Georgette Heyer - The Spanish Bride

‘This damned policy of manana!’ snapped his lordship, preparing to march northward, to force Marmont to retreat.

Marshal Marmont, commanding the French Army of Portugal, had received express orders from his Emperor not to attempt the relief of Badajos, and had been occupied for some weeks in raiding Beira Baixa, while General Brennier blockaded Ciudad Rodrigo. His lordship left a Portuguese force in Badajos, entrusted the task of containing Drouet to General Sir Rowland Hill, and himself marched north with the main body of his army. Marmont, in Sabugal on 8th April, in Castello Branco on 12th April, executing a raid on Guarda two days later, retreated before his lordship, not because of the Allied army’s advance, of which he had no intelligence, but because he could not find, in all that ravaged countryside, sufficient provender for even a third of his army. By the time he was aware of Wellington’s proximity, he had reached Fuente Guinaldo, on the wrong side of the Agueda. Rains had swollen the river, and held the Marshal at Fuente Guinaldo until the 21st April. But by the 23rd April he had got his army across, not without difficulty, by the fords near Ciudad Rodrigo, and had begun to retreat upon Salamanca.

So his lordship abandoned the pursuit for the time being; his army went into its winter cantonments; and Juana Smith learned to waltz.

Early in May, Major-General Baron Charles Alten, of the King’s German Legion, was appointed to the command of the Light division. He was forty-eight years old, a hard-bitten warrior with a dark hatchet-face, stern, bright eyes, and a strong German accent. Rather an odd choice of General for The Division? Not at all: no Englishman had anything but the most profound respect for the King’s German Legion. As for Baron Alten, he was just the kind of leader the Light Bobs liked: a General who knew his work; never, even under the most trying circumstances, lost an atom of his cool presence of mind; was calm in action; and did not irritate those under his command with unnecessary orders, or the teasing habits of many an English General. It was by no means an easy task to command the Light division to the Light division’s satisfaction; it was a very hard task indeed to fill the place of General Craufurd. ‘The fellow who commands us will have to be a damned good fellow,’ said Charles Beckwith. ‘None of your old women, thank you!’

‘And no marches and counter-marches for God alone knows what reason!’ ‘And no damned reviews and inspections!’

‘Must understand outpost duty!’

‘Mustn’t be one of these cats on hot bricks who won’t go into action unless they’re pushed!’ ‘Take heart!’ said Harry Smith, entering in the middle of this discussion. ‘The news is out. It’s old Alten.’

‘Alten?’ There was a pause. ‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Eeles cautiously. “They say he’s a good fellow. Won’t worry us, will he?’

‘Devil a bit!’ said Kincaid. ‘He’s a gentleman, is old Alten. If we can’t have dear Barnard, I’d as soon have the Baron as any other I can call to mind. Except Erskine, of course,’ he added, dulcetly.

‘Oh, my God! Sabugal!’ groaned Beckwith.

‘Well, nothing like that will happen under Alten,’ said Harry, ‘even if he isn’t a Craufurd.’ But it was not everyone who desired Alten to be a Craufurd. Craufurd had made the Light division the superb fighting unit that it was, but he had been no easy man to serve under. A less irascible General, thought some of his officers, would be a relief. General Alten was neither irascible nor fussy. He noticed as little as Lord Wellington himself irregularities of dress, and made not the slightest attempt to correct the slouch which the Light Bobs found so much less tiring than a correct military carriage. They were not at all the sort of troops a general would wish to review in Hyde Park, but old Alten did not care a jot for that. They did everything in the easiest way possible; though they might not march smartly, they could march far; and though their uniforms might be patched with strange colours, and their shakos shapeless through being exposed to much rain, their pieces were always in perfect order, with never a speck of rust in the well-oiled barrels. ‘H’m! They look remarkably well, and in good fighting order,’ said Wellington, when he reviewed them near El Bodon, late in May.

‘I dink so, my lord,’ replied Alten, observing his motley division with calm satisfaction.

It was June before the regiment left its cantonments. The pits and the wheel-ruts in the roads, which had been full of slime, with films of brown ice crackling into splinters under the army’s patched boots, were by this time baked hard by the sun and wind. Summer-marching could be quite as uncomfortable as winter-marching. You could wrench your ankle horribly in those deep ruts, and although no bitter wind-driven sleet came to make your very bones shudder, a blistering sun beat down, excoriating your skin, making the veins in your throat swell until you felt that they must surely burst the tight high collar hooked round your neck. Stained, faded uniforms were darker-stained by sweat; packs dragged from aching shoulders; and Brown Bess became an intolerable burden, her long barrel oven-hot to the touch. But the country north of Ciudad Rodrigo, through which the army marched on its way to Salamanca, brought a faint, not unpleasant nostalgia to many Englishmen in the long dusty columns. If you could shut out from your senses the sight and the rank scent of the gum-cistus, you might fancy yourself in Wiltshire, by Salisbury. ‘Though you wouldn’t be choked by this filthy dust on Salisbury Plain,’ said Harry, wiping his smarting, red-rimmed eyes.

Harry was looking ill, but his complaint was not the prevalent fever. Nothing so romantic! Brigade-Major Smith, riding close-lipped with his column, was suffering from boils. He had one on the inside of his knee which made riding an agony, and shortened his temper. It was a damned sight worse than any fever, but too prosaic to arouse sympathy, except in one tender breast. Harry, like his friends, made game of his boils, but the little creature he had married anointed his legs with strange unguents, brewed awful potions for him to swallow, and watched him anxiously with big, questioning eyes. A Spaniard, none of the ills which Englishmen suffered in her country attacked Juana. When the hot weather crept upon them, her skin darkened to a golden tan, but never showed the raw red patches that made life a minor hell for many an Englishman. She rode through the scorch of the midday sun, her eyes, under the shade of her hat, narrowed against the glare certainly, but bright and clear. None of your fine ladies, Juana, reclining against the squabs of a travelling-carriage, fan in one hand, hartshorn in the other. Just as she never pressed a scented handkerchief to her nose to shut out the reek of dirty humanity, so she never denied the comfort of her body to Harry, though he came to her grimed with dust: as rank, he said, as any private. Her slight breasts were the pillow for his head after long marches. ‘Are you tired?’ he would whisper, rousing her from the sleep of exhaustion. ‘No, not tired, mi Enrique,” she would reply, all her body responsive to the touch of his thin, nervous hands.

Indeed, although her limbs sometimes ached with fatigue, in these first months of marriage her spirit was never tired. All the routine of an army on the march, wearisome with the monotony of accustomed toil to the men about her, was astonishingly new to Juana. To a convent-bred girl, there was romance in the sight of the long, plodding columns; excitement in the clatter and jingle of a squadron of light cavalry as it went by at the trot; and warm interest in the interminable baggage-train, cluttered up with camp-followers, spring-carts, wagons overloaded with stores and ammunition, and very often floundering in deep ditches, or losing wheels over the abominable surface of the roads. English eyes might find the string of gaily caparisoned mules in charge of native muleteers in velvet breeches and bright flaring sashes more interesting, and think the appearance on the road of a company of guerrilleros worthy of noting down in a diary; but these had little power to hold Juana’s attention. A scarlet jacket with its buttons tarnished almost black; a shako, beaten out of shape by successive rain-storms; the swirl and flurry of a silver-laced Hussar’s pelisse; the black-japanned helmet of an artilleryman; the piled arms at alarm posts; even the ordered spread of little Portuguese tents in camp; these were the humdrum sights which delighted her. ‘A little world that moves,’ she said, struggling for words to express the thought in her mind.

Harry smiled, but with a crease between his brows. ‘Commissariat’s late,’ he murmured, ‘As usual!’

‘There are always the goats,’ she suggested helpfully.

There were indeed the goats: you could smell them half a mile away, and some strayed kid was for ever getting entangled with guy-ropes, or scrambling up from the ground under your horse’s nose. Everyone collected goats, the more the better, since, ten to one, goat’s was the only milk you would be able to get in a land ravaged by the French. A swarm of little Portuguese boys, as noisy and quarrelsome as monkeys, tended the animals. They drove them along the dusty roads in the rear of the army, little squabbling savages, half-naked under the sun.

It was not until the 16th June, when the army was within five miles of Salamanca, that any sign was seen of the enemy’s presence. Mounting the low hills near the city, the advance guard encountered a small force of scouting Frenchmen, and drove them back after a slight skirmish.

They learned that Marmont had withdrawn from Salamanca, leaving garrisons in the three forts; and on the 17th June they passed the Tormes by way of deep fords. Watching the infantry struggle across, up to their shoulders in the water, Juana looked a little doubtful. Someone slipped, and disappeared from view. He was hauled up again, and reached the farther bank safely, but it was not a very comforting sight. A little sick feeling gripped the pit of Juana’s stomach; she had thought the heat intense, but discovered suddenly that she was rather cold. She was standing by her horse, awaiting Harry’s pleasure. He had ridden off somewhere, she didn’t know where, and she was left with only West to look after her.