The river began to fall almost at once, and it was expected that the French would effect a crossing before noon. General Alten, who saw no profit in any brush with the enemy at this juncture, sent off more than one messenger to Sir William Stewart, who had been in command of the 1st division since Paget’s capture by the French. ‘What the devil ails the old man?’ Barnard demanded. ‘I think he is mad,’ said Alten calmly.

Time went on, the sun broke through the clouds; and still the 1st division did not move. Suddenly a Guards officer appeared, picking his way daintily on a blood horse. ‘Oh, Christ! The Honourable Arthur!’ said Charlie Beckwith.’

‘My deah Beckwith!’ said Arthur Upton, perceiving him and riding up dose. ‘You could not inform me where I could get a paysano? The 1st division can’t move: we have no guide.’ ‘Oh, damn, is that it?’ exclaimed Beckwith. ‘We’ll do anything to get you out of the way! Come to Harry Smith! He has a paysano, I know. Harry, Harry! Where the devil are you, man? Here, the 1st want a guide! Trot out your cutthroats!’

Harry, as usual, had three or four natives of the district under guard, and was able to hand one over to the Honourable Arthur, who went delicately away again, drawling his thanks. The Light division had formed a battle-front, but it was presently ascertained that instead of forcing a crossing of the Huebra the French were dismissed, and were all engaged in drying their clothes.

The division marched at last, in cold but dry weather. As Harry was seeing the last of the rear-guard off, he heard himself hailed, though faintly, and looking round, saw a Rifleman lying under a tree, with his leg bound up. He recognized the man, and rode up to him. ‘O’Donnell! Why, my poor fellow, this won’t do!’

‘Don’t leave me here, Mr Smith!’ O’Donnell said imploringly. ‘Are you badly hurt?’

‘It’s me leg, sir. Got me thigh fractured yesterday by a cannonball. Don’t leave me, sir! Please, don’t!’

Harry hesitated. There was no provision for wounded men in the column. The casualties had to be left behind, where it was hoped that they would presently be picked up by the enemy. The French treated their prisoners perfectly well, of course. It was no use being sentimental about it; you could not help every wounded or sick man who came, in your way. But Harry knew this man for as gallant a Rifleman as ever breathed. He said in his quick way: ‘There’s only one way I know of helping you, and I believe it won’t do. Could you ride on a gun-tumbril?’

‘Oh, yes sir, I can ride!’ O’Donnell said gratefully. ‘Only don’t leave me!’ ‘Wait, then. I’ll see what can be done,’ Harry said, and galloped off to where Ross was riding ahead with his six-pounders.

‘You damned fool!’ Ross said, when the matter was explained to him. ‘Very well, you can take one of my guns back. And I think you’re crazy, Smith, d’you hear me?’ ‘And I think you’re the best of good fellows!’ Harry said, reining back to allow the gun to be detached from the troop.

When they hoisted the wounded man on to the tumbril, it was plain that the slightest movement caused him great agony. He almost lost consciousness, but by an effort of will managed to cling to his senses, and to thank the gunner for so cheerfully giving up his seat. ‘I shall do now,’ he said, but they could only just catch the words, so faintly were they spoken. The gunner said that he was welcome, but he thought privately that Brigade-Major Smith was wasting his time, and the Rifleman would never last out half a day’s march. As a matter of fact, O’Donnell died two hours later, but the gunner, resuming his seat then, said that perhaps he would have chosen that rather than have been taken prisoner. Nothing more was seen of the French, who were finding it impossible to subsist any longer upon an already ravaged countryside. The day was marked by frosts, and by horrid sights encountered all along the line of march. The horses and the oxen seemed to be dying like flies; and the sick men who fell out of the column, to be shepherded on later by the cavalry in the rear, were growing steadily more numerous. A diversion was created by Sir William Stewart, a nice old gentleman, quite incapable of obeying an order (said Lord Wellington), who prevailed upon the commanders of the 5th and 7th divisions to join him in deserting the prescribed line of march to follow a route of his own choosing. Both these commanders were newcomers, and it was not until they found Sir William’s route blocked by the Army of Galicia, which had been ordered to follow it, that they realized how unwise they had been to listen to him. All three divisions were finally discovered by Lord Wellington himself, who had set out to look for them, waiting in the mud until the Spaniards in front of them should have moved on. ‘You see, gentlemen, I know my own business best,’ said his lordship, in withering accents.

The weather grew colder and colder, but on the following day, the eighth November, the army came in sight of Ciudad Rodrigo. “Thank God, I shall be able to cut the boots off my feet at last!’ said Kincaid.

Chapter Five. Winter Quarters

By the end of the month, the army was in its winter quarters, with Hill’s and division placed as far south as Coria, in Estremadura; and Cole’s 5th division as far north as Lamego, on the Douro. Lord Wellington’s headquarters were fixed at Frenada, a dirty little town only seventeen miles distant from Ciudad Rodrigo; and the Light division, with Victor Allen’s brigade of German horse, was posted, like a screen, in various villages on the Agueda, in Spanish territory. This was a cold, rather comfortless situation, but the Light bobs knew the locality so well that it was quite like home to them. The villagers gave them a warm welcome, inquiring after many men by name, and seeming really glad to see them again. The and brigade had its headquarters at Fuentes de Oftoro, a village which was still looking somewhat battered as a result of the battle which had raged round it eighteen months before. Vandeleur occupied the local Padre’s house, but Harry found a lodging at the other end of the village, in the cottage of a widower. There was some tolerable stabling near to this billet: an important consideration for a young gentleman owning six riding-horses and thirteen greyhounds.

Everyone felt more cheerful when the retreat was at an end, but the sickness in the army was appalling. The hospitals were, crammed with cases of dysentery and ague; and nearly every man was found to be suffering from an unpleasant form of frost-bite. George Simmons, who had been obliged to mount Joe on his own horse during the retreat, had his legs covered with bad patches. He had worn out the soles of his boots, trudging beside a sick brother, and his feet were in a sad way. He made far less fuss about his ailments than many who were not nearly as seriously affected; indeed, he seemed to worry far more about Joe’s dysentery. Poor Joe had been so ill on the march that had it not been for George’s care of him he must either have died or have fallen into the hands of the French. Joe was one of Juana’s protégés, and he used to lie and watch the door to see her come in, her cheeks and her curls wind-whipped, a basket on her arm containing delicacies she had cooked for him, and always a laugh in her roguish eyes. A visit from Juana, Harry’s sick friends said, did one more good than all the bark-wine the doctors made them swallow, Harry had many sick friends, and Juana spent her time cooking for them, and riding to the various villages where they were quartered. Charlie Eeles was down with dysentery; John Bell of the 43rd regiment; Jack Molloy; and any number of others. Harry, of course, was as well as ever he had been in his life, and sporting-mad. While Juana and the Padre cooked, he went out coursing every day. James Stewart had a pack of harriers, and asked Harry to act as his whipper-in; there were Harry’s own greyhounds; and, when these forms of sport began to pall, there was fox-hunting to be had with Lord Wellington’s pack. If you had a fancy for shooting, you could go with Jonathan Leach, and stand up to your middle in icy water, waiting for wild-duck; or try for woodcock anywhere in the vicinity of the Agueda; or practise your marksmanship on the white-headed vultures which seemed to hover day-long above Gallegos. It was a mistake, of course, to shoot this scavenger of the skies, but somehow the sight of these rather horrible birds tugging the putrid flesh from the carcases of the horses which lined the route of the army’s late march made the men feel an irrational anger. Wolf-hunts were popular amongst the rank-and-file. The country was infested with wolves; they used to sunk after a marching army, hidden by the never-ending gum-cistus, but howling incessantly at night, and always waiting for the chance of finding a wounded man on the road, or a shot horse.

There were five thousand men missing when the army went into winter quarters, and an overwhelming number of those still present were suffering from one form of sickness or another. Everyone thought that the hardships of the retreat had been aggravated by the inefficiency of the Commissariat, and the Staff generally, so that the Memorandum issued for the consumption of officers by Lord Wellington sent a storm of indignation through the army. His lordship, in the worst temper imaginable, had condemned every one of the regiments under his command on the strength of the excesses of a few which had come under his own eye. A Memorandum to officers commanding Divisions and Brigades, the document was headed, but there was not an officer in the army who had not a copy to read. The Light division officers, proudly showing a return of only ninety-six men missing out of five battalions, looked in vain for some acknowledgement of their devotion to duty. All they found was a bitter reference to the habitual inattention of officers of the regiments to their duties. ‘My God!’ Charlie Beckwith said, when Kincaid read this aloud.