The Spanish Bride

2

By the time the Light division, traversing the high, rocky ground which dropped down to the Zadorra, reached the plain, the vapour had curled away, and the sun had come out. Every feature in the landscape became so sharply defined that distant objects could be discerned as well by the naked eye as by the help of spy glasses. The scene was oddly foreshortened, so that the spires of Vittoria, five or six miles away, looked to be much closer, and it was possible almost to distinguish the leaves upon trees a great way off. The Light and 4th divisions took up positions about a mile back from the Zadorra, where it was spanned by the two bridges of Nanclares. They approached unseen by the enemy, and were ordered to pile arms, and to keep under cover of the hollow road, and the convenient outcrops of rock. They lay down, grumbling good-humouredly at old Douro for having given to Hill the honour of opening the engagement. From various posts of vantage, the officers were able to command a comprehensive view of the whole field, and even to pick out, upon a hill, the figures of King Joseph and his Staff. For a long time, nothing but slight troop movements disturbed the stillness, but shortly after eight o’clock, Harry, who had gone a little way up the steep side of the Monte Arrato, to stare with puckered eyes towards the slopes of the Puebla heights, at right angles to the front, a mile or more away, saw puffs of smoke bursting all along the crest. He waited for a few minutes, and then, as the puffs grew more frequent, and tiny, dark figures appeared on the hill-side, like running ants, he scrambled down from his perch, mounted his horse, and rode back to Vandeleur. ‘General Hill’s come into action, sir.’

‘He has, has he?’ Vandeleur grunted. ‘Where’s my glass?’

It soon became apparent that a sharp struggle between the French skirmishing line and Hill’s Spaniards was taking place on the Puebla heights* Hill sent forward reinforcements, and the gleam of scarlet could be seen beside the dark-coated Spaniards. Wellington, who had been standing in front of the Light division, rode forward to the river-bank to get a clearer view of Hill’s progress. A rumble of artillery fire began to echo round the hills; much larger bursts of smoke appeared on the right, and lifted lazily to disperse in black wisps across the sky.

Suddenly a vicious crackle of musketry in their front drew the attention of the Light Bobs away from Hill’s battle. An aide-de-camp galloped up to Kempt, and desired him to advance his brigade to the bridge at Villodas, a few hundred yards to his left. It was learned that a party of French voltigeurs, perceiving Lord Wellington on the river-bank, had rushed the bridge, seized a wooded knoll on the Allied side of the Zadorra, and opened a brisk fire upon his lordship. No one was hurt, but the shots kicked up showers of mud all round the Staff, and it was clearly necessary to dislodge these intrusive gentlemen. Kempt’s men flung them back on to their own side of the river, and established themselves amongst the shrubs and trees on the bank. Fire flickered all along the line, and wounded men began to struggle to the rear.

‘Catching it, aren’t they?’ remarked Billy Mein, of the 52nd. ‘Hallo, Harry! Any orders?’ ‘Not yet. Hill has taken the heights.’

‘Then what the devil are we waiting for?’ ‘The 3rd and 7th. They haven’t come up.’

‘God knows I hold no brief for old Picton,’ said Mein, ‘but it isn’t like him to be backward in attack. Think anything’s happened?’

‘Dalhousie’s in command, that’s all,’ said Harry.

‘What?’ Mein gasped. ‘Dalhousie put over Picton? For God’s sake, why?’ ‘Nobody knows.’

‘Christ! I’m glad I’m not one of Picton’s lot: he won’t be fit to live with for weeks!’ At about half-past eleven, Kempt’s brigade began to move off by threes to their left. The and brigade watched this manoeuvre with jealous eyes. ‘Here! if we don’t get no sport we’ll get no pie neither!’ an indignant voice from the ranks announced.

‘Hey, why the devil’s Kempt moving?’ demanded Tom Smith. ‘When is it our turn to show our front?’

‘Hell, how should I know?’ said Harry, irritable at being kept for so many hours out of action. ‘Some Spanish peasant came up to the Peer to tell him that there’s no guard on the bridge of Tres Puentes. Kempt’s to cross the river there.’

‘And where,’ inquired Billy Mein, ‘might Tres Puentes be?’

‘About a mile and a half to our left. It’s round that sharp bend in the river. Where did you get that sausage?’

‘Don’t you wish you knew!’ said Mein, taking a bite out of it.

Led by the Spanish guide, Kempt’s men marched off under cover of the rocks, and, working round the hairpin bend of the Zadorra some time later, passed the bridge of Tres Puentes at the double, with rifles and firelocks cocked. They encountered no opposition, and soon gained a steep hill on the farther side of the river, which was crowned by a ruined chapel. ‘Doesn’t it give rise to some curious reflections?’ panted George Simmons, gaining the summit, and shaking his head at the ancient building. ‘You know, the Black Prince once fought here. One cannot but indulge one’s fancy with the thought that he may have-’ ‘Take cover, George!’ shouted Molloy, interrupting him without ceremony. ‘Here it comes! Whew!’

A couple of round shots crashed amongst them, the second knocking the Spanish guide’s head off his shoulders. His body stood for an instant, with the blood spurting up from the severed neck, and then fell, while the head was tossed through the air to bounce on the ground and roll away till it was stopped by a boulder. Someone laughed, and was clouted into silence by his comrades.

‘Very nasty,’ remarked Captain Leach, in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Do you like this position? I don’t.’

The chapel-knoll, it was soon discovered, was commanded by a hill a few hundred yards distant, which was occupied by a large body of infantry. A shell followed the round shots, and burst almost under the nose of Kincaid’s horse, kicking up a shower of dust and pebbles. A splinter struck his stirrup-iron, and his charger, squealing with fright, became almost unmanageable, capering and plunging in a mad struggle to bolt.

‘Look to keeping your men together, sir!’ snapped Wellington, riding up behind Kincaid at that unlucky moment.

Kincaid flushed scarlet, and gave his disobedient mount both whip and spurs. To be supposed by his lordship to be showing off his horsemanship, like any conceited Johnny Newcome, set him cursing under his breath, but he naturally could not explain the circumstances to Wellington, and was obliged to swallow his resentment. The situation of the brigade was uncomfortable, since its rush across the river had isolated it from the rest of the army. The cover on the hill, however, was good, and after the first burst of artillery-fire, the French stopped shelling the position. ‘We ought to advance, and take that village I can see over there,’ remarked George Simmons, quite unruffled by having his shako blown off his head by the wind of a shot passing over him.

‘Anything else you’d like to do?’ inquired Molloy. ‘I’m not happy. Damn it, I’m not a bit happy! Hi, you there, keep under cover!’

But while the Rifles were moving from Villodas to Tres Puentes; the 3rd division had been pouring down the defile of Monte Arrato, and by the time Simmons had decided that the village of Arinez ought to be taken, Picton, an astonishing figure in a blue coat, and a top-hat, with a brim to protect his inflamed eyes, was accosting every aide-de-camp who came in sight with a demand to know whether there were no orders for him. By noon, his temper had cracked badly, and he fidgeted up and down on his unhandsome cob, beating a tattoo on its hogged mane with the stick he carried. ‘Damn it!’ he burst out to his Brigade-Major. ‘Lord Wellington must have forgotten us!’

Colonel Gordon came galloping from the direction of Tres Puentes, and reined in beside Picton.

‘Well, sir, well?’ barked Picton.

‘I’m looking for Lord Dalhousie, sir. Have you seen him?’

‘No, sir, I have not seen his lordship!’ said Picton, who had clean outstripped Dalhousie on the advance across Monte Arrato. ‘But have you any orders for me?

‘None, sir,’ confessed Gordon.

‘Then pray, sir, what are the orders that you do bring?’ asked Picton sharply. ‘Why,’ replied Gordon, ‘that as soon as Lord Dalhousie shall commence an attack on that bridge-’ he slewed round in his saddle to point out the Mendoza bridge in the distance to the left of the division-‘the 4th and Light are to support him.’

This was too much for Picton; he seemed to swell with indignation, and startled Gordon by saying in a thunderous tone: ‘You may tell Lord Wellington from me, sir, that the 3rd division, under my command, shall in less than ten minutes attack that bridge and carry it, and the 4th and Light may support me if they choose!’

He gave Gordon no opportunity of speaking a word, but wheeled his cob, and trotted off to put himself at the head of his men. ‘Come on, ye rascals! Come on, ye fighting devils!’ he roared at them.

If ten minutes was a slight exaggeration (for the bridge of Mendoza was two miles distant), the advance of the Fighting division right across the front of Dalhousie’s 7th, which had at last arrived on the field, and halted there, was a spectacle quite as amazing as that presented by Picton himself, in his top-hat.

‘God, will you look at Picton’s division?’ gasped one astonished spectator. ‘Talk about meteors!’

One of Picton’s brigades being directed on to the bridge, the other one to a ford farther upstream, the whole force hurled itself across the river in the teeth of a weak cavalry brigade, set, with three guns in support, to watch the bridge. The guns got into action, but Kempt flung Barnard forward with some Rifle companies, and the artillery-men, unable to stand the biting and accurate fire of the Green-jackets, limbered up, and made off. As soon as he saw Picton safely over the river, Kempt advanced his whole brigade, forming it on the right rear of the 3rd division and putting to rout, on the way, the voltigeurs at the Villodas bridge.

‘Now you’ll be able to take your precious village, George!’ grinned young Frere.