'They'll have found something better than this out on the right,' he said. But his tentative optimism was received with a chilling silence. Even men stupid with fatigue and hunger had more sense than to imagine that an enemy who had so carefully fortified this end would leave the other end unguarded. That, of course, was an eminently correct deduction. This outer line (there were inner ones too) extended for twenty- two miles across the base of the triangle enclosed between the sea and the Tagus, so that in the top of the triangle, in Lisbon and the surrounding country, the British army and the Portuguese population could find secure shelter while the enemy starved outside. British ingenuity and Portuguese hard work could make a position impregnable even in the days before barbed wire and machine guns.
The captain summoned his four sergeants and issued his orders. 'Sergeant Bossin's section will do picket duty to-night. I will attend to the posting of the sentries myself. The other sections may bivouac and cook.' The captain tried to meet the eyes of his sergeants when he said this, but his gaze wavered. It was hard to say those words and face the reproach in the faces of the others. There was a chill wind blowing, and a thin rain was beginning to fall.
'Do we bivouac where we are, sir?' asked Godron.
'Yes. Those are the orders.'
The captain knew that it was a bad disciplinary move to blame the hardship the men had to suffer upon higher authority, but he had to excuse himself. Back went the sergeants to where the exhausted men lay upon the bleak hillside. So weary were they that the news that there was to be no issue of rations was received without a complaint. The men had ceased, in fact, to expect a ration issue, and, marching as they had been in contact with the enemy, they had had no chance to plunder food.
Wearily they made their preparations for the night. Half a dozen volunteers-the ones whose feet were least damaged -began to crawl about the hill cutting bbushes for fuel.
Fournier and Lebrun, who boasted the possession of a blanket which they carried turn and turn about, began to erect it like a tiny tent. Soon half a dozen wretched little fires were alight, giving much smoke and very little heat. Only round one fire was there any bustle of expectation. Here a pot was actually being hung over the flames, and one man was preparing the meat for the evening meal for himself and his intimate friends. It was a little white dog he had seen at the beginning of that day's march, and had instantly shot. For the rest of the day he had carried it slung by the paws from his belt and now, in quite a matter-of-fact way, he proceeded to skin it and disembowel it and joint it, throwing the meat piece by piece into the pot. Other men looked on hungrily, but it was only a little dog, and they could not expect a share.
Someone carried a platter of the stew to the captain in his solitary bivouac, but although he looked at it with longing, and sniffed at its heavenly savour, he refused it sadly, and turned again to gnawing at his flinty bread. He could not eat meat unless all his men had at least a taste of it.
Darkness fell, and the fires began to die away. The wretched men huddled their cloaks closer about their ragged bodies, and tried to burrow into the earth in an effort to shelter themselves from the penetrating cold. They were only boys, these men of the Eighth Corps, new recruits bundled together into hastily formed battalions and sent out on the long and dreary road to Portugal, untrained, unseasoned, ill-equipped. The man who sent them was at that time progressing about his provinces displaying to a dazzled people the marvellous new wife he had won by right of conquest-a real Hapsburg princess, daughter of fifty emperors.
The wind blew colder with the falling of the night. The men muttered and groaned as they turned backwards and forwards seeking some sort of warmth or comfort. Yet their rest was not broken when the sentries challenged, for that was a cry to which they were accustomed. For the captain went the rounds three times that night, to see that the sentries were alert and at their posts. Vigilance was necessary, for Portuguese had been known to creep into the ranks of sleeping men and cut half a dozen throats before crawling away again undetected.
Chapter IX
EVEN the young soldiers of the Eighth Corps could look at a river and guess by the direction of its flow whether they were in advance or retreat. 'What's this, sergeant?' asked young Bernhard. 'Are we going home?' For the regiment was at the head of a long column marching up the high road along the Tagus bank away from the Lines.
'Perhaps God knows, but I don't,' said Godinot.
'Perhaps we're going to find Godinot's uncle,' said Fournier.
'Let us hope so,' said Godinot. He himself could not hope so; he could not imagine that they were about to pass the bridgeless Tagus and join with the distant Army of the South.
'No,' said Fournier, 'Bernhard is right. We're going home. Back to decent billets. And all of us are to be given a new pair of shoes and let us hope Godron will get another pair of breeches before the Spanish ladies lay eyes on him and swoon in ecstasy.'
There was a laugh at that. The boys could actually laugh, now that a definite move had been made and they were marching in a new direction. They passed a dead horse at the side of the road.
'The dragoons are in front of us, then,' said Godinot, looking at the thing, which was just beginning to swell with corruption.
'Why should it be one of ours?' asked Godron. There was no fraction of its equipment left on it.
'By the brand on its flank, son,' replied Godinot. 'When are you going to learn your trade?'
'But if it's one of ours,' said Bernhard thoughtfully, 'and the dragoons are in front, it looks like a retreat, doesn't it?'
'Maybe,' said Godinot, and then he hardened his heart, for he did not want these boys' hopes raised too high. 'But they'd be sent back out of the way whatever we were going to do-attack the lines or stand still. I expect we're only sent this way to act as flank guard to look after the river.'
That cast them down: the prospect of lingering further in Portugal was abhorrent to them. There was no further conversation until another incident occurred to stimulate it afresh.
A staff officer came clattering up the paved road along the column to where the colonel rode at the head.
'Orders,' said Bernhard sagely. 'And orders always mean trouble.' He was right. Somewhere farther back the road had diverged from the river in order to cross at a more convenient point a double-headed spur of hills which ran at right angles down to the river. Up into the mass of tangled country lying between road and river diverged a narrow, stony lane.
Here the battalion halted for a moment, and the rumour- as always, no one knew who was responsible for it- ran down the ranks that billets lay at the end of the lane. But the colonel clearly did not expect a hospitable reception at the billets, seeing that he pushed the battalion up the lane in advance-guard formation.
'This looks like the end of our retreat,' said Godron.
'But billets to-night, boys,' said Fournier. 'And soup for supper. At that very moment a shot rang out at the head of the column, followed by half a dozen more. The column halted, went on, halted again, while the firing increased and died away and revived. Godinot's friends at the rear of the column did not bother to crane their necks to see what was happening in front. This sort of skirmish occurred two or three times a day to a column marching in Portugal. Then the captain came back down the column, his drummer behind him. He scaled the steep side of the lane and stood looking up the hills for a space before he turned and beckoned to his waiting company. They climbed the bank with stoical nonchalance.
'Chase those fellows over into the river,' said the captain.
Everyone knew what he had to do. The company spread out in a long thin line and pushed slowly up the steep hill. Right at the summit occasional shots and puffs of smoke indicated where the advance guard was in action. For some distance they met with no opposition, but half-way up the hill a puff of smoke jetted out from behind a rock and a bullet crackled overhead.
The man who fired it sprang up and dashed ahead of them up the hill. The line of skirmishers bulged for
a minute as some of the hotheads made as though to run after him, and then settled down again to a steady advance. Higher up there were more men in ambush, more shots fired. Someone in the skirmishing line fell with a crash and a clatter. Here and there men fired back.
'Wait until you are sure,' shouted Godinot to his section. Some of them looked round at him and grinned. In the friendly relations which existed between non-commissioned officers and men in the French army they had often had arguments with him regarding marksmanship. They were nearing the top of the hill. Whoever was opposing them there would find his retreat cut off if he was not careful.
'There's an Englishman there!' suddenly shouted Fournier.
'A green Englishman!'
They all caught sight of him; he was calling and gesticulating to the men gathered at the summit. Everyone recognized his uniform, and, further, everyone realized the purport of his gesticulations. The captain, waving his sword, rushed to the front and called to his men to follow him in a final dash, but the green-coated soldier had timed his stand to a nicety. He and his band turned and ran helter-skelter along the summit, neatly avoiding being driven down into the river.
Without orders, the French inclined to their right and ran to head them off, while the advance guard with whom the Portuguese had originally been engaged followed in hot pursuit. One of the Portuguese missed his footing and fell rolling down the slope, and before he could regain his feet Godinot's bayonet was through him. Fournier at Godinot's side, wild with excitement, stabbed him too, and the man died writhing with rage and pain.
The skirmish lost all trace of order up here on the wild mountain top. When a skirmishing line begins to run in broken country and with frequent changes of direction it soon ceases to be a line. The two French companies broke into little groups ranging hither and thither over the hillside, while the sky grew dark and torrents of rain poured down to add to the confusion. In that nightmare country of tall rocks and scrubby trees and low bushes the battle was fought out to an indecisive end. The timorous and the weary among the French found ample opportunity of withdrawing from the struggle, and crouching for shelter and concealment in clefts in the rock, while the brave and the headstrong lost their way. Yet there were still musket shots spitting out here and there in the gathering gloom. Men were still meeting their deaths in the disordered battle. Godinot, pushing up a little ravine with two or three followers, met Lebrun and Fournier coming down it, and between them they were half leading, half carrying someone else- Godron.
'The Englishman shot him,'
'The Englishman?'
'Yes, by God!'
'Where's he wounded?'
'In the stomach.'
There was a pause at that. Everyone knew what a stomach wound involved, and everyone knew- it had been enjoined upon them so often- that only the cowards withdrew from a fight to help the wounded home. Yet everyone knew, too, that they could not leave a wounded man- not even a dying man- where Portuguese irregulars might reach him.
Godinot was saved from the dilemma by the long roll of a drum far behind him. Then the drum beat to a new rhythm, a long roll and three beats followed by a short roll and three beats, repeated. It was the retreat. A greatcoat with two muskets thrust through the sleeves and pocket slits made some sort of stretcher for Godron, and between them they carried him back to where the two companies were re- assembling on the crest above the lane. The sun had set now, but the clouds had parted in the west, and permitted a little watery, dying light. The captain was a sad man as the sergeants made their reports. So-and-so was missing, and someone else. And someone else was dead-they had seen him fall, and brought back his things from his pack. The captain looked darkly up the hill, and over to the fading west. This was a defeat, and he could not avenge it as yet. He could not think of plunging his weary men into that tangle of rocks in darkness. He could not even think of trying to find the missing men. He hoped that they were dead rather than in Portuguese hands. He kept the company waiting while darkness fell, to be rewarded by the return of one or two of the missing, and then, reluctantly, he led the company down the hill and down the lane to where a cluster of stone cottages marked the billets of the battalion. That evening, while little Godron was dying under the surgeon's hands, there was rejoicing in the battalion. Not merely did everyone have a roof over his head- were it only the roof of a filthy cowshed- but everyone had enough to eat. There was a field of potatoes between the village and the river, and although, apparently, efforts had been made to dig them up and throw them into the Tagus there were still great quantities to be found for the digging. And as they had marched in, a nannygoat with two kids had also entered the village, bleating pathetically. That meant soup for everyone, and more than a taste of meat; and not only that, but someone had grabbed a stray, lone chicken running round the dunghills which would be a welcome addition to the officers' mess. There was fuel too-fences and palings in such quantity that there was no need to cut down the fruit trees. Everyone could sit near a great, roaring fire and get warm for the first evening in weeks.
It was sad about the wine. Someone had smashed in all the casks of wine in the cellar of the inn; wine was running everywhere, but for all that there was still enough in the casks for the officers and enough could be scooped off the floor for the men to make them all thoroughly happy. It was a perfectly splendid, riotous evening.
No one gave a second thought to the fact that the goats and the chicken were the only living creatures to be found in the village: they were used to that. Of course it would have added to their enjoyment if a woman or two had been kind enough to remain to help in their entertainment. But that was not important at present; the men had marched too fast and too far lately to have many thoughts to devote to that subject. They were all very happy eating and drinking and revelling in the warmth.
Fournier came and sat down heavily beside Sergeant Godinot.
'Godron's going to die, I suppose?' he began.
'I'm afraid so, poor devil,' said Godinot.
Fournier hesitated a while before he continued: 'Do you remember that day when we were rejoining battalion after that fatigue we were left behind to do?' 'You mean the day Boyel was killed? Yes.'
'Boyel was Godron's friend.'
'He was my friend too.'
'The same man killed them both,' said Fournier.
'Not likely. How do you know?' asked Godinot.
'It is. I swear it. I saw him as plain as my hand when he killed Boyel. And today- I saw him twice along my musket barrel. How did I come to miss him? How did we all come to miss him the other time? Tell me that.'
'Gently, gently,' said Godinot, noticing the expression on Fournier's face.
'More bullets miss than hit, you know.'
'It will take a lot of bullets to hit that one,' said Fournier.
'Go to sleep and forget about it,' said Godinot. 'You will feel better in the morning.'
Yet it took more than that kindly offhandedness to soothe the superstitious Fournier; it was late when Godinot succeeded.
The fires died down. The battalion slept while the sentries paced their beats round the village. The sentries were on the alert, as well men may be whose lives depend upon it. But no sentry's beat extended down to the river beach, and no one saw a score of dark shadows creep along the water's edge across the mouth of the ravine, leaving the hill of that day's battle for the other one beyond the ravine.
Chapter X
NEXT morning the battalion was delighted to hear that they were not to march. Settled here in comfort, with enough to eat and shelter from the weather, they had forgotten their yesterday's yearnings to retreat. But they were not to remain idle, not all of them. Two companies were to stay in their billets to guard the fort and mend their clothes and do what- ever else might seem necessary. The other four paraded in light marching order-carrying nothing but their arms and their ammunition-and proceeded to sweep the hill where they had fought yesterday, in search of the brigands who had had the better of them. It was
a careful and highly scientific operation. Three companies were extended until they covered the whole width from road to river, a dozen yards between each man. The four sections of the fourth company were distributed at intervals along the line to supply a solid mass to deal with the brigands when found-the twenty men of a single section could be relied on to do that. Then, with infinite trouble in preserving distance and dressing, they swept across the hill. There were seven miles of it to where the high road came down to the river again, and it took them all day- seven hours of cursing and slipping and stumbling, of dreary waiting in the rain while the line straightened, of beating through dripping wet bushes for hidden enemies, and they found nothing. A few men fired their muskets, but they were only the sort of fools who fire muskets when there is nothing to fire at. There was nobody on the hill at all; the only sign that there had been anyone was the presence of a few naked corpses lying in the rain, one or two of them unknown and therefore Portuguese, the rest the missing Frenchmen of yesterday. Everyone was infuriated, wet, and exhausted when towards evening they stumbled on the pickets of the next battalion down the river and knew that there was no use in searching farther. They marched back through the drenching rain of the bitter night along the high road with its ankle-twisting pave.
Death to the French (aka Rifleman Dodd) Page 6