With Wellington in Spain: A Story of the Peninsula

The naval lieutenant sat back once more in his corner, his eyes fixed upon the flaming torch. Tom looked over at the sentry, standing alert and without a movement just behind the carcass of the horse. And straightway he wondered whether he would live to take part in such a retreat as that of Sir John Moore, and whether, should he be involved in such an affair, he would conduct himself as became a British officer. Then Mr. Riley's voice once more broke the silence.

"We have heard of the opening events of this Peninsula War," he said. "Napoleon's invasion of Spain, and his placing of his brother Joseph on the throne without the wish or consent of the people, had resulted in some passages of arms between the French and English which must have opened the eyes of Bonaparte. But it did not deter him. Following the embarkation of Sir John Moore's army, he ordered the invasion of Portugal again, and in a little while Soult, a famous French marshal, held that country right down to the River Douro.

"Once more I will sketch the events which followed. Wellesley, again in chief command, marched against the enemy, forced the passage of the Douro, in itself a most brilliant undertaking, and drove the French back into Spain. Following Marshal Soult, Wellesley crossed the frontier in June, 1809, with but 20,000 British troops, though he had some 57,000 Spanish and Portuguese soldiers to aid him, the great majority being merely irregulars. These latter were under various commanders, of whom I can call to memory at the moment Cuesta, the Spanish commander-in-chief, a useless person; Romana, Blake, and Beresford.

"At this moment the French were disposed as follows: Victor, with some 20,000 men, was on the Tagus. Sebastiani was in La Mancha with a force not quite so strong. Thousands were collected about Madrid, in Galicia, Léon, and Old Castille also, while there was a division of cavalry and 40,000 infantry stationed in Aragon and Catalonia. Their very numbers give you an idea of the almost impossible task imposed upon our forces. Wellesley, in fact, having entered Spain and approached Talavera, found himself opposed to Marshal Victor, who had King Joseph in rear, with Marshal Sebastiani's corps to aid him.

"We now arrive at the first battle of importance in the Peninsula campaign. Talavera is a name which will be borne upon the colours of many a regiment with lasting honour, for the fight was a fierce and desperate one, and our victory was won only after great losses. The battle itself was preceded by two engagements at least of some importance, in one of which 10,000 Spanish troops distinguished themselves by fleeing before they had come to grips with the enemy.

"Following Talavera, the smallness of our numbers and the utter failure of the Spanish Junta to help with supplies and material caused Sir Arthur Wellesley to retire over the Tagus into Portugal once more, where he went into winter quarters. But the movement had the consequences one would have anticipated. The French determined upon another invasion of Portugal, when they hoped to drive the British from the country, and in 1810 they came in three columns, under the supreme command of Marshal Massena, with Junot, Ney, and Regnier as column commanders. Lord Wellington – for he had now been granted that title as a reward for his conspicuous services – retired in good order to the heights of Busaco, where a terrific conflict followed, the British troops successfully resisting the onslaught of the French columns. Then, finding his flank turned, Wellington retired to the lines of Torres Vedras, lines which he had been secretly fortifying, where he might, should the French come down upon him in overwhelming numbers, mass his men and still hold on to a portion of Portugal. There, in fact, he remained defying the enemy and covering Lisbon effectually.

"Thus ended the year 1810, an eventful year in the history of this Peninsula War, for it saw at its termination a thin line of British red opposed to masses of French troops who now held, not Spain alone, but even Portugal, right down to the heights of Torres Vedras, behind which Wellington and his men remained defiant, clinging to that promontory on which is situated Lisbon. In fact they were clinging tenaciously to the country, their fortunes seemingly rather worse than they had been, though a huge advantage had been gained, inasmuch as Napoleon and his hosts had learned that a few British troops skilfully handled were easily a match for them. Nor was it likely that we would give up the conflict. The year 1811, the year in which we now are, began brilliantly. You may say that you are in the midst of renewed exertions on the part of that brilliant general who leads us; while before us there is an immense work to be done. Lads, we have to regain Portugal before we think of ousting the French from Spain, which will be a gigantic undertaking, with fighting in abundance."

Jack and Tom pricked up their ears at the news. Indeed we may say that the former had till now been filled with that vague fear which comes to the heart of many and many a soldier who is sent to join his regiment at war. He wonders whether his own arrival will coincide with the defeat of the enemy, whether he will arrive too late to take part in the stirring events to which he had looked forward.

"Then there'll be a chance," blurted out Jack, sitting up, and giving a sharp cry of pain, for in his eagerness he had forgotten his wound.

"For you to teach Tom, and help him to become a general! Yes," laughed the naval officer, "heaps!"

"And you think, sir, that I shall be able to get a commission?" asked our hero, with some amount of misgiving.

"I believe that if you manage to bring us out of this hole, and still evade a French prison, you will be offered one promptly," came the gratifying reply. "But let me complete my task. We enter upon this year of grace 1811. Let us look towards Badajoz, on the River Guadiana, south of the Tagus. Soult advanced in this direction to open up communications with Massena, who was massed with his regiments on the Tagus. Wellington also advanced, and, leaving the strong, fortified lines of Torres Vedras, crossed the Guadiana, leaving Beresford with some 7000 British troops, and a large number of Portuguese, to invest Badajoz. Crossing the Tagus, Wellington now marched north towards Ciudad Rodrigo, whence Massena had taken his troops, and established himself between the Rivers Agueda and Coa, and within striking distance of Almeida, where was a force of the enemy. Massena advanced against him, and our troops at once took position on the heights of Fuentes d'Onoro, where a terrific battle was fought, resulting in a victory for us. The French abandoned Almeida, while Massena was recalled.

"Now we turn south again to Badajoz, for the French had retired to Salamanca, that is, the troops lately engaged with Wellington. Soult had been reinforced, and was well on his way to relieve the place invested by Beresford, and, as a consequence, the latter was forced to raise the siege, and though he could have retired he preferred to choose a ground for fighting and give battle. He took post at Albuera, knowing that Wellington was hastening to his help, his troops consisting of those 7000 British, and of Spaniards and Portuguese, the former commanded by Blake, whose arrogance and jealousy hindered the commander not a little. It disgusts one to have to record that many of these allies proved worse than useless when in face of the enemy, and that but for the sturdy backbone of British the battle would have been lost. It was, I am told, a most confused affair, made glorious by the tenacity and bull-dog courage of our men in face of terrible odds, and with the knowledge that those who should have aided them, and been in the forefront, were often skulking in the rear. The losses on both sides were huge, but the battle ended in Soult retiring, while Beresford gathered together his almost shattered forces as best he could, Blake, who should have helped, even refusing him bearers for his wounded. Thereafter the siege of Badajoz was once more entered upon, while one must mention a brilliant little land cutting-out expedition, where, at Arroyo de Molinos, General Roland Hill broke up a force of the enemy under Girard, capturing men, guns, and baggage.

"Barossa, too, is worthy of more than passing mention, for the battle was hardly fought by our men. You must understand that troops had been dispatched to Cadiz, where the Spaniards grudgingly gave them entry, and these sailed later on for Algeciras, where they effected a landing. Then, with some 12,000 Spaniards, under La Pena, 4000 of our men marched against Marshal Victor's forces. Here again we have the same tale of Spanish treachery, jealousy, and cowardice. That movement ended in the British troops being left almost entirely alone to withstand the onslaught of the French legions. Yet, in spite of that, Barossa, where our troops were, saw Victor's ranks shattered, and added one more to the many victories gained by our gallant fellows in the Peninsula.

"And now I come to the end of my tale. Owing to the junction of the enemy under Soult, and those divisions in the north, Wellington abandoned the siege of Badajoz, and advanced to the Tagus. Thence he crossed in the direction of Ciudad Rodrigo, and once more took up a position between the Coa and the Agueda, discovering the countryside utterly swept by the French. The latest dispatches from the Peninsula have told of burned villages, of ruined homesteads, of starving and infuriated peasants. Detached parties of horse have ridden through the country, sweeping it clean as the French retired, and no doubt these fine fellows with whom we occupy this church have formed one of those parties. Bear in mind that they have merely obeyed orders. Because their countrymen have dealt severely with the Portuguese they may not have done so; and, in any case, recollect that war is a cruel game, and brings greater misery, perhaps, on non-combatants than upon those whose profession it is to fight. There! Out with the torch. Let's go to sleep. Who knows? to-morrow will make a second Wellington of our friend Tom, or will see us – er – "

Jack put on a nervous grin. Tom's handsome face assumed a stern expression. He felt that it was not the time for joking, and, what was more, he felt that failure here would be a disgrace after the many brilliant battles of which Mr. Riley had been telling.

"We'll pull out in the end, sir," he said with assurance. "What we've done already shall be done again. To-morrow – or is it to-day, for it is past midnight? – shall see these Portuguese fellows scuttling."

The day, when it came, might bring about such a happy result. But then it might not. On the face of it, matters were desperate, for here were a mere handful opposed to crowds – crowds, too, incensed and filled with a dull and defiant hatred, which made success on their part a certain death warrant for the defenders of the village church.

CHAPTER VIII

Tom changes Quarters

Heavy drops of thunder rain, pattering upon the roof above and upon the stone flags that surrounded the front of the church, awakened Tom Clifford at early dawn on the morning after he had led the French troopers to their defensive post. Not that the rumbling thunder outside nor the patter of the raindrops awakened him to a sense of his position. For our hero had been sunk in a deep sleep, which nothing had disturbed up till this moment. Now, however, the disturbance gave rise in his half-slumbering brain to a train of thought which was half-delicious, half the reverse. For Tom was back again in his home, beneath the shadow of that grand mulberry tree, with Father Thames flowing past the forecourt silently, swiftly, incessantly, as if ever engaged upon a purpose. Yes, he was beneath the hospitable and safe roof of Septimus John Clifford & Son, Wine Merchants, with Marguerite as his chum and close attendant, with the ever-faithful Huggins, his father's senior clerk, to smile indulgently upon him, and Septimus John Clifford himself to praise his efforts to acquire Portuguese and Spanish and French.

"Heigho!" he yawned loudly, stretching his arms wide apart. "Beastly stuff this Portuguese and French and Spanish," he babbled, still half-asleep. "Let's go out on the river, Marguerite."

Then a shadow crossed the horizon of this pleasant half-waking dream. A youth slipped into the arena at the far corner, a youth of olive complexion, whose thin limbs writhed and twisted incongruously, whose fingers twitched and plucked at moving lips, and whose very appearance bespoke indecision, a wavering courage, meanness, and all that that implies. It was José, Tom's cousin, and his image drew a growl from our hero.

"Always interfering and getting in the way," he grunted peevishly. "I have to watch him like a cat for fear he will illtreat his sister. Was there ever such a fellow?"

The train of pleasant thought was switched off at once, and Tom dreamed the scenes through which he had passed. His seizure by those rascals, his impressment, and what had followed. Then a second figure thrust itself into the arena, and swept across his sluggish brain. It was that of a short man, of middle age, prone to stoutness; clean shaven, with features which attracted because of the obvious power they displayed, features set off by a pair of wonderfully steady and penetrating eyes that spoke of firmness of purpose, of ambition soaring to the heights, and – yes – of a relentless spirit which strove at the attainment of any and every object at whatever cost. It was Napoleon, Napoleon Bonaparte, the one-time Corporal, the Little Corsican, he who had attained to the throne of France, and now, spurred on by a restless ambition, sought to see himself emperor of all countries, ruler of Spain through his brother, now known as King Joseph, King of Portugal, and even the Lord of England. A crashing detonation brought Tom to his feet with a start, wide-eyed, and very much awake.

"What's that?" he demanded, scarcely able to believe even now that he had been dreaming. Still, the presence of the trooper standing sentry at the door, and his obvious freedom from anxiety, reassured him. Ah, there was another detonation, and then a long-drawn-out rumble!

"A summer storm, monsieur," said the trooper. "It will be a fine day yet, and the storm will clear the air. It gets light rapidly, and in a little while we shall be able to see the pigs who have attacked us."

But Tom was thinking of something else beside the Portuguese peasants who sought to kill the little band of troopers, together with himself and his English companions. His thoughts suddenly turned to the urgent need of supplies. Water was wanted; it was running to waste outside.

"Andrews!" he shouted, and at the order the stalwart rifleman stumbled forward, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Howeley being close behind him. In the dim light of the coming day they drew themselves erect as if by force of habit, and saluted, Howeley taking time by his comrade.

"Sir!" they answered in one voice.

"We want water. Hunt round to find some roof gutter and a tub, if there is such a thing. Get us a store somehow; it means life or death to us. I'll see to other matters."

He saw the two set off at once, and then clambered up the steep flight of stone steps that led to the ledge above the broken door of the church. Standing upright there, he looked out towards the village, and found that he could already see the nearer houses. But a mist was rising, which, together with the heavy rain that was falling, made seeing rather difficult. Then, turning sharply to the left, he entered the room which the trooper had reported on the previous evening. The man lay at the entrance, with a comrade beside him, both sunk in deep sleep. But at Tom's coming they rose swiftly.

"It was too dark to explore last night," said one of them, "but monsieur can see now that this is not only a church. There is a large building attached to it, perhaps the house occupied by the pastor. But it is empty, I think, for we have heard no sounds from it."

"Then we will investigate," answered Tom. "Stay here, one of you, while you," and he indicated the man who had spoken, "bring your carbine and come with me. It is already light enough to see where we are going."

Crossing the floor of the room, Tom found it lumbered with masses of stone and with builders' tools. It was clear, in fact, that some sort of work was in progress. There was an arched doorway at the far end that gave admission to a hall, or meeting place, from which steps led to rooms above, all scantily furnished.

"The pastor's house without a doubt," said Tom. "Next thing is to see what's underneath. A larder crammed with food would be more to my liking than any amount of furniture. Here's the stairway. It's dark; mind how we go."

Very carefully and silently they descended the stairs, and soon found themselves in a flagged passage. Doors opened upon it, and, pushing them wide in turn, Tom discovered living-rooms fully furnished, though the articles within were covered with sheets.

"A regular spring cleaning," he said to the trooper, with a grin that set the Gallic warrior smiling widely. "It's clear that the pastor has gone away while workmen have possession of the house. But – my uncle! – that's a larder, and here's the kitchen."

No one but those who have experienced it know the delight a soldier on service finds in the discovery of dainties. Rations are apt to pall after a while, and men long for the trifles which are commonly to be found upon the tables of those who lead a more peaceful existence. And here was a find. The careful housewife of the pastor, his housekeeper, or whoever saw to his material wants, had set by a store at the sight of which Tom's mouth watered.

"My uncle!" he exclaimed again, running his eye along a row of preserves neatly bottled, and surveying a dozen hams hanging to hooks in a ceiling beam. "But – " and at the word his jovial face fell and lengthened till it was like a fiddle. "But they ain't ours to take – eh?"

The trooper grinned widely. He was an old soldier, and though he may have had his scruples, a limited diet for the past few weeks, and a gnawing at his stomach now, swept all scruples aside.

"Monsieur then prefers to starve with plenty beneath his nose?" he asked politely, drawing himself up and shouldering his carbine, so that the muzzle struck the low ceiling violently. "Parbleu! There is reason why we should eat these good things, monsieur. But for the pigs who hem us in, and for their hatred of us, we could step outside and buy what is required. That is so, monsieur?"

"Exactly," came the crisp answer, while Tom still surveyed the good things hungrily.

"But we cannot set out for the market. These pigs send bullets at us instead of food. That being so, vraiment, monsieur, surely here comes in a law of nature. To live one must eat. Here, then, is the wherewithal to obey that law."

The rascal grounded his weapon with a resonant bang, and put his nose within an inch of one of the hams.

"Ready cooked – meant to be eaten," he gasped. "Monsieur will – "

Tom's courage and scruples broke down under such subtle temptation. Besides, here it was a case of necessity. He took the ham from its hook, caught up a bag of dried biscuit, and then gave an inquisitive kick to a huge barrel, getting back a dull, telling sound.

"Full to the bung, monsieur– the wine of the country. Something with which to slake our thirst, and so enable us to defeat the enemy."

"Send for two of the troopers at once," said Tom. "Let them remove the contents of the larder to the room above. But, wait. Let us complete our investigations."

When they had at length been over the whole of the premises they had come to the conclusion that the house had at one time been a clergy house, and had harboured many people; for at the far end of the passage they found a door admitting to still more rooms, and then to an enormous yard, about which was a high wall. A pair of huge doors led from this beneath an archway, supporting a portion of what proved to be stables, in which were a couple of nags, while the eager trooper discovered stores of hay and corn in a loft adjoining.

"And a water trough and pump in the yard," cried Tom, delighted at such a find. "There you are, water in plenty," he added, working the pump and sending a gushing torrent pouring from the ancient spout.

The discovery they had made was, indeed, of the greatest moment; but it brought this in its train: it compelled the leader of the defenders to make up his mind whether to vacate quarters which had, so far, proved an excellent refuge, or whether to hold to them, trusting to procure provisions and water from the clergy house so closely adjacent. It was characteristic of Tom, perhaps, that before the trooper had time to ask the question, he had come to a decision.

"Listen," he said peremptorily. "The windows of this place all face into the yard. You saw no others?"

"None: it is as monsieur describes."

"And the wall outside the place, surrounding the yard, is so high that a man must use a ladder to ascend and descend."

"Vraiment, monsieur; otherwise he would be crushed as if he were an egg."

"Then we change quarters. Leave the ham and come along. Wait, though – get the key of the doors leading into the yard. See if you can open them."

The trooper dashed away, and in a trice came back, widely grinning.

"They were in the lock, monsieur," he reported. "All, in fact, was in readiness for us. It is clear that the Portuguese expected our coming, and prepared us a welcome!"

"Stand by the doors: open when you hear our men coming."

Tom went off at his fastest pace, and was soon scrambling down on to the floor of the church. A glance outside told him that rain was still falling, while an occasional clap of thunder warned him that the storm was still at hand. But there were figures over by the village; half a dozen men stood in a bunch, and the light was now so strong that one could see that they were armed.

"Fall in," shouted Tom; and at once the men came tumbling forward, and lined up in front of him. Very rapidly, then, Tom told off half their number to fetch the horses. The others he again divided, posting three men above the doorway, four behind the carcass of the horse, while the rest were told off to carry Mr. Riley and Jack. Very rapidly he explained in French what he was about to do.

"When we have the horses ready," he said, "pull this carcass aside, and then let those in charge lead the beasts down the steps and direct to the left. Turn sharp to the left again at the end of a wall and you will come to a doorway; lead them in there. Now, hasten. Those fellows beyond there are merely waiting for the rain to cease. We shall be in clover, and eating a substantial breakfast, my lads – yes, for I have discovered a store of provisions – before the enemy guess what is happening."

Soldiers are not the class of individuals to be upset by surprise. A constantly changing life such as a campaign brings accustoms them to quick and unexpected changes. Moreover, here they had confidence in the young Englishman who had so suddenly taken command of the party. There was, therefore, not so much as a question. In less than five minutes all were ready, while Mr. Riley was by then halfway up the steep flight of steps leading to the house. Andrews stood beside the carcass of the horse, the perspiration streaming from him; for he had raced round the church and inspected every corner.

"Ready, sir?" he asked.

Tom nodded.

"Then heave," called Andrews, tugging at one of the legs of the dead animal. The troopers threw themselves upon the carcass at once, and in a trice it had been dragged aside.

"Now out with them 'ere horses," commanded Andrews hoarsely. "Beg pardon, sir, but I don't know what you're up to. This is certain though: there's not a drop of water in the church."

"There's heaps where we're going," answered Tom laconically. "Heaps."

"And grub, beggin' pardon again, sir?"

"Could you eat ham, well-cooked ham, Andrews?" asked Tom, without a smile.

"Ham! Bust me – !" began the rifleman.

"And preserves. Perhaps the wine of Portugal wouldn't be good enough for you, though. There's at least one barrel of it where we're going."

Andrews' eyes shone with expectation. He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. "Food and drink, sir," he gasped, as if the news were too good. "Plenty of it, too. Why – bust me! – "