The Spanish Bride

6

By two in the afternoon, Clausel’s troops were retreating across the Nivelle in confusion; at dusk, Wellington crossed the river with two divisions; and the Light, the 4th, and Giron’s Andalusians bivouacked on the reverse slope of the original French position. Here Juana rejoined the brigade, coming up with the baggage early on the following morning, and almost swooning with horror at the sight of Harry’s blood-stained garments. That he was not wounded seemed to her incredible; she could not believe that he was not concealing some dreadful hurt from her. He took her by the shoulders and shook her, saying: ‘Will you have sense, estupida, or must I strip to show you that I have nothing but a few bruises? It was the mare who was hurt, not I!’

She exclaimed at once: ‘I knew it! Did I not tell you what would happen? You are not wounded at all?’

‘No, I tell you!’

Her terrors laid, she suffered an instant reaction. ‘Oh, you are abominable to frighten me so! I won’t speak to you till you have washed yourself, and taken off those horrible clothes!’ ‘As though I had not been longing to take them off all this time!’ said Harry. ‘Won’t you kiss me, my hateful darling?’

‘No! Your face is smeared with blood! I would sooner kiss Ugly Tom!’ she declared. She went off to visit one of his friends, who was wounded. He did not see her again until much later, and then it was she who was in need of a change of clothes, for out of two hundred men of the 52nd regiment returned as killed and wounded, a hundred, suffering from flesh wounds, had refused to go to the rear. Quite a number of these needed attention, and Juana, who had become expert in the washing and binding up of hurts, was busy all the morning. When Harry, very spruce in his best jacket and sash, encountered her, he recoiled, his narrow eyes gleaming with laughter, and said: ‘Oh, you horrid little thing! Don’t touch me!’

‘Oh!’ Juana cried. ‘One little bloodstain! How nice you look! Kiss me quickly, for I must go and wash my hands!”

‘Not till you have washed, and taken off those clothes!’ murmured Harry wickedly. ‘I’m going to find out how many of my friends were hit yesterday!”

‘Well, I can tell you that all our particular friends are safe, only Johnny Kincaid is quite wretched about poor Colonel Barnard, for he fears he will die.’

This was very bad news, and had the effect of sending Harry off immediately to find Kincaid, who was Barnard’s Adjutant. The Colonel had been knocked off his horse by a musket-ball through the lung, and by the time Kincaid had reached him he was so choked by blood that he could not speak. His men gathered round him in the greatest distress, for he was very much beloved, but Kincaid, seeing George Simmons not far off, had the presence of mind to shout to him to come to Barnard quickly. George washed the blood out of Barnard’s mouth, felt the wound, and looked grave, but upon Barnard’s regaining his senses, and saying to him: ‘Simmons, am I mortally wounded?” he had replied in his honest way. ‘Colonel, it is useless to mince the matter: you are dangerously wounded, but not immediately mortally.’

‘Be candid!” Barnard had said. ‘I’m not afraid to die.” ‘I am candid,” George said steadfastly.

Four men had carried the Colonel off on a blanket, George accompanying them. It was expected that George would return to his regiment on the following day, but just before the brigade moved on, Joe Simmons got a message from him that he was staying in Vera for the present, in charge of Barnard, who was going on remarkably well, and had placed himself in George’s sole care.

‘Dear old George, how he must be enjoying himself!’ said Kincaid. The brigade moved on that day, descending into the fertile French plain, and reaching Arbonne. After the wild mountains they had been amongst for so long, the sight of neat farmsteads, and tilled fields, intersected by hedgerows, pleased everyone. Hay was obtainable for the horses, too, which relieved mounted officers of one of their most pressing anxieties. The weather, however, was bad, and it was evident that a great deal of rain had fallen on the plains, since all the ways were spongy with soaked clay. Tiny sank in this sticky mud to his knees, a circumstance which made Harry Smith think poorly of the army’s prospects of continuing the drive into France.

He was quite right. The condition of the ground made the passage of the artillery almost impossible, nor could the heavy cavalry be brought up from their quarters in Spain. Had the weather been clement, and the Spanish troops better fed, there was no saying how far Wellington might not have thrust Soult. He had forced him to evacuate St Jean de Luz, which town he made his own headquarters, but he might have been able to do more. ‘I despair of the Spaniards,’ he wrote to Lord Bathurst, ten days after the battle.’ They are in so miserable a state, that it is really hardly fair to expect that they will refrain from plundering a beautiful country: particularly adverting to the miseries which their own country has suffered from its invaders. If I could now bring forward 20,000 good Spaniards, paid and fed, I should have Bayonne. If I could bring forward 40,000,1 do not know where I should stop. Now I have both the 20,000 and the 40,000 at my command, upon this frontier, but I cannot venture to bring forward any. Without pay and food, they must plunder; and if they plunder, they will ruin us all.’

It was some consolation, while Freire’s and Longa’s men were sacking Ascain, and Mina’s wild guerrilleros were rapidly approaching a state of open mutiny, that his lordship was able to tell Bathurst that the conduct of the British and Portuguese troops was being exactly what he wished; but the atrocious behaviour of the starved Spaniards came at the worst possible moment. Never was the time riper for a bold thrust. ‘Where are your Emperor’s headquarters now?’ Wellington asked one of the French officers, who had been taken prisoner.

‘Nulle part,’ the Frenchman had answered sadly. ‘Il n’y a point de quartier general, et point d’armee.’

It was not every Commander, advancing into enemy territory, who would have been able to bring himself deliberately to dispense with 40,000 men out of his whole force; but Wellington’s cold judgement convinced him that delay in completing his operations would be less harmful to the Allied cause than the depredations of the Spaniards in a country which it was vital to conciliate. Having hanged an astonishing number of the marauders without achieving any improvement in the conduct of the rest, his lordship deliberately sent every Spanish division except Morillo’s back to Spain.

The weather grew worse. The Light division, bivouacking near Arbonne, in hourly expectation of being ordered to advance, was moved forward only as far as the town, and quartered there. It was an uncomfortable situation, for it rained incessantly, and although the French inhabitants of the district were as friendly towards the British as Wellington had been assured they would be, there were bickering fights going on with Soult’s forces, entrenched before Bayonne; and every day seemed to bring skirmishes with outposts all along the line of the front.

As soon as the rain stopped, and the sodden ground was dry enough to make an advance possible, the division was moved forward, nearer to Bayonne, and quartered in two large chateaux. The first brigade was at Arcangues, the second at Castilleur, in which Colborne packed the 52nd regiment, Harry said, as close as cards.

It was December by this time, and they began to think of Christmas. Colborne’s Staff had bought a goose, and if it did not die from surfeit, Colborne said, they would give a grand dinner on Christmas Day.

‘But of course it will not die!’ said Juana. ‘We are fattening it in quite the proper way.’ ‘Well, that’s what you say,’ answered Colborne, with his lurking smile. ‘But there’s reason in everything, and I think the bird will very likely burst. Whenever I want Fane or Harry, I find them stuffing it with most unsuitable food. In fact, the goose is beginning to embarrass me, for you all watch my plate so jealously at dinner, to see what I shall leave that can be scraped up to be given to the creature, that I am becoming quite shy.’

‘Oh come, now, sir!’ protested Fane. ‘Who tried to make the goose eat a hard-boiled egg? Addled, too!’

‘But you are not to make it eat eggs!’ exclaimed Juana. ‘It is very bad of you, Colborne, very wrong indeed, and I am quite shocked!’

‘I merely offered it,’ said Colborne. ‘Heaven forbid that I should compel that obese bird to eat anything against its will!’

But in the end, all their anxious care of the goose was wasted. On the gth December, the 1st and 7th divisions moved close up to the rear of the Light, which made everyone feel sure that some action was contemplated.

‘Whist, whist, I smell a bird’s nest!’ said Tom Plunket.

‘Yes, and so does Johnny Crapaud!’ replied the Bombproof Man caustically. “This mousetrap smells too strong of cheese. Johnny’s up to snuff all right Every man-jack of them’s been standing to his arms ever since the Gentlemen’s Sons showed their front. I wouldn’t wonder if we had a pretty batch of trouble before the day’s out.’ It was soon learned that the 1st and 7th had moved up for the purpose of crossing the Nive. The Light division received orders to drive back the enemy’s pickets towards Bayonne, by way of creating a diversion. They effected this after a little desultory skirmishing, and at dusk resumed the usual line of pickets.

It was generally thought that nothing further would come of the demonstration, but news filtered through that Hill was moving up to St Pierre, near Bayonne, and Harry, always very alert, was uneasy. He was convinced that the French would create a diversion on the left of the Allied army, and was in the saddle before dawn next day, visiting the advanced pickets, a mile in front of the main body of the brigade. He was joined as soon as it was daylight by Beckwith, who stared with puckered eyelids towards the French lines, and said: ‘What do you think of it, Harry?’

‘I don’t like it. They mean something.’ ‘Why, so I think!’

Colborne came up while they were watching the movement in the French camp. Harry rode a little way to meet him. ‘The enemy are going to attack us,’ he said abruptly. ‘No; they are only going to resume their ordinary posts in our front,’ replied Colborne. ‘But look at the body in our immediate front!’ Harry said. ‘There’s a column over there, if I am not much mistaken, evidently moving on the 1st division!’

His tone was impatient. Colborne knew that he was always uneasy if there was any possibility of a sudden attack, on account of Juana; and paid no attention. He had pulled out his glass, and was looking through it at the enemy’s lines. He detected some flashes in the distance, and said: ‘Those must be some men discharging their pieces.’ The next instant he saw a large body of men advancing, a good way away.

‘By God, the whole army’s in movement!’ Beckwith said, his glass also trained on the column Colborne had seen.

‘Yes, you’re right,’ Colborne said.

‘Come, something must be done!’ Harry burst out. ‘What are you going to do?’ ‘Gently, I must think a little first,’ Colborne replied.

Old Chap began to sidle and fidget, as though infected by Harry’s impatience. ‘At least let me order the brigade under arms!’ begged Harry.

‘Oh, do be quiet, Smith!’ said Colborne, trying to think out his dispositions. ‘I can’t be quiet while nothing is done! We shall be attacked immediately!’ ‘Go and order the brigade under arms, and bring up the 52nd. You had better tell your wife to leave the chateau at once, for I imagine an attack will be made upon it.’ Harry went off at a hand-gallop, just as the French opened fire on the advanced pickets. Juana was ironing shirts when the alarm sounded, and had barely time to put the iron down in the hearth before West came running in to tell her that he had seen Master for a hurried moment, and that the orders were to evacuate the chateau immediately. Juana caught up the shirts, but West said: ‘No time to pack anything, missus: we shall be under fire in a minute!’

‘Go and saddle Tiny then, and I will come directly!’ she said, pulling her riding-habit out of the cupboard. ‘And, West, West! Find Vitty! She ran out a little while ago!’ She had only just scrambled into her habit when the first shots rattled about the walls of the chateau. The 52nd were forming up in battle-order, and there was so much noise and confusion that she had some difficulty in forcing her way to where West had the horses waiting. She was on Tiny’s back in an instant, but demanded in a sharpened tone where Vitty was.

‘I can’t find her, missus! It’s no use, we daren’t stay for her!’

‘Oh, I won’t go without my poor little dog! No, no, she may get killed! We must find her!’ West said roughly: ‘Missus, you heard Master’s orders! It’s my business to get you to where you’ll be safe, and if you don’t come willingly I shall lead Tiny!’

Her eyes flashed, but a musket-ball whistling above their heads made her see how unreasonable it would be to insist upon remaining in such a perilous situation; so, swallowing a sob, she said humbly that she was sorry, and would not be troublesome any more.

The thunder of gun-fire on the left showed that an action was being fought near Bayonne, but although the French made a vigorous attack upon both Castilleur and Arcangues, they did not follow it up by anything more than some rather vicious skirmishing. West had had Juana’s tent loaded on to the pack-mule, and pitched it for her as soon as they got to the rear of the division. She tried not to let herself think about Vitty’s fate, but when Harry came in at the end of the day, tired and harassed, he was met by such a woebegone face, that he said in an attempt to rally Juana’s spirits: ‘Hallo, what’s the matter now? Are you mourning the loss of our goose?’

‘Vitty!’ Juana said, with tears rolling down her cheeks.

‘Oh, has she been snapped up? Poor little Pug! Whew, what a day! What’s for supper?’ Such callous disregard for Vitty’s plight was more than Juana could bear. ‘You are cruel and cold and you don’t care what becomes of my darling! All you think of is food!’ ‘I’m sorry,” said Harry. ‘Of course I care about Vitty, querida. Only, to tell you the truth, I haven’t had a bite to eat all day, and I’m dog-tired besides.’

She flushed scarlet, and dashed the tears out of her eyes, ‘

Oh, I am such a bad wife, mi Enrique! Forgive me! Look, I brought away the bacon we had this morning, and West stuffed some bread into his pockets, and besides that he found some very good vegetables here, so I made a stew. It does not matter about Vitty. You are safe, and that is enough for me!’

She began to serve out the stew. Just as she sat down to share it with Harry, Kitchen put his head into the tent, and said that one of the buglers of the 52nd regiment wanted to see her. ‘Hallo, one of your odd friends?’ said Harry. ‘Send him in, Joe!’

‘But I do not know any of the buglers in the 52nd!’ objected Juana. ‘He cannot want to see me. It must be you he asked for, only Joe is so stupid!’

But when the bugler came in, grinning broadly, he addressed himself to Juana, not to Harry. ‘Beg pardon, missus!’ he said in rough Spanish. ‘I’ve got something in my haversack for you.’

‘What then?’ Juana asked, surprised by his air of mystery.

‘Something you’ll be glad to have, I’ll be bound. I saw her in the scuffle, back there at the chateau, and whipped her up, for it won’t do to lose her, I said to myself!’ ‘Vitty!’ cried Juana, jumping up.

‘That’s right, missus,’ said the bugler, hauling the unhappy little pug out of his haversack, and putting her into Juana’s arms. ‘She’s been in there all day, as good as you please, barring a bit of whimpering on and off!’