth November, the army came in sight of Ciudad Rodrigo. “Thank God, I shall be able to cut the boots off my feet at last!’ said Kincaid.