The Spanish Bride

Chapter Six. Vittoria

The columns, leaving behind them at last the vast Tierra de Campos, with its miles of unbroken cornfields, plunged into a maze of rocks and towering hills; dropped from the mountains into the valley of the Upper Ebro; and thought themselves come suddenly upon the Promised Land. Giant-cork trees gave shade from the sun’s glare; fruit and flowers grew everywhere. From pretty little villages girls trooped out with garlands to throw over the heads of los colorados. They danced before them on the dusty road, and offered great baskets spilling with cherries and pears. The soldiers, disheartened by the waste of rocks amongst which they had forced a difficult way, revived at once; and as they crossed the Ebro the regimental bands struck up The Downfall of Paris.

On they went, hustled forward on long, hard marches for three sweltering days, sometimes panting up mountain-sides, sometimes plodding through the lush green valleys. Very few of them knew where they were going, or where any column other than their own was. There were troops (they were Graham’

s) somewhere to the north, for the dull thunder of artillery-fire rolled and echoed one day round the hilltops. So it looked as though a part of the army was thrusting northward, probably to outflank the French. The Light division, ordered to leave its baggage and artillery with the 4th, branched away from the road skirting the foothills, and crossed the mountains by a track which everyone but Lord Wellington would have thought impractical for troop movements. They had their reward when they dropped down into the village of San Millan, for there they came plump upon a brigade of Maucune’s, resting with piled arms and no pickets posted. As luck would have it, Vandeleur’s brigade was leading, and was the first to launch an attack upon the startled enemy. Harry had not time to do more than shout to Juana to keep back, as he galloped past her to bring the 52nd regiment up to support the Rifle battalion. Vandeleur was deploying swiftly; a cacophony of trumpet-calls blared through the village; and the French, who had seen nothing of the Allied column’s advance along the hollow road, masked as it was by jutting rocks and steep banks, tumbled into some sort of battle-order.

The Riflemen went down the slope at the double, firing as they ran, and yelling: ‘The first in the field and the last out of it, the bloody, Fighting Ninety-fifth!’

Juana had to dismount, and drag her horse out of the way of the men coming up in support. An aide-de-camp went past her in a cloud of dust to hasten the advance of Kempt’s brigade, closely following Vandeleur. The fight before the village rapidly became a confused mêlée, the second French brigade, with the baggage-tram in its rear, suddenly appearing through a cleft in the rocks, and being engaged by Kempt. The sumpter-beasts broke loose and stampeded amongst the rocks; a rough-and-tumble fight bickered all over the slopes of the hills; and the French, ignorant of what troops the hollow road might still be concealing, presently took to their heels, many of them throwing off their kit-bags to make their flight over the rocks easier.

When Juana, who had watched the fray in a state of bouncing excitement, rode down into the village, the dust kicked up by the skirmish was beginning to settle, and the ground was littered with scattered baggage and accoutrements. The whole of the baggage-train had been captured, and about two hundred prisoners. A very good day’s work, was the verdict of the Light Bobs, counting the spoils, with only four dead men and a handful of wounded to offset the victory.

However, when the division halted at Pobes on the following day, and Alten ordered the French baggage to be sold by auction, a spurt of ill-feeling sprang up between the brigades, Kempt’s men, in spite of having captured the train, being allowed no opportunity of bidding for the various goods. Feelings ran rather high for a time, but when it was discovered that the army had at last come up with the main body of the enemy, which was drawn up behind the twisting Zadorra river, on the undulating ground before Vittoria, such trifling considerations were forgotten, and nothing was thought of but the approaching engagement.

Lord Wellington spent the day surveying in person the various routes by which he meant to launch his force on to the French. He was in good spirits, but a little curt with his Staff. Some of these gentlemen had deprecated his rapid march north. They did not consider it safe to go beyond the Ebro, and the magnitude of his lordship’s plans alarmed them. His lordship was unmoved by their disapproval. He had no opinion of King Joseph, not much respect for Marshal Jourdan; and he knew that although Sarrut had joined the King’s army from Biscay, there was still no news of Clausel’s advance. One or two critics said that his success at Salamanca had gone to his head; but they did not realize, as his lordship did, how crushing a blow to French morale that spectacular victory had been. He was, in fact, in a confident mood, though that did not prevent his snapping the heads off his personal Staff, said one of his rueful aides-de-camp, who had asked him a question which his lordship considered unnecessary.

It was misty on the morning of the 21st June. It even rained a little, but the weather prophets thought that the day would fair-up. The Light division was called to arms very early, and on their way up to their station before the. Zadorra river they passed through the sleeping camp of the 4th division. But they were not destined to be the first to attack: that honour had fallen to Hill, and no one else was to be allowed to make the slightest move until it had been seen that he had gained his objective.

Harry knew all about it, of course; he had had a look at the ground too, and he knew that the Intelligence-officers were speaking the truth when they reported that the French were spread over too long a front, and had insufficient guards at the various bridges across the Zadorra. King Joseph was in the uncomfortable position of being quite in the dark about his adversary’s intentions; and although his patrols had been feeling cautiously for the Allied army for some time past, they had brought in only the most confusing reports of the advance. He could get no tidings of Clausel, who, for all he knew, might still be hunting guerrilla-bands in the wilder parts of Biscay; and not only was the town of Vittoria crammed with civilian refugees, who were clinging to the skirts of his army, but amongst all the congestion of carts, caissons, and artillery-wagons were several fourgons from France, inscribed Domaine exterieur de S.M. l’Empereur, containing specie to the value of five million francs. Like Lord Wellington’s, King Joseph’s soldiers had months of pay owing to them. The King had been very glad to see the long-overdue fourgons, but when faced with the imminent prospect of having to fight a battle he could have wished them otherwhere.

The so-called plain of Vittoria, on which, after many heart-burnings, the King had determined to make a stand, was a stretch of rolling ground, about twelve miles long from north-east to south-west, and varying in breadth from six to eight miles. It was surrounded by hills, and drained by the Zadorra, a turbulent stream, affording, from its twisting nature, the very worst of fronts. Some of its bends were so sudden that the river seemed almost to double back on its course. It had several bridges, and, since the stream was easily fordable, these had been left intact. Vittoria, a town where five roads met, was situated some miles behind the Zadorra, on rising ground; and dotted over the land, in wooded valleys, were a number of villages.

A glance at the map spread out on the table at Alten’s headquarters was enough to show Harry that the field was a larger one than had yet been fought over. His lordship’s plan was to launch his army in four masses upon the French, an operation requiring the nicest of timing. Hill, working round the outside of the French left, was to cross the Zadorra, and to storm the heights of Puebla, a range of hills almost at right angles to the Allied front; and from there to descend with his main body by a defile on to the plain, while his flank thrust its way along the heights. While these operations were in progress, the Light and 4th divisions were to form before the two bridges of Nanclares, and to remain there, hidden from the enemy by the rugged nature of the ground, until Hill should have gained the Puebla heights. North-west of them, on the same front, the 3rd and 7th divisions would march over the high Monte Arrato, descending on to the plain near the Mendoza bridge, upstream from Nanclares, and just beyond a more than usually sharp bend in the river. Lastly, Graham’s column, masked by Spanish infantry, was to fall on Sarrut’s division on the extreme French right flank. In this way, the Allied army would, roughly, attack the enemy on three sides of a square.

Since the 20th June was spent by the army in getting into order, Harry was fully occupied, and had little time to spend with Juana. Brigade headquarters were in Pobes, a picturesque but filthy village which afforded nothing but bug-ridden cottages as billets for the Staff. There were so many fleas on the mud-floor in the Smith’s low-roofed room that Juana spread her bedding on the table, and curled herself up on it. A couple of centipedes, wandering out from under a cupboard, added nothing to her comfort. She slew them with the butt of her riding-whip, but they proved to be very tenacious of life, and the execution ended with Juana’s feeling rather sick. When Harry came in to supper, it was late, and he was frowning over his orders. A grunt was the only answer he vouchsafed to a tentative remark, so Juana, who never took offence at being neglected in the army’s cause, ate her supper in patient silence.

‘What awful stuff!’ Harry said, chewing some leathery beef. ‘Yes,’ Juana agreed. ‘I could make an omelette for you, if you would like it.’ ‘No, it’s of no consequence,’ he replied, fork in one hand, and map in the other. He went off to Vandeleur’s headquarters after supper. When he returned, Juana was lying wrapped in a blanket on the table, wide-awake, and rather anxious. She smiled at him, but he was not deceived, and said at once: ‘Hallo, there! Now, what business has that scared face in my quarters?’

Juana sat up. ‘Don’t be angry with me! I cannot help being a little afraid, I find.’ Harry hung up his wet cloak, and came over to the table. ‘Afraid? You? Que dira la gente?’ ‘I do not care.’

‘Well, I hope you care for what I say! You are a bad, stupid child. How many actions do you suppose I have taken part in?’

‘You know very well that has nothing to do with it. I wish you were a Go-on, and not a Come-on!’

‘Por gratia! Do you? Do you indeed?’ ‘No,’ sighed Juana.

‘Just as well!’ said Harry, kissing her cheek. ‘Go to sleep now, querida: I must get some sleep too.’

There were a great many questions she wished to ask him, but he was still looking preoccupied, so she asked only the most important. ‘When do we march?’ ‘What? Oh!-early. But you’ll stay here with West.’

She sat hugging her knees, staring rather hard at a chair directly before her. ‘It is a little melancholy, having to wait in the rear.’

He smiled, but shook his head. ‘No use, Juana: you can’t come on to the field with me.’ So when the Light Bobs moved off on the following morning, a disconsolate figure in a much worn riding-dress stood in the doorway of the cottage to watch them go. The parting with Harry had not been at all romantic. He had been in a hurry, jumping up from the breakfast-table, after a glance at his watch, with his mouth full, snatching up his coat and cocked-hat from a chair, giving his wife a quick hug, and saying in a voice thickened by bread and meat: ‘Take care of yourself! West will see to you.’

He had ridden off on the only one of his horses fit for duty, a nervous, obstinate animal, not yet accustomed to military service. Juana was thinking about that horse as she stood fluttering her handkerchief to the soldiers tramping past. If Harry had been riding Old Chap, the hunter James Stewart had given him, she thought she would not have felt so anxious. She let her hand fall to her side, and stood leaning against the door-post, still watching the column go by. She felt very much oppressed, and began to wonder how many of the Green-jackets moving down the road would be killed, and how many mutilated by horrible wounds. It seemed strange that they should be glad to be going to fight, but they were glad, nearly all of them, as you could see by the quickened look in their faces. Suddenly she perceived Kincaid, and in case she should never meet him again, she ran out into the road. He was surprised to see her, for he thought that she would have gone farther to the rear. He was riding beside his company, and reined in at once, stretching down his hand, with an exclamation. She was unable to speak, but pressed his hand, looking up into his face with wet eyes. Before he could say anything, she had run back into the house. Kincaid told his horse savagely to ‘Get up!’ and rode on, a snatch of a poem, once read and almost forgotten, teasing his brain. But he could only remember one couplet, which ran: So highly did his bosom swell As at that simple, mute farewell, which sounded nonsensical, bereft of its context, but went on reiterating in his mind, as such jingles will.