The Spanish Bride

6

On the 25th August, the regiment’s birthday, the officers of the 95th Rifles held their first regimental dinner, a very different affair from Skerrett’s memorable feast. No less than seventy cheerful gentlemen sat down to dinner, and since the whole division was in bivouac, and there was no house in the vicinity with a room large enough to accommodate such a party, it was decided to hold a strictly alfresco entertainment. Two long, deep, parallel trenches were dug; the gentlemen sat on the ground with their legs in these, and the greensward between them served as a table. Anything less solid, Molloy said, would have collapsed under the weight of food and drink spread upon it. It was a noisy, cheerful party, with plenty of toasts, and a good deal of singing; and the French outposts, on the height overlooking the scene, watched it all with the keenest interest; A few days later, volunteers were called for to help in the second assault on San Sebastian. It was rumoured that Lord Wellington had said that he would send troops to San Sebastian who would show the 5th division how to carry a town by storm: a remark not calculated to please soldiers who had failed to accomplish an impossible task. Lord Wellington wanted a hundred and fifty men from the Light division, besides several hundreds from other divisions; but when forty volunteers were asked to step out from one battalion, the whole battalion took a pace forward. In the end, the forty were selected, but there was a good deal of quarrelling between the men; and officers, clamouring in vain to be chosen, nursed bitter grievances for days. However, the successful volunteers got a very cold welcome from the Pioneers, when they reached San Sebastian; and General Leith said roundly that so far from showing the 5th how to mount a breach, they should act as supports, not as the forlorn hope. The date of the storm was fixed for the last day of August, but it was expected that Soult would make an effort to relieve the town. His army was known to be concentrated between the coast town of St Jean de Luz, and the village of Espelette, so Lord Wellington was quite ready for him, on the western side of the Bidassoa. Near the coast, there were fords at Irun and Behobie, but everywhere else in the district the river was very inaccessible, with steep, rocky banks, affording no facilities for the crossing of an army. On the Upper Bidassoa, at Vera, the Light division still held the town with pickets, the body of the division being encamped on Santa Barbara, looking slantways down upon the town, and the barricaded bridge. The Portuguese attached to the 4th division were guarding the fords lower down the stream, but when Soult moved in force, very early on the morning of the 31st August, one of the all too frequent mountain fogs hung heavily over the river, so that nothing could be seen of an enemy advance. Four divisions, under Clausel, attacked the Portuguese before seven o’clock, and crossed the river in the dense haze. This-lifted about an hour later, and a French battery began at once to shell Vera, from which the Light division withdrew its pickets. The division, drawn up in battle array on the commanding ground above the town, expected to be attacked in force, but it soon became evident that the main attack was being launched on the Lower Bidassoa, where General Freire’s Spaniards (with two British divisions m support) had the honour of receiving the frontal onset. By ten o’clock, that affair was at an end, the Spaniards behaving very well, but losing heart a little towards the end of the struggle. General Freire, very nervous, went in person to Lord Wellington to beg for reinforcements, but his lordship replied coolly: ‘If I sent you British troops, it would be said that they had won the battle. But as the French are already retiring, you may as well win it by yourselves.’

Meanwhile, some miles farther upstream, at Vera, the Portuguese continued to be engaged all day, in the most miserable weather. It rained incessantly, and some threatening growls of thunder, and sudden squalls of wind, indicated that a tempest was brewing. The river was rising rapidly, a circumstance which soon made Brigade-Major Smith uneasy, for if the fords became impassable it was obvious that the French must, for safety’s sake, try to possess themselves of the bridge at Vera. When the heavy cannon-fire drove back the British pickets from the town, Harry galloped at once to where Skerrett was standing, in a most exposed position, beside his horse, and pointed out to him the preparations being made by the enemy for an attack upon the cluster of houses, held by some Riflemen, at the bridgehead. Harry, who was already exasperated by Skerrett’s apparently fixed habit of choosing a dangerous place to stand in while his men cleverly concealed themselves in every available scrap of cover, spoke impetuously, and with a good deal of impatience. ‘General Skerrett, unless we send down the 52nd regiment in support, the enemy will drive back the Riflemen! They can’t hold those houses against the numbers prepared to attack. Our men will fight like devils, expecting to be supported, and when they’re driven out their loss will be very severe!’

He had to shout to make himself heard above the noise of shell-bursts, and, indeed, expected to be hit momently, since every kind of shot was peppering the ground all round his General. Skerrett seemed to be as unconcerned at his warning as at the gun-fire, and laughed. ‘Oh, is that your opinion?’ he said.

‘And it will be yours in five minutes!’ retorted Harry insubordinately.

He was so angry that he would have said much more, had Skerrett given him an opportunity. But Skerrett, without seeming greatly to resent his hasty rejoinder, began to argue the matter. It was a moment calling for action, not discussion, and before Skerrett had had time to elaborate his views, a cloud of voltigeurs, supported by a large column, descended upon the bridge-houses.

‘Now will you move?’ shouted Harry.

No, General Skerrett would not move. He considered it would be unwise to hazard any troops merely to defend the bridge-houses; he wanted advice, and time to think the matter over, and he feared that his Brigade-Major was a very reckless young man. While he argued, and fidgeted, the French possessed themselves of the houses, and consequently the bridge itself, and the Riflemen, after putting up a spirited resistance, had to retire, with even heavier losses than Harry had feared.

To one who was a Rifleman himself, and knew, as though he had been amongst them, how implicitly the men posted in the houses had trusted in the support of their comrades, it was maddening to see this faith, built up by so many hard fights, destroyed by wanton stupidity, and lives uselessly sacrificed. Bitter reproaches sprang to Harry’s lips, but he suppressed them, because the harm was done, and nothing could be gained by reproaches. The houses could be retaken, and must be retaken. From their position, the French could not hope to hold them, unless they drove the Light division back from its commanding position above them. He said: ‘You see now what you have permitted, General. We must retake those houses, which we ought never to have lost.’

‘Well,’ Skerrett said, ‘I believe you are right.’ Harry waited, but no order to advance any part of the brigade was given him. Skerrett seemed more undecided than ever, and losing any shreds of patience or temper remaining to him, Harry wheeled his horse, and galloped off through a storm of shot, to where the 52nd regiment was drawn up. He rode straight to Colborne, who greeted him with a very stern look, and an unusually grim: ‘Well, Smith? Pray, what are you about?’

‘Sir, General Skerrett will do nothing!’ Harry burst out. ‘We must retake those houses! I told him what would happen!’

‘Oh!’ said Colborne. Tm glad of that, for I was angry with you. Very well, we’ll retake them at once.’

It did not take many minutes to reoccupy the houses, the French retiring as soon as they saw that the British were in earnest. Harry could not help wondering what Skerrett must feel at seeing a part of his brigade go into action without any order from himself, but when he presently rejoined them, Skerrett made no comment. This did nothing to advance his claim to Harry’s good opinion. ‘Only fancy old Vandeleur, if one had taken the law into one’s own hands!’ he said scornfully.

‘Wouldn’t have had to,’ said Brother Tom, Adjutant, tersely.

The firing ceased during the afternoon, but the weather grew steadily worse. Vedettes reported six feet of racing water in the Bidassoa, and the rain was all the time falling in torrents. The streams trickling down the mountain-sides had become cascades, carrying stones with them in a roar audible above the incessant rumble of thunder. George Simmons, who was on picket-duty in the valley, was not only drenched to the skin, but was nearly knocked down by a branch, torn from its tree, and tossed through the air by a wind like a hurricane.

It was known that the French had everywhere crossed the Bidassoa, and as it could not be doubted that Lord Wellington would fling them back before nightfall, the swollen state of the river began by dusk to cause Harry grave anxiety. He proposed to Skerrett that the whole of the and Battalion of the 95th Rifles should be posted by the bridge-houses, with the 52nd regiment near to them, in support; and that no time should be lost in barricading the bridge itself.

Skerrett, lulled into a false feeling of security by the inaction of the French during the afternoon, and the disappearance towards the Lower Bidassoa of Clausel’s force, only laughed at him. ‘Upon my word, Smith, you make me think of a cat on a hot bake-stone! You may leave a picket of one officer and thirty men at the bridge.’

‘General Skerrett,’ said Harry, ‘the French are on our side of the river, and they will have to recross it. The fords are already impassable, and I submit that it is of the utmost importance to hold the bridge!’

Skerrett, who was about to sit down to supper in his house on the Santa Barbara hill, reddened, and said angrily: ‘Have the goodness to do as you’re told, sir!’ ‘Very well!’ snapped Harry. ‘I am to order the battalion to retire to these heights.’ He pulled his memorandum-book out of his pocket, and, for the first time in his life, jotted down his General’s orders in it. ‘Is that correct, sir?’ he demanded, showing Skerrett what he had written.

‘Yes, I have already told you so!’

‘We shall repent this before daylight!’ Harry said, and flung out of the house before Skerrett had time to censure his impertinence.

He galloped down to the bridge through the blinding rain. The wind was so violent that he seemed to be riding through a maelstrom of leaves, sticks, and the rubbish cast out of the cottages in the village, all whirled about in the gusts and eddies of the storm. He ordered the battalion to retire to the Santa Barbara position, and called up the Adjutant. Colonel Norcott said: ‘Have you gone mad, or have I misunderstood you?’ ‘Neither,’ said Harry curtly. He found Tom Smith at his elbow. ‘Call me a picket of an officer and thirty men for the bridge!’ he said.

‘By God, you are mad!’ Norcott exclaimed. ‘I’ll have no hand in this!’ ‘Do as you please! Your orders are to retire to the heights.’

‘Harry, you can’t mean to leave one picket to hold the bridge!’ Tom said urgently. ‘It’s murder!’

‘I don’t need your comments!” Harry rapped out ‘What the hell are you standing there for, when you’re given an order? Call a picket to me at once, damn you!’ ‘Cadoux’ company is for picket,’ Tom said, startled by the savagery in Harry’s voice. Harry vouchsafed no answer. In a few minutes, Cadoux came riding up on Barossa. ‘What nice weather we do have, to be sure!’ he said. ‘Ah, is that you, Harry? I have been wanting a word with you ever since this morning. I should not like to be thought impolite, but what the devil did you mean by not supporting us in our little affair?’

‘Scold away! no fault of mine!’ Harry replied, with an ugly little laugh. ‘Oh, was it not? You’ll have to pardon me: I thought you were our Brigade-Major. Do you know, we held on in the expectation of being supported? We are not loving you much, Harry. My company is reduced to fifty. Did you know that?’

‘You fool, Dan, do you suppose it was my doing? But come: no time for jaw! The picket!’ ‘Oh, so that was true, was it?’ said Cadoux. ‘A picket of an officer and thirty men for the bridge! Well, with your kind permission, we’ll make it the whole company, and I’ll stay with them.’

‘Of course you have my permission!’ Harry said. ‘And, Dan, keep a strict watch: you’ll be attacked before daylight, for Clausel’s somewhere this side of the river, trying to find a safe way over it.’

‘Most certainly we shall be attacked,’ Cadoux said coolly. ‘I’ll block up the bridge as well as I can, and if possible I’ll hold it until I’m. supported. But I should like to find myself still with a company by morning, so when the attack begins, send the whole battalion down to me, will you?’

‘You know I’ll do everything I can!’ Harry said. ‘But that damned fool-!’ ‘Well, please God I’ll hold the bridge! Oh, and-er-Harry?’

Harry looked back. Cadoux, his wet cloak whipped about him by the wind, was sitting nonchalantly, a hand on his hip, Barossa sidling uneasily beneath him. Harry could not distinguish his face very clearly in the dusk, but he knew that he was smiling. ‘Well?’ ‘My love to General Skerrett,’ said Cadoux.

‘May he rot!’ growled Harry.

Leaving the battalion getting ready to retire, he rode off, not to report to Skerrett, but to find Colborne, and to show him the order in his memorandum-book.

It was just as well that he had made a note of the order, for Colborne, incredulous of such folly, was almost inclined to believe that he must have mistaken Skerrett’s meaning. ‘I’ve left Cadoux with his company to hold the bridge, sir,’ Harry said. ‘But this morning’s wicked muddle has so reduced him he has only about fifty men left. I know him: he’ll hold the bridge to the last man, but he must be supported!’

‘Of course he must be supported,’ said Colborne, his calm voice in odd contrast to Harry’s impetuous tone. “The whole battalion should move down into Vera.’

‘Move down into Vera! I had them there, and they are even now retiring up the hill!’ said Harry bitterly. ‘Cadoux expects them to go to his support, but, oh, Colonel, Skerrett is callous to anything! I fear I shall never prevail on him to move!’

‘Well,’ said Colborne, ‘you must do as you can. When the attack comes, the 95th must move to the support of the picket without an instant’s loss of time. As soon as I see the battalion in motion, I will move down the hill on your flank. You had better go back to the Brigadier now.’ He added, with a slight smile: ‘And if I were you, Smith, I would not lose my temper with him.’

‘No use, sir, it’s lost already. If he lets Cadoux’ company be cut to pieces, I don’t care how soon he breaks me, for by God, I’ll be no Brigade-Major of his!’

He found Skerrett sitting over the fire in his quarters. When he reported the arrangements he had made with Colborne, Skerrett merely laughed, and said he should be glad to know who was in command of the brigade: himself, Colonel Colborne, or a young whipper-snapper of a Brigade-Major?

‘Cadoux will be attacked before dawn,’ Harry replied shortly.

‘Nonsense!’ said Skerrett. ‘I don’t expect anything of the sort. If he is attacked, it will certainly not be in force. I’ve no more orders for you tonight, so you may go back to your own quarters. I should advise you to go to bed, and forget all these alarms of yours.’ ‘With your permission, General, I will stay here,” said Harry.

‘Oh, do as you please,’ shrugged Skerrett. ‘But don’t fancy you can succeed in putting me into a panic! I have a great deal more experience than you, strange though you may think it. If I did not know you for a well-meaning young hothead, I should have something to say about your behaviour tonight. However, you are a good boy, in your way, and we’ll let it pass.’ Since he was unable to force his tongue to reply civilly to this speech, Harry said nothing. Skerrett presently lay down on his bed, and went to sleep; but Harry stayed wakeful by the fire, listening to the scream of the wind round the corners of the house, and the lashing of the ram on the widow-panes. The night was very dark, lit only by occasional flashes of lightning. Some time after midnight, a messenger arrived from divisional headquarters with a dispatch from Alten, informing Skerrett that the enemy were retiring across the river; that it was to be apprehended they would before daylight try to possess themselves of the bridge of Vera, and that every precaution must be taken to prevent this.

‘Now, General!’ Harry said triumphantly. ‘Let me move the battalion down to the bridge at once!’

‘Oh, pooh, you are a great deal too hasty! Ten to one the French will never reach Vera in this storm! Why, it is so dark you cannot see your hand before your face! A nice thing it would be for me to march the men off on such a night, for no good reason!’

‘General Skerrett, every minute that you delay puts that picket in worse danger! What have you to lose by moving the regiment forward in support?’

‘What have I to lose indeed! Why, you young fool, I should have half the men down with ague through exposing them unnecessarily! No, no, I know my business better than that!’ No argument, and Harry used many, had the power to make him alter his decision. The matter was still being discussed, on Harry’s part most intemperately, when the sound of trumpets penetrated the racket of the storm. Harry leaped to the window, and forced open the rickety casement. The wind whistled into the room, scattering the papers on the table, and making Skerrett swear.

‘Quiet! For God’s sake, listen!’ Harry said.

His straining ears caught the sound of the all too familiar cry of: ‘En avant! l’Empereur recompensera le premier qui s’avancera!’

The faint echo was drowned by the sudden staccato rattle of rifle-fire. Harry shut the window, and turned to snatch up his hat and boat-cloak. ‘Now, General, who is right?’ Skerrett was struggling in to his coat. He looked chagrined, and muttered something about hoping that it would be found to be nothing but an attack by skirmishers. Harry ran out, shouting for his horse, which he had directed West to keep ready saddled in the barn, and galloped recklessly through the darkness to where the 2nd Rifle battalion was bivouacked. The men had been lying by their arms, and no urging was necessary to hasten the falling-in. They advanced downhill, guided more by the sound of the firing by the bridge than by the faint fight creeping through the storm-wrack. It was obvious from the din that Cadoux was hotly engaged, and reports received confirmed Harry’s fears that the bridge was being assailed by overwhelming numbers. Clausel himself, with two brigades, had succeeded in crossing the river during the afternoon, before the fords became impassable, but his rear brigades, stranded on the western bank, had been groping about all night in search of the bridge of Vera. Cadoux had posted double sentries, but the noise of the storm had smothered the sound of the French column’s approach; and the sentries were fallen upon, and bayoneted, because the rain had damped their priming powder, and the rifles missed fire. But Cadoux was on the watch, and instead of passing unmolested across the bridge, the French met the determined charge of fifty Riflemen. Had the rest of the battalion been posted in the village, the French column must have been overcome, but though they made charge after charge, rallying in dwindling numbers about their Captain, the Riflemen could not stand against the waves of Frenchmen that were launched upon them. The battalion, making all possible speed to the bridge, was too far distant to arrive there in time to save its being lost. The Rifles reached it in the first grey dawnlight, and fell upon the French rear-guard, but the leading column was already on the eastern bank, and Cadoux’ company driven back, half his little force either killed or badly wounded.

When Harry galloped down to the bridge, there was light enough for him to see how desperately the picket had defended its position. The bridge was choked with dead, and many bodies, hurled into the river, were being tossed and churned in the swollen waters. Llewellyn, Cadoux’ lieutenant, was lying with a shattered jaw; he tried to call to Harry, and could not. Harry saw one of the Sergeants attempting with a broken leg to get upon his feet, and shouted to him: ‘Captain Cadoux? Where’s Captain Cadoux?’

‘Dead, dead!’

A groan burst from Harry. He had no time then to search for Cadoux’ body, but when the bridge was once more in British hands, and the corpses of the enemy were being pushed over the parapet into the river, he found it, lying where the fight had been most fierce. A bullet had pierced me brain; Cadoux must have died instantly; perhaps had felt nothing. His face was calm, with the shadow of his lazy smile on his lips. The little remnant of his company, bearing his body to the grave dug to receive it, wept as they shovelled the wet, cold earth on to him, for his men had loved him dearly.

‘If he hadn’t of fallen, we’d have held the bridge, so help us, we would!’ a wounded private said, dragging his cuff across his eyes.

But Harry’s grief was more acute, because he knew that Cadoux had trusted to being supported; and although it was not his fault that support had come too late, it seemed as though the faint, mocking smile on the dead lips reproached him for betraying a trust.