*CHAPTER I*
*Corporal Wilkes wants to know*
An International Question--Discipline--An Onlooker--Lumsden of the95th--Dogged--A Six Days' Ride--Puzzlement
"What I want to know," said Corporal Wilkes, banging his fist on thetable in front of him--"what I want to know is, what you Dons are doingfor all the coin we've spent on you."
He was seated with a few other stalwarts of the 95th under the easterncolonnade of the Plaza Mayor, in Salamanca; a nondescript group ofSpaniards, stolidly curious, blocked up the footway, and stood loungingagainst the balustrade. Getting no answer to his question, and probablyexpecting none, the corporal jerked his chin-strap under his nose,glared comprehensively around, and continued:
"I asked before, and I ask again, what has become of the ship-loads ofhonest British guineas you Dons have been pocketing for I don't know howlong? Tell me that! What have you got to show for 'em, eh?--that's whatI want to know. Here are we, without a stiver to our name, no pay forweeks, and no chance of seeing any. And look at this: here's a boot foryou; that's what your Spanish mud makes o' good Bermondsey leather; andrain--well, of all the rain I ever see, blest if it ain't the wettest!"
He paused; the knot of Riflemen grunted approval. The Spaniards, who hadby this time become aware that his remarks were aimed directly at them,turned enquiringly to one of their number, who shrugged, and gave themin Spanish the heads of the speaker's argument. Perceiving that he hadmade some impression, the corporal proceeded to follow up his advantage.
"What I want to know is, what 'ave we come here for? They did say as wewere sent for to help you Dons fight the French. That's what they said.Well, the French are all right; but what are you doing? We showed youthe way at Vimeiro; that's a long time ago now--what have you donesince? Where are all the armies and the generals you talked so muchabout? What's become of them? Tell me that! Here we've been inSalamanky a matter of fourteen days, but we ain't seen none of them.There's plenty of you Dons about, sure enough, but you don't look to melike fighting-men. Where are you hiding 'em?--that's what I want toknow."
There was no mistaking the glance of withering contempt with which thespeaker pointed his questions; a movement of resentment was alreadyvisible among his mixed audience. The interpreter, whose dressproclaimed him a seaman from one of the Biscayan ports, was now volublyrendering the gist of the Englishman's taunts, to an accompaniment ofstrange oaths and ominous murmurs from the crowd. Warming with theirsympathy, he became more and more excited, passed from explanation todenunciation, and then, turning suddenly from his compatriots, clenchedhis fist and poured out a torrent of abuse in a lurid mixture of Basqueand Billingsgate. The corporal, recognizing phrases that could onlyhave been picked up at Deptford or Wapping, smiled appreciatively, and,with a wink at his companions, said:
"Ain't it like home? He ought to be a drill-sergeant--eh, boys?"
A shout of laughter greeted this sally. The Spaniard, his complexionchanging from olive to purple, strode forward and shook his fist withinan inch of the corporal's nose. Wilkes, greatly tolerant of foreigneccentricity, preserved an unwinking front; but his bland smile was toomuch for the Spaniard's fast-ebbing self-control. With a snarl of ragehe plucked a knife from his sash and aimed a blow at the Rifleman,which, had it taken effect, would assuredly have put an end to hisinterrogative career. But the corporal's left-hand neighbour, who hadbeen lolling against a post, flung out his arm and arrested the stroke;almost at the same instant Wilkes himself got home a deft right-handerbeneath his assailant's chin that hurled him senseless across the table.In a moment a score of Spaniards with drawn knives were surging aroundthe little group. Being without arms the Riflemen had slipped off theirbelts and closed up to meet the attack. The colonnade now rang withfierce shouts, and from all quarters of the large square there was ahurry-scurry of idlers attracted by the noise of the fray. Cheerfullyconfident, the half-dozen British soldiers, their backs against thewall, kept the throng at arm's-length with the practised swing of theirlong belts. But the odds against them were heavy. It could only be afew moments before the Spaniards must get in with their knives, and thenthe 95th would be six men short on parade. One or two of the Spaniardshad been hard hit; but the rest were drawing together for a rush, whensuddenly, above the din of the melee, rang out the clear authoritativeword of command:
"Attention!"
The habit of discipline was so strong that the British soldiers on theinstant dropped their belts and stood rigid as statues. On theSpaniards the effect of the interruption was equally remarkable.Surprised at the sudden change of attitude, they looked round with astartled air to seek the cause of the Englishmen's strange quiescence.A horseman had reined up opposite the scene of the scuffle--a tallyouthful figure, wearing the headgear of the 95th and a heavy cavalrycloak.
"Stand easy!" he cried to the Riflemen, over the heads of the crowd,"and don't move an eyelash."
With a dozen Spanish knives flashing before their eyes, the command wasa severe test of discipline; but in the British army a hundred years agorigid training had made instant unquestioning obedience an instinct.While the Spaniards were still fingering their weapons, and hesitatingwhether to finish off their work, the officer began to address them inpure Castilian.
"Pardon me, Senores," he said, "for interrupting what I am sure was apastime. I am an English officer, as you see, and I fear that my men,ignorant of your customs and traditions, might have taken seriously whatwas no doubt begun in sport. There is no need for me to say a word,Senores about your valour; is not that known to all the world? and I amsure you would be the last to do anything to endanger the friendlyalliance between your country and mine. The French are your enemies,Senores; they are ours too. We are fighting shoulder to shoulder in anoble cause. Confusion to the invader, say I! Hurrah for theindependence of Spain! Cry Viva la Espana with me!"
Then turning suddenly to the Riflemen, he cried:
"Now, men, give three rousing cheers."
Wilkes and his friends cheered half-heartedly and with an air ofendurance; but the Spaniards were not discriminating, and responded withshrill vivas.
"Thank you, my friends!" said the officer, when the tumult had subsided."And now, as I have a few words to say to my men before I ride off, Iwill bid you good-day."
In a few moments the pacified crowd dispersed in small knots, discussingwith interested curiosity the young officer whose courteous firmness andfluent Spanish had produced so remarkable an effect. When, last of all,the interpreter, having recovered from the blow, had made his way acrossthe square, the horseman called up Corporal Wilkes, who advanced with asomewhat guilty air and saluted.
"Now, Corporal Wilkes, what do you mean by this? Have you forgotten thegeneral's orders about brawling with the Spaniards?"
The corporal shifted his feet uneasily, and began to mumble anexplanation in his slow ponderous way.
"That'll do," said the officer, cutting him short. "You're always in hotwater. Get off to your quarters, and report yourself to me in themorning."
"Very good, sir."
With a look of injured innocence he saluted and slouched off with hiscompanions, while the officer, touching his horse's flanks with thespur, cantered away. At the angle of the colonnade the crestfallenRiflemen were confronted by a tall stately figure in cocked hat and longmilitary cloak, who had for some time been quietly watching the scenefrom an inconspicuous post of observation.
"Who's your officer, my man?"
The Riflemen halted in a line, struck their heels together, and broughttheir hands to the salute like automata.
"Mr. Lumsden, your honour," replied Wilkes, looking as though he wouldhave liked to be elsewhere.
"Oh indeed! Thank you!"
The commander-in-chief acknowledged their salute and turned on his heel.The men stared after him for a few moments in silence; then Wilkesturned to his comrades, and said with a rueful look:
"By g
um! How much of that 'ere rumpus did Johnny see?--that's what I'dlike to know."
Meanwhile Lumsden of the 95th had trotted off, across the great square,past the church of San Martin, towards the University and the Tormesbridge. He was bound for a farmhouse some five miles south-east of thecity, where it had been reported that a considerable quantity of flourcould be purchased for the troops. Since the arrival of his regiment inSalamanca a fortnight before, he had been employed continuously oncommissariat business, and was the object of envy to hisfellow-subalterns, who would gladly have found some special work of thekind to vary the monotony of life.
It was the 28th November in the year 1808. Salamanca was full ofBritish soldiers, who had marched in on the 13th amid a drenchingrain-storm and the cheers of the inhabitants. They comprised sixinfantry brigades and one battery of artillery, among the former beingthe famous 95th Rifles under Colonel Beckwith, in which Jack Lumsden wasa second lieutenant. The main artillery force, with its escort, wasnear the Escurial, a few miles from Madrid, under Sir John Hope, who wasintending to march northwards to join his chief; while Sir David Bairdlay at Astorga, with three batteries, four infantry brigades, and aforce of cavalry under Lord Paget. The infantry had marched from Lisbonunder Sir John Moore, who had succeeded to the chief command of theBritish forces in the Peninsula recently vacated by Sir Hew Dalrymple.At Salamanca Sir John expected to receive news of the approach of aSpanish force under the Marquis of La Romana, to co-operate with him inoffensive movements against the French. The march had been particularlyarduous and uncomfortable; rain had fallen in torrents for the greaterpart of the way, and owing to lack of supplies the men were in a sorrystate as regards clothes and equipment. But they nourished high hopesof soon inflicting a heavy blow on the French invaders; and though thedelay, due to want of definite information about the movements of theSpaniards and the position of the French, was telling somewhat on thespirits of the force, Sir John Moore was so popular with all ranks, andenjoyed their confidence so thoroughly, that discontent had only shownitself in half-humorous protests like that of Corporal Wilkes.
Jack Lumsden rode easily through the darkening streets, passed thesentry at the bridge head, and cantered along the sodden road leading toAlba de Tormes. Three miles out of Salamanca he struck off to the left,and, carefully picking his way among the ruts and depressions, reachedhis destination just as the black darkness of a November evening fell.His errand with the farmer occupied some little time. He then acceptedthe refreshments pressed upon him with true Castilian hospitality; andat length, towards seven o'clock, set off on the return journey.
The moon was rising behind him, throwing a dim misty radiance over thebare fields to right and left. As he reached the cross-roads, andwheeled round into the highway towards Salamanca, he saw, some hundredyards ahead, several dark forms on both sides of the road, creepingalong with stealthy movements in the same direction. Carrying his gazebeyond them, he descried a man leading a horse, who, he instantlyconcluded, was being followed by a gang of foot-pads, or of the brigandswho notoriously infested every part of Spain. Almost involuntarily Jackpricked his horse forward; he saw that the furtive band were rapidlylessening the distance between them and the walking horseman, who everynow and then half-turned to look at them, and then resumed his slowprogress.
The road was so soft, and the men were so intent upon their expectedprey, that they did not hear the sound of Jack's approach until he waswithin a few yards of them. Then a sudden splash in a large puddlecaused them to stop and look round; Jack galloped up, and as he passedthem, ostentatiously held his pistol so that a glint of moonlight fellon the barrel. At the same moment the dismounted rider heard the pad ofhis horse's hoofs; he paused, still holding the bridle, and turnedtowards Jack, who pulled his horse across the road and glanced back atthe brigands. They had now formed a group, and stood in the middle ofthe road. Jack clicked the lock of his pistol. After an instant'shesitation the men turned in a body and vanished into the darkness.
"Many thanks!" said the pedestrian. "I was never more glad to see aBritish officer. Those bandits have been following me up for someminutes. My horse is lame, as you see, and though I've a couple ofpistols handy I'm afraid I'd be no match for eight big fellows withtheir knives. And I've a particular reason for avoiding risks."
"They've had the discretion to sheer off," said Jack, turning againtowards Salamanca. "It's unlucky your horse is lamed. Have you beenriding far, sir?"
"About five hundred miles," was the reply.
Jack stared.
"No wonder your horse is lame--though you didn't ride the whole distanceon the same beast, I suppose."
"No indeed; but I've scarcely been out of the saddle for six days--"
"Six days! Hard riding that, sir."
"True. The fact is, I've most important despatches for Sir John Moore,and haven't wasted a minute more than I could help."
Jack was off his horse in a moment.
"In that case, sir, pray take my horse and finish your ride with equalspeed. If you bring news for the general, no one will be more delightedto see you. It's only about three miles, and the road's straight ahead;I'll follow with your horse."
"That's very good of you. I didn't like the idea of trudging in in thislame fashion. You're sure you don't mind? Those brigands, eh?"
"Not a bit. They won't show their noses again."
By this time the stranger had mounted Jack's horse, and was preparing toride off.
"By the way," he said, "to what address shall I return the horse?--apretty animal, begad!"
"I'm quartered at a worthy alderman's in the Calle de Moros--El RegidorDon Perez Gerrion; my name's Lumsden."
"Lumsden!" repeated the stranger with a start, letting the reins fall onthe horse's neck.
"Yes," said Jack, looking up in surprise. "Why?"
"Oh! Excuse me now. I have my despatches to deliver, and then I willcall on you at the regidor's. I have a communication, probably, to maketo you. Au revoir!"
With a wave of the hand he galloped off, leaving Jack to tramp alongbehind him, in some wonderment as to what communication a despatch-ridercould have to make to a subaltern of the 95th.
Boys of the Light Brigade: A Story of Spain and the Peninsular War Page 4