The Spanish Bride

5

They marched that morning, the brigade miraculously revived, and rejoined Alten at Yanzi. Kempt’s brigade, reaching the banks of the Bidassoa on the previous evening under cover of thick woods, had taken the disorderly French column, on the other side of the river, by surprise, and had riddled the ranks with their fire. The prospect of ‘knocking the dust out of the Frenchmen’s hairy knapsacks’ had spurred the brigade on, but after that first volley they had not attempted much more. Hemmed in the defile by the mountain behind them, horribly at the mercy of the Riflemen’s accurate fire, the French had made signs asking for quarter, pointing to their wounded, whom they were taking with them. There was appalling confusion amongst them, and the bodies of dead men swirled away in the Bidassoa, while the cavalry, trampling over wounded infantrymen, tried to charge up the pass of Echalar. On the march the next day, the weary Light division was cheered as much by the arrival of Lord Wellington in their midst as by the litter of abandoned French baggage all along the road. His lordship looked to be in excellent spirits. He touched his hat to the Light troops, and smiled, so presumably he was not dissatisfied with the results of their forced march. His lordship was, in fact, in a mood to be pleased with his men. He said in moments of exasperation that they were good for nothing but fighting. He admitted that they were very good at that, and it was reported that he had said of the action at Sorauren that he had never seen the army behave better. The men, as he knew they would, had got his lordship out of a scrape. General Cole had failed to send proper intelligence to him, and there had been, one way and another, a good deal of uncertainty amongst the various divisional commanders, so that Soult had been allowed to penetrate much farther than he ought’ to have done. The Pass of Maya had been lost rather unnecessarily, and by the time the army had retreated as far as to Sorauren the soldiers were grumbling and fretting, mistrustful of their Generals. But all that was changed the instant his lordship joined the army. He rode up quite alone, having sent Lord Fitzroy Somerset galloping off with dispatches for the Quartermaster-General. He appeared amongst the skirmishers of some Portuguese Caçadores, and no sooner did the Caçadores clap eyes on that low-cocked hat, and familiar frock-coat, than they set up a shout of ‘Douro! Douro!’ by which title they were in the habit of hailing his lordship. The British troops pricked up their ears at the sound of it; a little later his lordship was amongst them, and such a roar of cheering greeted him that it reached Soult’s lines, and even brought a tinge of colour into his lordship’s cheeks. He saluted his troops in his stiff way, but although all he said was: ‘No cheering, my lads, but send the French to the rightabout,’ it could be seen that he was not unmoved by the demonstration. There was no more grumbling, there were no more pessimistic prophecies. When his lordship came himself, his men knew that the end was certain. You could not look at his calm profile without acquiring a feeling of boundless confidence, and he had a knack of appearing without warning amongst hardly-pressed troops which always turned the tide in favour of the Allied army. Nothing ever ruffled his calm in battle. You would not have known him for the same man who, in his office, displayed such alarming irritability whenever anything went awry. He could rally demoralized troops by merely putting himself in their midst; and if, in the stress of circumstances, their fire grew ragged, he could steady it just by saying in his loud, cheerful way: ‘That’s right, my lads: take your time! No hurrying, now!’ as though they were at target-practice. The knowledge that Hill’s force had done so well at Sorauren was naturally a little galling to the Light Bobs, remembering their abortive march to Lecumberri, but they were able to demonstrate what stuff they were made of when they reoccupied their original fine of pickets above Vera, and found that the French were holding the heights of Echalar on their right. The men were so weakened by excessive marching and lack of food that some of them could scarcely stand. Some biscuit served out by the Commissary was eaten while they primed and loaded their pieces, and, weak or not, the division went into action on the French flank, while the 4th and 7th divisions launched an attack on the front. A brigade of the 7th carried off most of the honours of that day’s fighting, but the Rifles and the 43rd regiment, under Colonel Barnard, won the peak of Ivantelly in dense fog, sweeping aside the French skirmishing-line, losing touch with their own main body, and fighting like devils in smothering cloud-wreaths. When the fog cleared, there was Barnard, established on the crest, so the army re-christened the peak Barnard’s Hill, and the division was able to forget that it had not struck a blow at Sorauren.

Soult, with his centre smashed in, and his flanks routed in the bewildering mist, was now quite rompéd, the army thought. Men were said to be deserting from the French ranks by hundreds; and everyone knew how much valuable baggage had been lost on that disastrous retreat

But there was still no news of the breaking of the Armistice of Plasswitz, so instead of pursuing the French into their own territory, Lord Wellington halted his army, and rearranged it on the line of the Pyrenees.

The whole of August passed quietly for the Light division. At San Sebastian, Graham had resumed the siege of the town and fortress, but the rest of the army enjoyed a well-earned breathing-space, the main preoccupation of the officers being the furnishing of their several messes with food and wine. It did not take Brigade-Major Smith long to discover that the Spanish Basques carried on a contraband trade with their French neighbours, and that brandy, claret, and even sheep were to be had easily, if one knew one’s way about. Harry was besieged by his friends, and never once failed to procure for them what they wanted. ‘You’re wasted in the army,’ Cadoux said. ‘What a smuggler you would have made, to be sure! Should I soil my hands with these illicit bottles, I wonder?’

His Brigade-Major’s activities came finally to Skerrett’s ears. He complained to Harry that he could get no wine, and had not tasted mutton for months; and when Harry replied promptly that he could get both for him, he coughed, and looked sideways at Harry, and said: ‘Well, I don’t know how you manage, but if you should happen to hear of some decent claret, and some sheep, I wish you would procure them for me.’

‘Nothing easier, General!’ said Harry. ‘I’ll put my smugglers into requisition.’ He was quite as good as his word, and a few days later told Skerrett that he had got eight sheep, and a dozen of claret. Accustomed to Vandeleur’s notions of hospitality, which were lavish, he thought the consignment rather meagre, and was just beginning to apologize for it when he was bereft of all power of speech by Skerrett’s saying: ‘I’m very much obliged to you, Smith! very much obliged indeed, and shall be glad of a whole sheep, and a couple of bottles of claret.’

That was too good a story to be withheld from the brigade. Skerrett’s table became a standing joke, which spread through the division. As for seven sheep, and ten bottles of claret, Harry and Fane found them quite insufficient for the scale of their own hospitality. The joke had barely had time to grow stale, when Skerrett announced his intention of giving a grand dinner. His ADC and his Brigade-Major, when this news was broken to them, carefully avoided meeting each other’s eyes. ‘Whom do you invite, sir?’ Harry asked. ‘I must ask Barnard and Colborne, of course, and Blakeney, and some others. You and Fane will naturally be present, and I shall look to you to take care of everything,’ said Skerrett.

They assured him that they would do so, but when Harry asked whether he should lay in provisions for the banquet, Skerrett said No, he preferred to attend to that himself. ‘One can’t expect to fare very well in bivouac,’ he said, ‘but I daresay my cook can contrive a respectable dinner.’

Since he had the worst cook in the division, neither Harry nor Fane shared his optimism. Where were the supplies coming from? Where was the wine to be had? ‘Barnard, of all people!’ Harry chuckled. ‘He’s had a French cook ever since Salamanca, and oh, how he loves his dinner and a good bottle of wine! “Can’t expect to fare well in bivouac!” Why, doesn’t the old fool know that Colborne and Barnard are famous for their dinners? I’ll tell you what, Tom: we shall sit down to steak and black strap!’ ‘He must mean to provide something better than black strap!’ Tom said. He was right. When Harry called upon his Brigadier for orders, on the morning of the feast, he found him dressed for travel. ‘Where are you going, General?’ he asked. Skerrett, at first shocked by the free-and-easy ways of Light division officers, had become resigned to his Brigade-Major’s lack of ceremony, and replied that he was off to Lesaca. This could only mean that he was going in search of supplies, so Harry promptly told Fane that they had misjudged the fellow, and he was actually going to buy suitable provisions from the sutler at headquarters.

Fane’s rather simian countenance wrinkled in an effort of deductive reasoning, ‘Headquarters’ prices won’t do for Skerrett,’ he said. ‘I believe you’re wrong. It’ll be steak and fowls-tough.’

“Then why has he gone to Lesaca?’ ‘I don’t know,’ said Fane, ‘but I’ll find out’

He posted himself, accordingly, as a look-out, and arrived at the cottage he shared with the Smiths only just in time to get ready for the dinner-party. Harry heard him coming, and poked his head out of the door of his room. ‘Well, did he buy supplies?’

‘Yes!’ replied Fane. ’Two bottles of sherry! And you’re to be cautious with it! He had one in one pocket and one in the other, and he told me to warn you!’ Such a jest as this was naturally far too good not to be passed on, and when the party assembled in Skerrett’s dining-room, both Barnard and Colborne were let into the secret. The dinner was quite as bad as Tom had expected it to be, but everyone agreed that it was a splendid party, because no sooner had the company sat down to table than Colonel Barnard said: ‘Come, Smith, a glass of wine!’ in the blandest way. The sherry from Lesaca disappeared before the first course was served, and Tom Fane had to retire into the background to struggle with himself.

‘Now, General, some more of this wine!’ said Barnard. ‘We camp fellows don’t get such a treat every day!’

Colborne’s grave, fine mouth twitched, for he had dined with Colonel Barnard. Skerrett, glaring at Harry, said: ‘I very much regret to say that is the last of an old stock, Barnard. What I must now give you, I fear, won’t be so good.’

It was, in fact, black strap. Barnard said: ‘No, that won’t do, but let us have some brandy!’ But black strap was all they got, and no brandy made its appearance, even when some very bad coffee was served to round off General Skerrett’s first and last dinner-party. ‘You are wicked fellows, all of you,’ Colborne said afterwards, with the smile that only lit his eyes. ‘If ever I get a brigade, I hope they don’t send me you for my Brigade-Major, Smith.’ ‘When you get your brigade, I hope I may be your Brigade-Major, Colonel!’ replied Harry quickly.