The Spanish Bride

6

All next day the army plodded and waded its way along the road to Pampeluna. Only Victor Alten’s cavalry was in touch with the French rear, progress being delayed by the firing by the French of every village they passed through. Staff-officers, who had been privileged to hear Lord Wellington’s opinion of his troops, thought privately that in face of the ravages being committed by the enemy all along the line of the retreat his strictures might have been spared. The most dreadful scenes of desolation were everywhere seen. The country people had fled from their burning cottages to cower in the woods and orchards; farm animals lay bayoneted to death amongst the charred ruins of barns; and once the sad little corpse of a baby made the soldiers take firmer grips on their shouldered muskets, and march on at a quickened pace, in silence, and with gritted teeth. Very little was heard about hard going, wet clothes, and blistered feet. The army wanted only to come to grips with the enemy who had created this monstrous desolation.

The Riflemen of Kempt’s brigade, supported by Ross, and Arentschildt’s Hussars, came to grips with them on the following day, at Yrurzun. It was only a skirmish at the bridge of Araquil, but the Rifles felt much better after it. They captured one of the only two guns rescued from Vittoria, and the and brigade said enviously that Kempt’s fellows had all the luck. But the Enthusiastics, closely following the Light division on the march, damned all Light Bobs impartially, and said that it was time someone else had a chance to be first in the field.

The Light division bivouacked within sight of the walls of Pampeluna that night. The town looked rather imposing, situated on a hill in the middle of a treeless plain, on the left bank of the Arga, but no one had any opportunity of exploring it, since it was strongly fortified, and held by a French garrison. On the following morning, news that Clausel was in the vicinity, trying to effect a junction with King Joseph’s force, reached Wellington, and the Light and 4th divisions were suddenly ordered to march south, taking the mountain road to Tudela. Vandeleur’s brigade reached the little village of Offala, after a difficult march, and as a sharp look-out had to be kept towards Pampeluna, Harry lost no time in finding a likely-looking guide. He and Vandeleur posted the pickets together, and the guide was found to be both knowledgeable and chatty. Since Vandeleur spoke no Spanish, Harry bore the burden of the conversation. The guide, like everyone else, was full of curiosity about the battle fought at Vittoria, and after asking Harry a great many questions, he whispered with a jerk of his head in Vandeleur’s direction. ‘What’s the name of that General?’

‘General Vandeleur,’ replied Harry, wondering what was coming next. ‘Bandelo, Bandelo,’ muttered the guide, apparently committing it to memory. ‘Excuse me, señor!’

He bestowed an engaging smile upon Harry, and running forward to where Vandeleur was riding a little ahead, besieged him with a flood of conversation.

‘Here, Harry, I want you!’ called Vandeleur. ‘What’s the fellow saying?” ‘He is telling all he heard from the Frenchmen who were billeted in his house during the retreat. He’s full of anecdote.’

‘Oh, is that all?’ said Vandeleur.

The guide, his expressive eyes searching first Harry’s face and then the General’s, as though in an attempt to read the meaning of their English speech, said earnestly: ‘Yes, they say the English fought well, but had it not been for one General Bandelo, the French would have gained the day!’

‘Why does he keep staring at me?’ demanded Vandeleur. ‘What does he say now?’ Without as much as a quiver of a smile, Harry translated the guide’s remark. ‘Upon my word!’ Vandeleur said, much struck. ‘He must mean our going to support the 7th! Now, how the devil did he know?’

‘Can’t say, sir,’ said Harry gravely.

‘He’s an intelligent fellow,’ said Vandeleur. ‘Here, you, catch!’

The guide caught the coin tossed to him with the most extravagant expressions of gratitude, and turning, winked broadly at Harry.

When they returned from posting the pickets, Harry discovered that the guide was his landlord for the night. He promised to provide an excellent dinner, and when Harry was hunting for a clean shirt in his portmanteau, he came up to tell him, with a great air of mystery, that he had some capital wine in his cellar, as much as Harry and his servants cared to drink. ‘You come down and look at my cellar, señor,’ he said. ‘You will be surprised!’

‘Yes, but I’m dressing,’ answered Harry, rather impatiently.

‘No, come!’ insisted his host. ‘I will show you what I have downstairs! You will be pleased!’ ‘What a strange man!’ Juana said, in French. ‘I don’t like him. I wish you would send him away.’

‘He’s too damned civil by half. I suppose I shall have to go. I hope he really has got something worth having in his cellars.’

He followed the Spaniard out of the room, and waited at the head of the stone stairs leading down to the cellars while he lit a lamp.

‘Now!’ said the man.

The note of suppressed excitement in his voice made Harry look up sharply. He thought there was an odd expression in Gonsalez’ face, but it was not until he was half-way down the stairs, and his host turned to speak to him, holding the lamp up, that he realized that the most extraordinary change had come over the man. His smiling countenance looked positively fiendish, and his eyes glanced sideways at Harry in the most sinister fashion imaginable. He was a big, muscular fellow, and Harry was unarmed, his servants out of earshot.

‘Come, señor!’ urged Gonsalez. ‘You are about to see a wonderful sight! It will gladden your heart, and because you are English, I will let you feast your eyes on it.’ ‘Lead on!” said Harry lightly.

It was dank and chilly at the bottom of the stairs; Gonsalez fitted a key into the lock of one of the doors, turned it with a grating noise, and flung open the door, holding the lamp so that its beams lit up the cellar. ‘There, señor!’ he said, in a demoniacal voice. ‘There lie four of the devils who thought to subjugate Spain!’

Harry checked on the threshold, frozen with horror. On the floor, stiff in their own blood, lay the bodies of four French soldiers.

‘I am a Navarrese!” Gonsalez declaimed. ‘I was born free from foreign invasion, and this right hand shall plunge this stiletto into my heart, as it did into theirs, ere I and my countrymen are subjugated!’

Out of the tail of his eye, Harry saw the glitter of steel and knew that he was alone with a madman. He strolled forward into the vaulted apartment. ‘Well done indeed!’ he said coolly. ‘This is more wonderful than I ever dreamed of!’

‘I knew you would say so!’ cried Gonsalez gleefully. ‘Now we will drink death to all Frenchmen, eh?’

‘By all means!’ said Harry.

Gonsalez looked suspiciously at him. ‘You are pleased? You like it?’ ‘Immensely!’ Harry said fervently. ‘A noble deed! a miracle!’

‘Four of them!’ Gonsalez pointed out. ‘You see? I killed four with my own hand! It is a very good jest, is it not? Why don’t you laugh?’

‘Laugh? I don’t laugh at such feats as this!’ said Harry. ‘Come, let’s have a toast!’ He sat down on a cask, his foot almost touching one of the corpses: Gonsalez seemed satisfied. He set the lamp down, and began to draw off some wine into two mugs. While his back was turned, Harry took a look at the dead men. They were all of them dressed in dragoon uniforms, fine, big fellows, with their swords at their sides, and any one of them more than a match for their assassin. Each had been killed by knife-thrusts through the chest: a messy death, thought Harry, his nostrils quivering at the faint, creeping aroma of stale blood.

Gonsalez came up to him with the wine, stepping carelessly over the bodies of his victims. Harry took one of the mugs from him, and raised it. He was rather pleased to find that his hand was as steady as a rock, for a feeling of nausea was making his stomach turn over. ‘Here’s to your very good health!’ he said.

‘Death to the French!’ cried Gonsalez.

The wine was of excellent quality, which helped to quieten Harry’s stomach. He drank it all, and stood up. To his relief, Gonsalez made no objection to their leaving the cellar, but followed him out, locking the door behind him, and accompanying him up the stairs, to all appearances quite restored to his former good-humour.

‘How were you able to overpower four big fellows like that?’ Harry asked. ‘Oh, easily enough!’ replied Gonsalez, with a chuckle. ‘I pretended that I was an Afrancesado, and I proposed, after dinner, that we should drink to the extermination of the English!’ He paused, and Harry heard his teeth grind together. “The French rascals! They little guessed what I meant to do! I got them into the cellar, and gave them wine, and more wine, until they became so drunk that they fell. Then I killed them. Thus die all enemies to Spain!’

‘Shall you be going round to the General’s house after dinner?’ asked Juana, when Harry rejoined her. ‘Because, if so-’

‘I shall not,’ said Harry.

Juana saw that he was looking rather pale. ‘Are you ill?’, she exclaimed. ‘Tell me at once, is anything the matter?’

‘Matter? Lord, no! nothing in the world!’ said Harry.