* * *
Griffin awoke with a start to find Samson nickering in his ear. Griff reached out to caress the gelding’s soft muzzle.
The camp was beginning to stir, and Samson wanted his morning treat. Griff tugged off his leather cavalry gloves, then reached into his pocket and brought out a small square tin. He opened the square and removed a lump of sugar candy for Samson.
“She didn’t forget you, boy,” Griff glanced over at the miniature of Alyssa in the watch lying atop the writing desk where he’d placed it earlier in the evening.
Samson nickered a bit louder, and Griffin fed him the candy.
Alyssa had been making and sending the sweets since he’d arrived in Spain. She had read somewhere that soldiers in battle required frequent doses of sugar, and she’d made certain that Griffin kept an ample supply.
Since Griffin preferred his sugar in the distilled liquid form, he had taken to sharing the candy with Samson.
After feeding Samson his sugar lump and a handful of grain from the supply in his kit, Griffin loosened Samson’s girth and began to clean beneath the saddle and the blanket.
Eastman appeared with a bucket of fresh water from the well and a washbasin. Griffin removed Samson’s bridle to feed and water him, then cleaned the bit and checked the leather for cracks and wear before he replaced the bridle and tightened Samson’s girth.
Once his horse’s needs had been met, Griff washed his own face, cleaned his teeth, and shaved. He buttoned his collar, straightened his uniform jacket, then took Samson by the reins and led him down the street to the house where Colonel Jeffcoat was billeted. Other officers of the Eleventh Blues milled about, having turned out for the regimental briefing and morning assignments.
Hughey was there waiting.
“You’re up early,” Griffin teased.
“I had an important errand to run.” Hughey smiled. “I delivered a potted lemon tree and a lace mantilla to the dispatch rider before daylight. I hope she likes it.”
“She’ll love it,” Griff said. “You know she married me for my garden.”
Hughey laughed, and Griffin clapped him on the back.
“It’s true,” Griff assured him as he led the way into the colonel’s quarters.
Ten minutes later, General Crawford’s Light Division, including the Eleventh Blues under command of Colonel Raleigh Jeffcoat, set out for the ridge above the village to join Picton’s Third Division, Spencer’s First Division, and Houstun’s Seventh Division.
The French, under command of General Junot, sent ten battalions against Colonel Williams and the twenty-two hundred men garrisoned in the village.
The fighting was desperate and nasty, with skirmishes lasting throughout the day.
The French took the town in the second assault on Colonel Williams’ troops and Lord Wellington began amassing three regiments to retake it.
The Eleventh Blues never made it to the ridge. They were called back to join Wellington in the afternoon hours.
Griffin led the Eleventh Blues’ second cavalry charge, following Colonel Jeffcoat’s first assault. Lieutenant Hughes, who normally rode at Griffin’s side, was assigned to lead the third charge.
“Don’t worry, sir,” Hughey called as Griffin readied himself to lead his charge. “I’ll watch your back.”
Griffin saluted. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll see you in the village.”
Hughey snapped a salute. “I’m right behind you.”
Griffin watched as Colonel Jeffcoat led his men into the battle, then urged Samson forward.
“Remember what I told you. Lieutenant,” Griffin called over his shoulder.
“I’ll remember, sir,” Hughey answered. “You remember what I told you. You’ve Saint George, Lady A’s prayers, and Nolan Hughes watching over you.”
“I couldn’t ask for anything better.” Griffin turned to his bugler. “Sound the charge.”
The bugler followed his order. He sounded the charge, and Griffin led his men into the thick of the French line, cutting and slashing his way through the French defense, rallying his men into the breach of the village wall, urging them forward.
Spotting a gap in the French line defending the wall, Griffin led his men through it. Musket balls whizzed past his head as Samson jumped the wall, but Griffin and Samson made it through alive and unharmed.
Dismounting quickly, Griff sent Samson toward the safety of the rear of the line where Colonel Jeffcoat and his men were dispatching the French with deadly efficiency.
Griffin and his men began clearing the French from the wall, making room for Hughey and the men following his lead.
Hughey. Griff felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He kicked the corpse of a French grenadier off the point of his sword and looked up over the wall in time to see Hughey unhorsed.
“No!” Griff shouted.
He watched as Hughey rolled to his feet and began running to retrieve the regimental colors from the fallen color-bearer.
Griffin reacted without thinking. Grabbing the reins of the closest horse, Griff mounted and rode back through the breach onto the battlefield.
The field began exploding beneath his horse’s hooves as a group of French gunners regrouped and began lobbing shells at the mounted cavalry. The rear cavalry scattered as the shells ripped through the ranks, but Griffin rode on through it all.
A cheer went up through the ranks as Griffin slashed his way through the French infantrymen who were struggling to close the ranks around the cavalry. He barely felt the saber slash across his thigh or the balls that struck him—one through the flesh beneath his right arm and the other that fractured his collarbone.
Another cheer went through the English ranks as Griffin surged through the French surrounding Hughey as Hughey rescued the fallen regimental colors.
Hughey grabbed for the reins of a loose horse but missed. The horse galloped past into the lines of the fourth advancing charge of English cavalry.
“Hughey!” Griffin leaned down and held out his hand. “Grab hold!”
“You saved me, sir!” Hughey grinned as he grabbed hold of Griffin’s hand.
It was the last thing he ever did.
Chapter Twenty-eight
“I have become a national hero for rallying the men on the field at Fuentes de Oñoro in time to turn the tide of battle. The irony is that I’m not a hero at all. I was only trying to save my friend, and in the end, he saved me.”
—Griffin, Lord Abernathy, journal entry, 02 July 1811
Barely a Bride Page 48