With Wellington in Spain: A Story of the Peninsula

The three squares advanced steadily against the advancing French. Men fell here and there, but their places were instantly filled. The faces of the squares, presenting in this case but a narrowed angle to the enemy, swirled with fire and flame. Smoke hid the men from all observers, while a thunderous discharge came from their weapons. Then there followed the clink of ramrods. Bullets were driven home on powder and wads, primings were renewed, while flints were drawn back. Then again was repeated the same thunder of muskets, the same red flaming flash, the same vomiting of sulphurous vapour. A minute later the 5th Division came panting up, and at once the enemy were pressed back. Steadily the advance was maintained, and presently the enemy were fleeing.

"Form line!" bellowed Tom, standing in his stirrups and waving his sword, all oblivious of the fact that a musket bullet had shattered the blade, leaving him with but six inches of steel clinging to the hilt. "Line up with the 4th Division. Forward!"

"Forward!" shrieked Jack in his terrible Portuguese.

"Now's the time, me boys!" shouted Andrews, ever encouraging the men.

On went the scarlet lines of British, with the thin blue line of Tom's irregulars wedged in between. Wellington himself came cantering up, for now had come the very crisis of the battle. The 6th Division doubled to the front with cheers of eagerness, while, away on the left of our line, troops until then hardly under fire went to the front.

Slowly at first, and then more swiftly, the enemy's regiments were crumpled up. Marmont had by now been severely wounded, while successive generals had been placed hors de combat. Muddled by counter orders, therefore, and no doubt scared by the dash of our battalions, the enemy retired all along the line, and was soon in retreat, protected by strong rearguards and followed persistently over miles of country by our men.

It would be impossible to detail every single combat which followed. Gallant regiments on the side of the French stood fast, holding their ground while their comrades retired to safety. But as night fell all were in retirement, and here again were the plans of Lord Wellington upset by the very people who should have done their utmost to support him. For Marmont's army of the north was beaten. Capture of the survivors of this day's memorable fight would mean a French disaster, and to bring that about Wellington had long ago sent his Spanish irregulars to guard the fords across the River Tormes. Can we wonder that that at Alba was deserted by the cowardly Spanish as the French came near? And thereby a decisive defeat was lessened. By the next day, in fact, the French were across the river.

But Salamanca was won. The northern frontier of Portugal was freed of the enemy, and now, when we advanced into Spain still farther, we had this to content us – there were none of the enemy in rear to cut our communications or to stampede our rearguards. They were to our front, and no Britisher fears an enemy whom he can see plainly.

But there were still rascals and traitors to be dealt with, as Tom was yet to learn. Not that he gave a thought to them. For on the evening of the battle, receiving an order from a galloping aide-de-camp, he halted his men and set them down for a breather. Then the sound of clattering hoofs came to his ears, and there rode out of the gathering gloom Lord Wellington himself, with a brilliant staff about him. He drew rein within ten feet of the corps, now dishevelled and lessened sadly in numbers, but erect as ever, and dressed with that precision for which they had become notorious.

"What corps?" asked Wellington, though he needed no information.

"Lieutenant Clifford's, sir. Composite corps; half-Portuguese and half-Spanish."

Tom's heart thudded as the general set his horse three paces forward.

"Ah," he heard him say, "I felt sure it was they! Mr. Clifford."

"Sir," answered Tom, lowering the hilt of his broken sword.

"Mr. Barwood and the other officers, commissioned and non-commissioned," cried the general softly, causing all those individuals to come to the front.

"Gentlemen," said Wellington, his tones not raised in the slightest, as if he were discussing a matter of little interest, and yet conveying by a subtle inflection of his voice that it was no ordinary matter, "from the plain below we saw Pack's Portuguese turn tail and bolt. We saw the 4th Division heavily assailed. And then this corps was thrust into the gap. It was a brilliantly-conceived movement, and it helped to save a situation which was critical. The forming of the corps into squares was beyond all criticism. Mr. Clifford, you will be good enough to give my personal commendations to your men, whose bravery is a pattern for all their fellows. Inform them that I hold them in great respect, and that since the respect of a commander is shown through his officers, who have done so well again, those officers' names will be sent to England in my dispatches. March your men back to their camp, please."

Did the men of Tom's corps cheer? They shouted themselves hoarse after our hero had spoken to them. They trudged across the field strewn with killed and wounded with merry songs, and turned into their blankets when all was over as proud as any in Spain or Portugal.

As for Tom, he was too fatigued to even think. Once his wounded were collected and his dead buried, a gruesome job for any commander, he dropped dead asleep in his blanket. He recked not of the work before him. His slumbering mind cared not a jot for the dangers of the task which his commander had given him. If there had been fifty spies to capture, if there had been fifty mysteries hanging about the persons of the rascal José and Tom's two relatives abducted from Oporto, that young fellow would still have slept. For he had fought his first big engagement. He had done strenuous work, and nature called aloud for repose for both body and brain before he took up other responsibilities. Till the morrow, then, we leave him till the rising sun awaked in his thoughts the memory of those urgent orders.

CHAPTER XVII

A Clue at Last

Those 40,000 victorious men of Wellington's great army now had their backs to the Portuguese frontier and were marching gaily on Madrid. Away in front a half-battalion of infantry watched for the French and found no trace of them. The guard in rear had an easy time of it, for attack was not to be feared from that quarter; while the cavalry patrols on either flank reported a country clear of all but peasants. As for the road itself, it was littered with carts of every description, not the motor lorries which to-day have achieved a triumph, making light of the task of hauling the stores and impedimenta of an army, but with mule carts in endless array, and four-wheeled and two-wheeled vehicles with their teams of mules and their gaudily-hatted drivers.

"Of all the aggravating, lazy beggars these are the worst I ever set eyes on," growled Jack Barwood, in command now of Tom's composite corps of Portuguese and Spanish; for that young fellow himself, together with Alfonso his cousin, had departed on special service. And didn't the great Jack give himself airs! Riding at the head of the corps he looked about him as does a conqueror. And these muleteers came in for his displeasure.

"Straggling all over the road as usual. How's one to pass here?" he demanded of Andrews, who was marching beside him, and pointing to a batch of vehicles wedged in a rocky part of the road where a detour was almost impossible.

"Move 'em, sir," came the answer, while the rifleman suppressed a grin of amusement. Jack was a favourite with them all, but he sometimes excited their ridicule. He was different from the steady and yet dashing Tom.

"Move 'em, sir, or interview one of these blackguards conducting the caravan. Look at the beggar nearest; stares at us as if we hadn't a right on the road, when we all know we're here to fight the Spaniards' own battles. Precious fine help they give us too! The only time they're out of the way is when fightin's wanted. Hi, you, you son of a gun, move along with you!"

The individual in question, a beetle-browed young fellow, whose head was closely swathed in a brilliantly-red handkerchief, and who dangled his sombrero from one hand, squatted on the shaft of the nearest waiting cart, puffing a cigarette and staring with insolent eyes at the commander of the irregulars.

"Cheek!" exclaimed Jack. "The beggar looks at us as if we were trespassers. Haul him up, Andrews; we'll give him trespassers."

Jack sought in the back of his mind for all the Spanish he knew and burst into an ungrammatical tirade when the muleteer was brought forward by Andrews.

"Hi, you!" said Jack haughtily; "hook it, double quick! You're keeping the duke's own corps of irregulars. Sheer out with your bothering carts or it'll be the worse for you."

That was the substance of his speech, a speech that brought a supercilious grin from the young man.

"Si, señor," he said, "but there is time; there is always time."

Jack gripped his meaning with difficulty, and then bubbled over with wrath. Had he commanded cavalry he would have been tempted to ride over the insolent fellow and his obstruction. As it was, he felt he could thrash the man with his whip. But such action was out of the question. Jack fumed and raged, while Andrews grinned secretly. As for the Spaniard, he returned to his cart, finished his cigarette, and then gave the order for the group of vehicles to move forward. But as soon as the corps of irregulars had passed he sent a messenger to call its commander.

"Well?" demanded Jack haughtily, riding back, and meeting the man alone and well away from all others. "What fool's errand have you called me for?"

"Gently does it, Jack. Gently! I'll be frightened," laughed the muleteer, in the purest English. "How are things going?"

The young leader of the composite corps nearly dropped from his horse, and then, bending low, stared at this stranger.

"I'm blistered!" he growled. "Am I standing on my head, or – "

"Don't get frightened," came the grinning answer. "It's Tom, right enough. I'm glad we've met, for it proves my disguise to be good. Not one of the men recognized me, and I gave 'em every chance; even Andrews was hoodwinked. How'll I do?"

Jack could still have been levelled flat with the proverbial feather, for his chum had been absent from the camp exactly a week, and Alfonso with him. It had been given out that they had ridden for Oporto, and they had, in fact, taken the road for that place. But some miles from the camp both had stripped off their uniforms and had donned the dress worn by muleteers, of whom thousands were employed with both British and French armies. Then they had been joined by a faithful servant of Alfonso, one who accompanied him on this campaign, who handed over to the two lads half a dozen native carts, together with their teams of mules.

"He'll stable our horses away on Father's estate," explained Alfonso. "We can stow our uniforms in two of the carts, and then, if we want to change back to ourselves at any time, we have the things near us. Now?"

"Back to the camp," said Tom, "There we pick up four of our fellows who were on the sick list till last week. They've been reported as fit only for light duty, and so, at my suggestion, are to be allowed to continue with the army as drivers. They're trusty fellows, and may be relied on not to give us away to friends or enemies. Back we go, Alfonso."

As bold as brass – for the handkerchief swathed round the brows and the wide sombrero hat were disfiguring and an excellent disguise – the two drove their teams into camp, and bivouacked close to Tom's own regiment. And here they were, on the road, obstructing that same corps, and causing the irate and lofty Jack to bubble over.

"Of all the blessed cheek!" he began to gasp, faintly recognizing Tom. "You gave me an awful start. To think of you being alongside us, giving me lip too. That beats everything. But – what's up?" he demanded in a hoarse whisper, leaning over from his saddle. "What's this disguise for? And why march with the British army?"

Tom waved him away. "Look out," he said hurriedly. "Those muleteers are looking this way. Pretend to row me; threaten me with your whip. I'll sneak away in the usual Spanish manner."

Cunning eyes were, indeed, fixed upon them at that moment. A man amongst a batch of drivers passing with his team just then recognized Jack as the leader of irregulars, one with whom, had that young officer been able to guess it, he had already had dealings. But the scene immediately following disarmed all suspicion. Jack raged at the man standing near him. His whip went up over his shoulder, and he slashed out fiercely, cleverly missing his friend. As for Tom, he scowled and muttered loudly, while his hand went to an imaginary stiletto.

"Draw your sword and skewer him if he shows fight," shouted a cavalry officer, also a witness of the scene, galloping up now. "Get back to your cart!" he commanded.

Tom slank away, while Jack explained the insolence of the man, getting advice born of long experience.

"They're the biggest set of thieving, murdering rascals I ever set eyes on," declared the officer, "and would knife one as soon as eat a dinner. I never allow 'em to answer. I'm fair and square and kind when things are right, but if there's disobedience, or treachery, or insolence in the air, I go for 'em red-headed, red-headed me boy, and knock the courage clean out of the rascals. I know; I've been on transport duty in this country in the early days of the campaign, and I've learned that firmness, and violence too, sometimes, are necessary."

There was a grin of amusement on Tom's face as he returned to the carts, while the seemingly sleepy eyes of his fellow muleteers twinkled. Whether our hero and his cousin had embarked upon a fool's chase or not it was impossible to say; but this was certain, occupying a false position as they did, where the piercing of their disguise by comrade or enemy would be equally disastrous to their scheme, they still had everything in their favour. Those men were oysters; not one knew anything. They had taken service with the chief muleteer, he with the bright handkerchief about his head, and that was all. His name? No – that they had not heard. His age? They shrugged their shoulders. What did age matter in a country where time was of no consequence? Then he loved the English? Another shrug. Perhaps; who could say? He had had a fierce altercation with one of their officers that very day.

"A lucky meeting it was, too," declared Tom to his cousin, when they were tucked in their cart that night, secure from eavesdroppers. "Every muleteer with our troops will hear the yarn before to-morrow's finished, and that's just what we want."

"Want?" ejaculated Alfonso, with a lift of the eyebrows.

"Yes, want."

"But – why?"

"Because we've thrashed this matter out, haven't we?"

Alfonso assented, shrugging in his blankets because the habit was too strong for him. "But," he said.

"I'll explain. There are spies about, stealing Wellington's papers and plans."

"Exactly."

"And strangers with the troops are few and far between, and get spotted precious quickly."

"Granted – then?"

"Then the spies are not strangers. They are to be found amongst men accustomed to be with the troops, non-combatants of course; for soldiers don't go in for such dirty business. So one looked round."

"And pitched on the only possible people – muleteers, the scum of the earth," declared Alfonso, with another shrug, which Tom found strangely disconcerting. Who ever heard of a fellow who must needs shrug his shoulders in bed and in the darkness?

"Drop that shrugging," he growled. "Upsets me. Well, there we are. We pitched on muleteers. To watch 'em properly we decided to join them ourselves."

"And here we are – not that I grumble," said Alfonso, beginning another shrug and arresting it as Tom kicked savagely. "But rations might be more plentiful. Still, as you say, here we are; and here we stay, I suppose."

"Till things turn up. I'm going to let it get about that we're discontented beggars. If there's a gang about, we may be invited to join. Who knows, through such a gang we might get hold of that fellow who captured your father and mine?"

"José, eh?" asked his cousin.

"Perhaps."

"In any case the rascal we were after in Oporto, whose spy we captured going to Ciudad Rodrigo. That's the puzzle. We agree that it was he who abducted our parents. But is he also José, and if so, or the reverse, is he associated with the ruffians who have been robbing the dispatch box of his lordship, the leader of this army?"

There the puzzle was laid out in all its bareness and meagreness. There were links missing in the chain of flimsy evidence; but this was certain, both lads had lost a father while José was in the country.

"Heigho! We'll leave the matter and get to roost," sighed Tom, for driving a team of fractious mules is no light task. "Things are going well, that's all. Something'll turn up presently."

He was a cheery, optimistic young fellow, and soon dropped asleep; for worry was of no use to our hero. The following day found him just as cheerfully helping the British army in his new and humbler way to advance to conquest. For Madrid was the goal; those three victories had, in fact, opened up the heart of Andalusia. Ciudad Rodrigo and its capture against strenuous difficulties had shown the French that we were out for business, and the fall of Badajoz had set a laurel about the brows of the British regiments. None doubted now that even when skill did not count, bull-dog courage was one of their cherished possessions. Moreover, Salamanca had cast a shade over the French invaders of the Peninsula. Almarez, and the destruction of those forts, the bridge, and the vast stores of the enemy were but an incident, if one of utmost importance, in this third victory; that week of crafty manœuvring near the road to Ciudad Rodrigo, with its attendant little actions and skirmishes, but a forecast of what was to follow. It was the stand-up fight in the open, when British troops had been exposed to veterans of France, led by noted strategists, when our brave fellows had smashed the power of Marmont – and by manœuvres vieing his in skill – that helped to send the enemy rightabout, their faces set in the direction of France itself. The great king of Spain fled his capital. This Joseph, brother of the Great Napoleon, the "Little Corporal," so fond of placing members of his own family on the thrones of Europe, had departed in haste from Madrid, while Soult marched to join hands with Suchet. There was evidence that the enemy were less assured than formerly. There was a decided inclination for forces to co-operate; for the lesson Salamanca had taught was salutary. The British troops were worthy of a greater respect than had hitherto been accorded.

And so for a while we may leave Wellington and his army, satisfied that the conduct of affairs would be always careful. Our interest turns naturally to Tom, sleeping then beside his cousin.

For three days they continued to march with the troops, and each succeeding one found them better acquainted with their fellow muleteers, and already earning the reputation of being discontented fellows.

"Then you find fault with the work?" asked a bulky, stiff-necked Spaniard, with pock-marked face, who had once before accosted Tom. He it was, in fact, who had so cunningly watched the altercation between our hero and Jack Barwood.

"The work? That is good enough as work goes, friend," Tom answered sulkily; "but had I my way I would be back there at home lolling away my time. Who wants to work, and for these British? And then, think of the pittance we earn."

Tom was romancing with a vengeance, for if anyone liked work it was he. To be idle with him, as with the majority of decent fellows, was to be supremely miserable. As for the pay, a British army has the reputation of being liberal, and Wellington's was no exception.

"Ah!" exclaimed the bull-necked fellow, leering cunningly at Tom, and expectorating to a distance. "The British! I hate them as I hate the French. But as for pay, there are ways of getting rich even when one is only a muleteer."

Tom pricked up his ears instantly. He had taken note of this thick-necked, stumpy fellow before, he with the pock-mark face, a face which even if it had not been marred by disease would still have been the reverse of attractive.

"Getting rich? How?" he asked.

"Ah! That's telling. But there are ways, easy ways, ways unknown to the others."

"And there is good money in it, my friend?"

"Doubloons in plenty, I tell you," came the slow answer, while the man looked about him craftily.

"Come to my wagon," said Tom, at once, anxious to allay any suspicions, and prepared to lead the man on. For here might be something in the nature of a clue. "I have a friend there who also would make money, if it is to be made readily. There is danger?"

"Poof! Who thinks of danger when there is gold?" exclaimed the man loftily, though the flicker about his eyes belied his vaunted courage. "I will come gladly. You have a bottle of wine, perhaps. That would be interesting."

Tom had a bottle of excellent stuff, as a matter of fact, and had obtained it with a view to a possible meeting of this sort. And, after all, the offer of a good glass of wine on a campaign such as that of the Peninsula was often more binding than a greater service. It followed that, within ten minutes, the three, this muleteer, Tom, and his cousin, were as bosom comrades, while before the fellow left he had made a cunning appointment.

"Listen," he said, staring about him. "To-morrow we come to the city of Madrid. There I have friends, and you will meet them. I will give you the time and place of meeting. There you shall learn how money can be earned, and with such a spice of adventure about it that you will be charmed. Look for me to-morrow, then."

"On the track at last," murmured Alfonso breathlessly when the man was gone. "You think he is one of the gang, Tom?"

"Certain. Can't say, of course, that he has had anything to do with Wellington's papers; but I guess that's the case. However, we shall soon know that. Still, this is equally certain: whatever this work may be, and spying has something to do with it, it's the merest toss-up that it can have any connection with our governors. Oporto's a long cry from Madrid; Badajoz ain't much nearer."

Late on the following evening the troops reached the outskirts of Madrid, where Tom and his cousin parked their carts and secured their mules in the mule lines.

"You will look after things while we are gone," said Tom, addressing one of the men with them. "We have information which takes us into the city to-night perhaps. That information might possibly keep us absent from the camp for some days, so do not be alarmed if we do not return. Carry on as if we were still present."

An hour later the rascally-looking muleteer put in an appearance, and promptly cast his eyes upon the bottle of wine nestling in a corner of Tom's cart.

"A fine evening, one on which you will pave the way to a fortune," he leered. "But hot, infamously hot; these August days are always sultry in this country."

Tom poured him out a glass, and watched with feelings of loathing as the fellow gulped down the fluid. He was a scoundrel, of that he was sure, a thick-headed scoundrel to be so easily duped. For here he was about to introduce two comrades, of whom he had but little knowledge, to a group of conspirators perhaps, and in any case to someone able and willing to pay for work not as a rule performed by muleteers. What was that work?

"Spying – dirty work anyway," our hero growled to himself, for the thing was as foreign to his open-air, straightforward character as it could be. "But for the time being, at least, I'm prepared to be as great a spy and conspirator as any."

"You are free to come?" leered the fellow, looking askance again at the bottle. Tom took the hint and refilled the glass.

"Yes," he said coarsely, handing the wine over.

"To the city?"

"Anywhere where gold is promised."

"And the danger?"

"Pooh! Are we not under fire often?"

"Then come."

"But where? The city is a big place."

"It is; but there are cribs where a man may hide. There we shall find our chief. Young like you, yes, young; but cunning, clever as they make them; keen, yes, sharp as any needle. Where? Ah, that wants telling! You wish for fortune. Then wait for it till the time comes. I am here as a benefactor."