These preoccupations, which made his lordship curter even than usual, did not weigh much with the rest of the army. Heat and thirst excluded other considerations from nearly every mind, for the plain that lay between Salamanca and the Douro was parched and treeless, so that the columns marched in clouds of reddish dust which got into men’s throats, and under their eyelids, and sifted into their clothes to rasp against their sticky bodies. One or two unwise souls, feeling themselves unable to bear the weight of their shakos, which seemed to tighten about their heads like iron bands, discarded them, and suffered all the tortures of sunstroke in consequence. Hardened campaigners, knowing that the first drink out of a water-flask made the craving for water only more insistent, refrained from broaching their flasks for as long as possible; but young soldiers could scarcely be restrained from draining theirs within the first few hours of the march.

It was thought that the Guards suffered most on long, scorching marches, and the Light Bobs least. The Gentlemen’s Sons, trained to a smartness of step and bearing that made them the admiration of all beholders, could never bring themselves to adopt the famous slouch which carried the Light Bobs unbeautifully over such incredible distances. But even the Light Bobs found the march towards the Douro more than ordinarily wearing. There seemed to be no water to be had for mile upon sweltering mile. The heat-haze danced and wavered before eyeballs that felt red-hot between dust-inflamed lids. Occasionally a soldier would lurch out of the column, and sink down exhausted on the road; and once a man went suddenly mad, and began to scream abuse in a cracked, maniacal voice. They said it was the sight of a bleached skeleton which had turned his brain, but the bones were after all only horses’ bones, and a common enough sight in all conscience. It was more probably thirst: when they overpowered him, it was seen that his tongue was blackened and swollen.

Brigade-Major Smith, harassed by boils, very busy now that the army was on the march, was anxious for his Juana, but whenever he came riding down the length of the column in search of her, dreading to find her wilting under the merciless sun, he found her sitting erect in her saddle, as gay as you please, staunchly disclaiming any extraordinary fatigue. Was she tired? Was she thirsty? Would she ride on one of the spring-wagons in the rear? Madre de Dios, de ninguno manera! George Simmons had told her all about those spring-wagons. She thanked her Enrique, but she desired nothing, and ailed nothing. ‘Nada me duele,’ she said always, when solicitous friends thought her pale, or flagging.

‘By Jove, m’dear, you’re the best soldier in the army!’ said old Vandeleur, patting her shoulder. ‘An example to us all, eh, Harry?’

It took the army five days to reach the Douro, where they found the French encamped upon the opposite bank. The Light division occupied the ground about Rueda, a blessed spot, abounding in wine-cellars which were huge caves hewn out of the rocks, so full of wine-casks that even the depredations of a thirsty army seemed to make little diminution in the store of liquor.

It was very pleasant at Rueda, with nothing to do but to watch the French across the river, to drink oneself into a stupor in the vaults, or to bathe in the Douro, exchanging good-humoured abuse with the enemy, similarly disporting themselves. ‘Coming across, Johnny Petit?’ would sing out a British private, wallowing in the cool water. ‘When we choose, sacri boeuftake!’ the answer would flash back. ‘You will run then, be sure!’

‘Come across, and see what we’ll give you!’ ‘In good time! Wait till we come to take back Salamanca!’ ‘You take back Salamanca? That’s a good one!’

‘‘But tell us, sacries pommes de terre, why do you not come across to us?’ ‘We will when we’ve finished up the wine on this side!’

This retort served well enough to bring the interchange to an end, but it is doubtful whether any of the Englishmen cooling themselves in the river knew the real reason for their inactivity. ‘Our orficers,’ said a stout individual, inspecting a blister on his heel, ‘are too bloody-well took up with dancing, that’s why.’ He added, thoughtfully, a groundless libel on the morals of his commanders, which was an instant success with his audience. The fact was that Lord Wellington, confronting the enemy across the Douro, considered the locality and the season quite unsuitable for an offensive action. The French held the bridge at Tordesillas, and the various fords were still too deep to permit of his crossing by them. If the Spanish Army of Galicia could bring the siege of Astorga to a close, and come up to threaten Marmont’s rear, the consequent diversion would place him in a more favourable position, but he had learned not to rely too much upon his Spanish allies. The Light and 4th divisions, forming the right wing of the army before Rueda and La Seca, found nothing to complain of during their fortnight’s sojourn there. Rueda was a charming little town, its female population much above the average, its light, sharp, white wines most palatable. Dancing was certainly the order of the day, and as only half of each division was obliged to bivouac before the towns each night, as a precautionary measure, there were always plenty of officers off duty to partner the ladies of Rueda to impromptu balls.

4

Kincaid had fallen in love with the sexton’s daughter. He said he had seen her baking a loaf of bread in her father’s house, and had promptly lost his heart to her.

‘But I do not find that she is beautiful,’ objected Juana. ‘But the loaf was excellent,’ explained Kincaid.

She shook her head. ‘You love too easily, I think, I do not forget that one in Salamanca.’ ‘But what is the use of a beauty in Salamanca when I am in Rueda?’ said Kincaid reasonably.

‘True,’ she replied. ‘But a sexton’s daughter! Shall you take her to the dance tonight?’ ‘Oh, surely! Do you go?’

‘No, because Enrique will be on duty, visiting pickets. Enrique says that the French are repairing the bridge at Toro, and we shall soon move to our left.”

‘Yes,’ said Kincaid, yawning. ‘They tell me the rest of the army’s on the move already.’ He glanced up as Harry came into the room, ‘Hallo! What’s the news?’

‘Nothing much. We shall get our marching-orders soon, I suppose. Marmont means to cross the river, from the looks of it.’

‘Why can’t the fellow leave us in peace? What’s he about? Trying to turn our left and break through to Salamanca? I wish him joy of it! I take it we shan’t be disturbed for a while yet? How far off is Toro? Twenty miles? Twenty-five? I shall take Pepita to the dance tonight.’ The dance was held, but was destined to be interrupted by the sound of trumpets calling to arms. This martial noise brought the scraping of fiddles to an abrupt stop. ‘Ten to one, it’s a false alarm,” grumbled Eeles, reluctantly releasing his partner. “That will make the third we’ve had. All the same, we shall have to go, my dear.’ ‘But don’t you go!’ said Kincaid, squeezing the sexton’s daughter’s waist. Make yourselves at home, and we’ll be back presently!’

This light-hearted promise was never fulfilled. Upon assembling by torch and lantern-light at the alarm-posts, the officers discovered that Rueda and La Seca were to be evacuated immediately. The little town seethed with sudden activity, men flying to their billets to snatch together their belongings, and the companies steadily forming and marching off into the darkness.

Juana was in bed when the warning trumpets sounded. She had heard them before, and knew what they meant, so that by the time Jenny Bates came to thump on her door she was already dressed, and hurriedly packing her clothes and Harry’s in their portmanteaux. She did not know where Harry was, but he had drummed such precise instructions into her head as to what she must do in such an eventuality as this that she did not waste West’s time or patience by refusing to stir until Harry’s return (which he had been half afraid of), but sent down a message to him that she would be ready to start within ten minutes. He had her horse, and a spare horse of Harry’s, waiting in the cobbled street; and Harry’s batman, Joe Kitchen, was ready to lead the mule which carried the baggage.

No one seemed to have the least idea where they were going, but there were naturally plenty of pessimists who thought the whole business a hum, and in all probability due to the command’s being temporarily in Stapleton Cotton’s hands. If old Hookey had not gone to watch the Frog-eaters at Toro, it would never have happened, said one disgruntled gentleman, who had his own reasons for resenting the sudden call to arms. It was just like Cotton, he added unfairly, to go off at a tangent in the middle of the night for God alone knew what reason.

West made Juana stay with the baggage-train, which was being covered by Anson’s horse. At first she wondered how the columns could find their way through the darkness, but after a time her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, and she announced buoyantly that night-marching was preferable to day-marching. Her anxiety on Harry’s behalf was presently relieved by a brief sight of him. He came in search of her, greeting her with a quick-voiced: ‘Juana? You’re all right?’

‘Yes, oh yes! And, sobre todo, you are safe, mi Enrique?’ she answered joyfully. ‘Of course I’m safe, hija! I can’t stop, though. Keep at the head of the baggage-train. West will look after you. I must go. You know how it is, alma mia!’

‘Si, si. Adelante! But where are we going, amigo?’

‘Ten miles to our rear: to Castrejon, The French are over the river at Tordesillas.’ ‘But that is quite close!’ cried Juana.

‘Don’t worry! We’re safe enough.’ He put his hand over hers for a moment, grasping it strongly, and with one more adjuration to her to keep up with the column, shot off again into the darkness.