Georgette Heyer - The Spanish Bride

The distant noise of gun-fire, now that Juana had leisure to notice it, seemed to have considerably increased. She judged, from the position of the sun, that the afternoon was already fairly advanced. There did not seem to be anything much to do, and she Was beginning to be a little bored, when the blare of trumpets sounding the advance whipped up her waning interest. West came running into the yard to tell heir that the cavalry had been ordered up, and that the news was flying round that Pakenham, supported by D’Urban’s Portuguese cavalry brigade, had brought the Fighting division beautifully up the hill, away to the right, and had fallen upon the leading column of Thomieres’ division with such impetuous fury that Thomieres’ entire column, caught all unawares, was nearly annihilated. Staff-officers, sent to order up the cavalry reserve, told of the utmost confusion in the French van. Half Thomieres’ force had fallen, an Eagle had been captured, and the victorious Fighting division was even now continuing its charge along the plateau towards the centre of the line. The ground, one officer said, was covered with dead and wounded, and the broken remnants of the French column were flying before the Allied advance. Nothing more superb than this charge had ever been seen, and now let who dared say that Lord Wellington’s genius lay solely in defence!

Juana was naturally very much excited by this news, and ran out to see the cavalry move off. They looked so splendid that she had to clap her hands, and wave to them. After they had gone, and the clatter and jingle had dwindled to a distant thud, and then faded quite away, the village seemed very quiet and deserted. Even West began to be rather restive, for although the Light division was still being held in reserve, there was no knowing when it would be called into action, and Harry perhaps have need of the spare horse he was leading. After a short period of indecision, he yielded to Juana’s entreaties to move a little nearer to the front, and went off to bring out the horses.

As they rode towards the rear of the Light division, the noise of the battle grew steadily louder. The nature of the ground prevented their seeing anything of the encounter on the plateau, but the din was appalling: worse, Juana thought, than the horrid noise made on the night of Badajos. A groom, leading up a remount, said that Leith’s and Cole’s divisions had come into action at five o’clock, and that their encounter with the French centre was a bloody business, in the course of which Leith had been so badly wounded that he had been obliged to leave the field. But Le Marchant’s brigade of dragoons, coming up the hill, passed in the interval between Leith’s and Pakenham’s divisions, and reached the crest of the plateau just as Maucune was beginning to fall back, A most impressive sight that seemed to have been: a thousand sabres advancing in two lines, and charging down at the gallop upon Maucune’s flank. Right through the French column they crashed, and on, led by Le Marchant himself, fighting like any trooper, until they met the leading regiment of Brennier’s supporting division. They lost their formation, of course, and there were scores of empty saddles, but no infantry, taken thus by surprise, could hope to stand against their charge. But the pity of it was that Le Marchant had fallen, and there was no getting the brigade into order again. ‘Racing one against t’other to be the first in amongst the Frenchies, that’s what it looked like,’ the groom told West. ‘Clean crazy, sabring right and left, and the whole ground fair covered with dead! I never saw anything to equal it! One minute the French was there, all drawn up in battle-order, thousands of ’em!-and the next, by God, if they wasn’t scattered all over the place, and them dragoons sweeping up the remains!’

He was unable to give West any news of the Light division, his master being in Clinton’s division, but he thought they had not been engaged. There was a very sanguinary affair going on by the Southern Arapile, that rocky knoll in advance of the Allied line. Pack’s Portuguese had been trying to gain possession of it, but there was no scaling it under the withering fire of the French on the summit.

By the time Juana and West arrived at their objective, which was some way behind the Light division, amongst the ammunition-carts, the remounts, the doctors, and all other persons belonging to the division who had no immediate business in the front line, a rumour that Marmont had been killed was quickly spreading. This seemed too good to be true, but amongst the French losses, which were enormous, anything, it was thought hopefully, was possible.

The incessant and sometimes deafening gun-fire, the sight of wounded men making their way to the rear, and the various tales she heard of the fierce nature of the battle, awoke all Juana’s fears again, and it was not until she found herself beside old Dr Burke, in the rear of the Light division, and was assured by him of the division’s complete inaction, that her mind could be at all at rest. She hoped for a sight of Harry, but almost immediately after her arrival the division was ordered to advance in pursuit of the retreating army.

The French retreat to the Tonnes, covered by Percy’s and Foy’s unbroken troops, closely resembled a rout. Hundreds of soldiers were escaping into the protection of the thick woods on the southern side of the plateau; the plateau itself was strewn with dead men and horses; smoke still hung heavily where the artillery-fire had been hottest; and a litter of discarded accoutrements gave an air of confusion to the whole scene.

Juana heard someone on the Quartermaster-General’s Staff say that the remnant of the French army, which was making for the fords across the river, would be caught by the Spanish troops left at Alba.

The sun was sinking, and the chill night wind made Juana glad of her big cloak. West pitched her little tent on the battlefield, in the middle of some green wheat. He cut sheaves of it to make a bed for her, since he thought there was little chance of her being able to rejoin the brigade that night. He had a pair of lanterns with him, and by the light of these Juana ate a supper of sandwiches, washed down with some of the wine of Rueda. When she lay down presently on her bed of wheat, she had to hold her horse. The moon rose and lit the field with a cold silver light, but it could no more prevent Juana’s dropping asleep than the confused noises of the army bivouacking for the night, or the crackle and glow of the camp-fires. She had spent an exhausting day; she was not yet fifteen; and not even the thought of Mrs Dalbiac, whom she had seen again, riding towards the scene of Le Marchant’s magnificent charge, and looking strangely haggard, had the power to keep her awake. Mrs Dalbiac had seemed scarcely to recognize her; she had said over and over again: ‘I must find my husband. You must let me find my husband!’ All Juana’s warm young heart had gone out to her; she could picture herself in just such distress, searching for Harry’s body amongst the slain; but there was nothing she could do to help Mrs Dalbiac; and meanwhile Harry was safe, and West was unwrapping some thick sandwiches, and she was very hungry. The bed of wheat, though it scratched her cheek a little, was wonderfully comfortable. She curled herself up with Harry’s boat-cloak spread over her, and dropped into a deep dreamless sleep, which lasted until a persistent tugging at the wheat roused her. She opened drowsy eyes upon a moon like a silver plate, and found Tiny’s soft muzzle close to her ear. Another tug made her realize what was happening. She sat up, waking West by breaking into peals of laughter. ‘Oh, oh, Tiny has eaten all my lovely bed!’

Juana was in Harry’s arms again by noon on the following day. Like the rest of the army, he was torn between jubilation and extreme irritation, this last being occasioned by the miscarriage of the pursuit of the broken French army through the night. The mob of fugitives crowding through the forest to the river should never have been allowed to get away, and indeed Marmont’s entire force must have been shattered beyond hope of re-forming had not the Spanish General, Carlos de Espana, taken it upon himself on the morning of the battle to withdraw the force he had been ordered to leave at Alba to guard the fords across the Tormes. He thought, of course, that he was doing quite the right thing, and when a tentative feeler, thrown out by him, disclosed the fact that Lord Wellington most decidedly desired the Spanish troops to remain at Alba, he had not cared to confess that they had already been withdrawn. It was one thing to act on one’s own initiative, but quite another, when it came to the point, to tell his lordship one had done so. In fact, it proved to be quite impossible, as anyone having the slightest knowledge of his lordship’s character must surely realize. So the French rout streamed across the Tonnes all through the night, without encountering any opposition; and the pursuing force, instead of finding them attempting the fords of Huerta, discovered that they had retreated by way of Alba de Tonnes instead. The Light division was continuing the pursuit, but Harry was not going with the brigade. Old Dr Burke had cursed him for a feckless madman, and had told him to take himself, and his boils, and his wife off to Salamanca, on sick-leave. This command having been endorsed by General Vandeleur, there was nothing for Harry to do but to hand over his duties to Brother Tom, dispatch his batman to disentangle his hounds and his portmanteau from the baggage-tram, snatch Juana up in his arms, singing out: ‘We’re going to have a honeymoon, alma mia de mi corazon,’ and ride off with her to Salamanca. That they had no money did not worry either of them. If the worst came to the worst, they could live on their rations. ‘A buen hambre no hay pan duro!’ said Juana gaily. Salamanca was crowded with sick and wounded, but the Smiths found themselves a billet in the house of a tenderhearted lady who mothered Juana, supplemented the surgeon’s treatment for Harry’s boils with remedies of her own, and eked out the army rations with coffee, and other such luxuries. Juana, detecting at the outset the maternal gleam in the lady’s eye, pandered to her shamelessly; accepted all the ointments and drenches she produced for Harry; and wheedled fresh eggs and pats of butter out of her by describing in the most harrowing style the awful privations of life in the British army. If that failed, a highly coloured account of her own adventures at Badajos could always be relied upon to conjure a few cakes or a freshly baked loaf out of the good lady. Harry swore that during the fortnight they spent in Salamanca Juana ruthlessly slew all her family in the siege of Badajos. ‘I never knew you had so many aunts and uncles and cousins!’ he declared. ‘Well, I haven’t,’ said Juana.