With Wellington in Spain: A Story of the Peninsula

A couple of minutes before, a casual glance at the troopers forming the escort to the two carts would have shown doubt on many of the sun-burnt faces; for the difficulty which confronted the fugitives both before and behind was great. That in front seemed almost insuperable, and, seeing it, more than one of the men wondered whether, after all, this was to be the end of their adventure, if here the peasants would hem them in and slaughter them. But Tom's brisk orders and the novelty of his suggestions set them smiling.

"Peste! But this Englishman has brains," grunted one of them, swinging himself swiftly out of his saddle. "These Portuguese peasants are pudding-headed beside him. One moment ago and I thought that the end was near, that I and Strasbourg would see one another no more. Now the path is easier for us – you will see these demons run."

But that had yet to be proved. Massed behind the upturned cart, and already pouring shot at the troopers, the band of peasants hooted and shouted in triumph. They hardly seemed to notice the eight troopers who broke from the ranks of the little procession; for at that moment the store cart was swung round, and the process of slowly backing it towards the enemy began. That operation attracted their whole attention, and soon bullets were thudding against the barrel of wine, tearing a way into the midst of the hams loaded on the cart, or smashing the jars of preserves which the excellent padre's housekeeper had set aside for him. Some went to either side – for the peasants were not first-class shots – while others pelted underneath, passing between the legs of the horse, splashing against the road, and sending little spurts of dust into the eyes of the troopers. The latter made excellent use of the cover. Two were bent double beneath the cart, and already their carbines were cracking sharply. A third lay on the stores, his head shielded by a wooden box which was filled with sugar, while the remainder walked on either side of the horse, leaning outward and firing whenever an opportunity occurred.

Tom called the remaining troopers about him, and bade them make ready for a charge.

"Once our fellows get on the hill above and outflank them we'll gallop forward," he said. "Ride at the upturned cart. Swing when you get near, and pass in behind. Once we have those rascals moving we'll keep them on the run. So chase them right through to the valley, and there halt till we come up. Ah! Our boys are getting to work. There go their carbines."

The attack was not one that could be made hurriedly, for a horse cannot be backed at a fast pace, and then the ground to be covered by the men sent to outflank the enemy was steep and difficult. Indeed, had the peasants but posted a few of their own men on either hand they could have at once put a stop to such a movement. But it had never crossed their minds that Tom and his men would force this natural gateway. They imagined that they would come to a halt, and that presently, on the arrival of their comrades from the village, the troopers and their English friends would be cut down to a man. That, in fact, was what would have happened had they delayed. But the flanking party scrambled rapidly into position, while the store cart advanced steadily and persistently, the shots from the troopers sheltering behind it causing havoc amongst the Portuguese. Tom allowed five minutes to elapse, and then, waving a sabre overhead, led Andrews and Howeley and the two or three troopers still remaining against the barricade. Cramming his heels into the flanks of his horse, he sent him down the road at breakneck speed. Swinging past the cart where the troopers were sheltering, he dashed at the obstruction behind which the peasants stood, and, swinging again, burst in on the far side. Andrews and Howeley followed with great dash, while the French troopers were not a yard behind them. And then began a furious struggle. Men slashed desperately at them with scythes, others attempted to unhorse the riders, while a few dived in with the intention of killing the animals. But those swinging sabres beat them off. Already the bullets of the attackers had had some effect, particularly the galling shots of the flanking party. For a moment the issue hung in the balance. Then the men who had fired from behind the cart came up at a run, and instantly the peasants bolted, the three troopers and Howeley galloping after them and keeping them on the run. Perhaps two minutes later the blare of a trumpet was heard in front, and then the clatter of drums. While Tom stared at the retreating peasants, and at the forms of his own men, some twenty or thirty gaily uniformed lancers rode into view, blocking the far end of the pass. The long lances were lifted from their rests as Tom looked. The pennons fluttered, and then down came the points. A second later an officer rode to the front of these lancers.

"Ah!" gasped Andrews, gaping at them.

"Ma foi!" growled one of the Frenchmen at Tom's elbow.

"English – hooray, they're our boys!" came in high-pitched tones from the cart in which Jack and the naval officer were accommodated, and which had been driven up to the scene of the conflict. Upright on the mattress on which he should have been lying stood Jack, wobbling badly, shrieking his delight at the top of his voice. As for Mr. Riley, perspiration covered his forehead and streamed down his face. He held out a hand as they came nearer, signalled to Tom, and gripped his with a feeling there was no misunderstanding.

"Gallantly done, lad!" he cried. "You've pulled us out of the wood. The coming of the lancers has nothing to do with the matter, though it'll help to make things comfortable. Boys, three cheers for Mr. Clifford!"

They gave them with a heartiness there was no denying. French and English joined in the shouts till the rocky walls echoed back the cheers a hundred times. And then all became of a sudden quiet and sober. For those thirty lancers were followed by a hundred perhaps, bringing the fleeing peasants to a sudden halt and causing some of them to attempt the feat of clambering away on either hand. A minute later the ranks of the lancers opened, and through the open files came a number of horsemen. Tom found himself watching their approach with something akin to fear, for mounted on a magnificent horse which led the procession was a tall officer of high rank without doubt, who rode through the muttering and beaten peasants as if they did not exist. A stern, clean-shaven face was turned in Tom's direction, while the pair of deep-set eyes that flanked a wonderfully hooked nose peered out from beneath a cocked hat at the little band which our hero had led so successfully.

It was Wellington without a doubt, the general who had led our troops so brilliantly in the Peninsula, who had seen fighting in many a place, and had won in far-off India a reputation there was no denying. It was the great Lord Wellington, and with him his chief of the staff, aides-de-camp, and other officers, a glittering throng, gold-braided and medalled, all silently observing Tom and his little party. As for the latter, our hero was almost too astounded even to think, while his followers, conscious of the rank of those who looked at them, and indeed, of the presence of Wellington himself, fell in just behind our hero, shouldered their weapons, and drew themselves up as became good soldiers. Yes, British and French, at war with one another in the Peninsula, but friends in this particular part of it, drew themselves up proudly, as men who had no cause to feel ashamed. Slowly a smile swept across the face of the general.

"I see," he said, so that all could hear. "We have here a little adventure worth hearing. Who is in command of this party?"

Mr. Riley pushed his way to the front, having clambered from the cart with difficulty. Saluting the general, he pointed to Tom.

"That gentleman, sir, is in command," he said steadily.

"And these?" asked the general instantly, indicating the French troopers, with a smile.

"We were their prisoners till a few moments ago. We were taken at sea, landed in this neighbourhood, and taken off by a troop of cavalry. The peasants attacked us suddenly, the officers were shot down, and Mr. Clifford at once took command. I wish to report that he has behaved splendidly. He and the riflemen have been the life and soul of our party. But the troopers behaved most handsomely, and obeyed orders as if they were our men. It is a good story, sir."

"And one we will hear," came the instant answer. "Er, Lieutenant – "

"Riley, sir."

"Ah, Lieutenant, I'm pleased to meet you. We shall camp in this valley, and you will give me the pleasure of dining with me to-night and of bringing your comrades. Mr. Clifford, I think you said."

The naval officer beckoned our hero forward and introduced him formally. Then he took the general to Jack's side, making him known also. As for Andrews and Howeley, they were beaming in a moment, for Wellington did them the honour of shaking their hands, while smiles broke across the countenances of the French troopers when he halted before them.

"You have an interpreter?" he asked Mr. Riley.

"Mr. Clifford, sir."

"Then repeat what I say, if you please, Mr. Clifford. Tell them I am delighted to hear that they have fought side by side instead of against us, and that they shall be well treated and their conduct reported to their own commanders. Tell them that."

Tom promptly interpreted the words, causing the Frenchmen to flush with pride.

"And now for these wretched peasants," began Wellington, turning to the spot where some fifty of the latter cowered, wondering what was to be done with them. "I presume it is much the same tale as we have had before? Reprisals attempted because of the brutality of the French. Hundreds of these poor fools against a handful of armed men. A sudden attack and a narrow escape. Well, we'll sign to them to be off. There's no interpreter with us just now."

"Pardon, sir," burst in Mr. Riley. "Mr. Clifford speaks the language."

"What? Let me hear him."

Blunt and abrupt in speech, there was something kind nevertheless in the tones of the general, and at once Tom went to the Portuguese and told them they might depart. When he returned he found Wellington looking at him with strange intensity.

"You are a civilian, sir," he asked, "and speak French and Portuguese?"

"Badly, sir, I'm afraid," smiled our hero. "Also I can get along with Spanish."

"Ah! And make yourself as well understood as in the other two languages?"

"Better, perhaps, sir. My relatives are Spanish."

"And you are a civilian and wish to remain one?"

The eyes looking Tom up and down so closely gleamed. Did they twinkle ever so little? Did this general, whose name was famous throughout many countries, guess at the martial spirit that filled Tom's breast? If he did, no one could do more than guess the fact, for the features never altered. The eyes merely twinkled, and that ever so little.

"A pity," said the general. "You would have made a – "

Flesh and blood could not endure such temptation. Here was the opportunity of his life, and Tom took it with open hands.

"I'm meant for a stool in Oporto, sir," he said. "But I'd give a heap to earn a commission."

"Come to dinner to-night," was the answer he received, while Wellington swung his horse round and rode on through the ranks of the French troopers. But he did not forget our hero, for that very evening, after dinner was over, and the remains of the somewhat frugal meal in which he was wont to indulge had been removed, Wellington called for candles with which to illuminate the headquarters tent, and then bade Mr. Riley tell the story of the adventure. Then he swung round on Tom and eyed him again in a manner that made the young man's heart sink to the depths of his boots. What wonder that the lad who had so bravely led the troopers should tremble under the gaze of Wellington. For this famous general was no ordinary man. The clean-shaven, sharply-cut features showed a determination that was extraordinary and which of itself attracted attention. His short, jerky sentences, however kindly meant, had a way of alarming his juniors, while the severity of his features, his exalted rank, the tremendous responsibilities resting on the shoulders of this man, made him almost awe inspiring. Tom had nothing to be ashamed of. Officers of senior rank out there in the Peninsula, and elsewhere, both before and after this historic conflict, trembled under the gaze of the brilliant tactician. Then why not Tom? But a smile crossing the face of the general reassured him.

"So you were meant for a stool in Oporto and found yourself a prisoner," began the general, putting down the glass from which he had just taken a sip of wine, "and seem to have fallen naturally into the life of a soldier. Let me add, too, you have done wonderfully well. That I can gather even without the tale which Lieutenant Riley has given me. You have shown discretion and sharpness, sir. The army needs officers with discretion, and, I am proud to say, has them. She needs, too, officers who are linguists. More than all she wants officers able to speak one or more of the languages essential to this campaign, and who have in addition the capacity to command men. Mr. Clifford, my greatest difficulty in this campaign is that of obtaining reliable information. Will you help me?"

Help a general! Help Wellington, the great duke who had defeated the French now on so many occasions! The bare suggestion made Tom flush. But the gallant officer addressing him was serious enough.

"Come," he said. "I want an officer for special service. He shall be posted to my staff, and his special work will be to gather an escort of the natives of Portugal or of Spain about him. He will seek for information as to the movements of the enemy. He will make sudden raids where necessary, and if occasion suggests it he shall even enter the camps of the French and gather full tidings. It is a dangerous task. It may mean wounds or death. The danger of imprisonment is very great. Also, if the duties be carried out with discretion and boldness, it means honour and promotion. Mr. Clifford, I am happy to offer you a commission as an ensign, unattached at present, to date from the day when you were taken by the French. My next dispatch home shall make mention of your name and of my wishes. To-morrow evening general orders shall confirm this offer, while the following evening shall see you promoted to lieutenant for this recent action. Afterwards you will carry out the instructions which shall be handed to you. Will you accept?"

Would he accept! Would Tom take the very thing for which he had longed, and become one of the king's officers! He jumped at the offer. His delight robbed him of the power of speech, so that he could only mumble his thanks. He retired, in fact, from the presence of the famous general with his head and brain in a whirl.

"Hearty congratulations," cried Lieutenant Riley, smacking him on the back as soon as they reached their own quarters. "We'll tell Jack now. Pity the pain in his leg sent him away from the general's before this happened. Ha! we've news, Jack."

The ensign had retired early from the dinner, the excitement and movement of the last two days having set up inflammation in his wound, though in the case of the naval officer it seemed to have actually done his injury good. Jack lay on a camp bed provided by the surgeon, blinking in the light of a candle.

"Eh?" he asked, glancing sleepily at them.

"Look out for squalls, my boy."

"Why? Don't understand, sir."

"You soon will," laughed Mr. Riley. "Tom's an awful martinet, and he's your senior."

It was all true enough, though our hero found difficulty in understanding the matter. For the very next evening found an announcement in General Orders. There was a short, flattering reference to Lieutenant Riley and Jack. And then the following words: "The commander-in-chief has pleasure in recommending that Mr. Clifford be granted a commission in His Majesty's forces, for his action when in temporary command of the French troopers attacked by Portuguese peasants. Ensign Clifford is posted to the headquarters staff."

The following evening found a second announcement. "Ensign Clifford, headquarters staff, is recommended for promotion for gallantry in a recent action."

"My uncle!" exclaimed Jack, when he read the orders, "you'll be a full-blown general, Tom, before I'm a captain. Don't forget me, that's all. I'd look awfully fine in the uniform of a staff officer."

"A general? Why not?" Tom asked himself as he rolled himself in a blanket. "I'm young, young for the rank of lieutenant. I'm in the midst of a glorious campaign. And owing to the fact that I can speak Portuguese, French, and Spanish I'm to be engaged on special service. Why not a general one of these days?"

He forgot to look on the other side. Forgot, with the usual impetuosity and carelessness of youth, to reckon the risks to be run in achieving such honours. But then Tom did not realize what was before him. To begin with, he reckoned without José de Esteros, his most unloving cousin, whom he imagined still in England.

CHAPTER XI

On Active Service

A crisp, cool breeze straight from the sea swept through the streets of Oporto and fanned the brows of three horsemen who were riding in from the country about ten in the morning some six weeks after the events already narrated. A brilliant autumn sun shed its rays far and wide, causing white walls and pavements to flash back shafts of light which were almost blinding in their intensity, while the russet hues of the foliage looked wonderfully bright and enchanting.

"Oporto at last!" exclaimed one of the three horsemen, a youth dressed in the uniform of a staff officer. "At last!"

"And none too soon," came from his companion, riding at his knee. "None too soon, Tom, my boy. Army rations are good enough when there's nothing else to be had, but give me the sight of a town now and again. There'll be dinners to be had, there'll be invitations galore to the houses of the big people, dances, fêtes, everything you can wish for or imagine."

Jack laughed uproariously, the happy laugh of a youth who is bent on pleasure, and who is ready to enjoy all that comes his way. For this was Jack Barwood, Ensign, of the 60th Rifles, attached for special service to Lieutenant Tom Clifford's command. And the youth who looked so well in the uniform of a staff officer was none other than our hero. Respectfully in rear of them, precisely three horses' length behind, rode the rifleman Andrews, as erect as any cavalry soldier trained, his eyes glistening at the prospect of a rest in Oporto, a bed to sleep in, and all the entertainment a city promised.

"And work," interjected Tom, when Jack had finished speaking. "All play and no work makes Jack a bad soldier. Eh?"

Jack made reply by snatching at his sword and half-drawing it, while he glared at his comrade. However it was all fun, and only a symptom of good spirits. Jack was now in clover; but for that chance meeting with our hero and the adventure which had followed he would have been along with his regiment, then scattered by companies, and his lot would have been very different. Instead he was appointed for special service, than which there is nothing more eagerly sought by an officer. He was Tom's right-hand man, his adviser if you like – though Lieutenant Riley smiled satirically when that was suggested – his adjutant when engaged with irregulars.

Jack had, in fact, in spite of his want of seriousness, been of great service to our hero. For, with the help of Andrews, he had instructed him in the customary duties of an officer and had taught him more than a smattering of drill.

"Just enough to let you manœuvre the irregulars you are to command," he had assured Tom, with a laugh. "You can't expect always to carry out an adventure like that we passed through with nothing but cheek to help you. Knowledge is wanted, my boy! I'll be the one to give it to you."

One could hardly have imagined a worse instructor; but when it came to the point Jack had proved an excellent fellow, and very soon, thanks to his tuition, Tom found himself able to drill a company with ease, and to understand how a battalion could be manœuvred. It took but a short while for him to grip other points particular to an army: how it was split up into divisions, consisting of so many brigades in each case, and how those brigades were made up of battalions, each, of course, boasting of a certain number of companies. As for a command, Tom had not been long in finding one.

"You will endeavour to enlist Portuguese and Spanish irregulars," the chief of Wellington's staff had told him. "We leave it to you to suggest a plan; but, of course, your main work will be to seek out information concerning the enemy."

"I'm wondering – " began Tom that very evening, when he and Jack lay beneath the same tent.

"Eh? Don't!" came the facetious and grinning answer. "Don't, my boy; your brain'll not stand it."

"Seriously, though," Tom went on, ignoring his friend's good-natured raillery.

"Of course; you're always serious. Well, you're wondering; and I'm wondering why you're wondering instead of getting off to sleep. It's a beast of a night, raining cats and dogs, and a chap needs to sleep to escape the blues."

"It would do you good to be out with our pickets then," cried Tom warmly, irritated by his friend. "I've a good mind to send you off with a message to – "

That brought Jack sitting upright with a jerk. After all, Tom was his senior, ridiculous though it did appear, and if he carried out such a threat, why, Jack must perforce obey, though such a thing as an order had never yet come from his friend.

"You were wondering – yes," he jerked out hurriedly.

"Whether I should ride back to that village where we had that fight with the peasants. I'm ordered to enlist irregulars. I propose having a band here in Portugal and one in Spain, close to the border. We all know that the two peoples don't agree very well. There are continual jealousies between them; but they would work together on occasions. I propose going to that village to enlist the Portuguese part of my command."

The suggestion took Jack's breath away and filled him with horror.

"What! They'd tear you to pieces," he exclaimed. "It's madness. It's – "

"I shall ride there to-morrow," said Tom, cutting him short. "You can stay behind if you're nervous."

And off they went, with Andrews their only escort. Riding into the village over the heaped-up mound which marked the spot where the peasants had dug a trench to arrest the French troopers, Tom and Jack were greeted most respectfully. None recognized in the handsome staff officer the leader of the troopers, nor in his smart brother officer the young fellow who was with him, and who had barely even now recovered from the wound inflicted. Tom rode direct to the house of the mayor, and dropped from his saddle. And then had followed an exciting incident. When he spoke, the people recognized him. Men rushed to the spot howling threats. Weapons appeared as if by magic, and for a while it looked as if, in spite of their being English, the little party would be cut to pieces. But here again Tom showed his mettle; not once did he betray concern.

"I make no excuses," he said sternly. "What we did was forced on us; but I have come back to bury old scores and to offer a favour to you."

His unconcern alone won him friends at once, while the memory of how he had treated those men who had descended to the courtyard and had been hemmed in there told in his favour. Where a minute earlier men had shrieked at him, they now smiled and lifted their caps – more than that, many were eager to do service. Thus it came about that within three days Tom had as many hundred Cacadores, or Portuguese irregulars, drilling close to the British army, on ground specially allotted to them, while within six weeks he had set off for Oporto for the special purpose of arranging for a similar party of Spaniards.

"It's work that you can look forward to, Jack," he repeated, as they came to the outskirts of Oporto. "I haven't ridden in here for the sole purpose of eating big dinners and dancing with all the fairest girls in Oporto. I'm here on business, your business, the British army's business, and don't you forget it!"

Jack screwed his face up as if he were disgusted.