CHAPTER XVII.
Francisco spoke truly. It was defiance, and no mistake. To hang out a fox’s tail! Not only defiance, but mockery—rank insult! I had suggested to M. le Tisanier, in our recent parley, the possible arrival of an English force. But this was a contingency to be now as much deprecated on my part as on his. To be caught by my countrymen laying siege to my own prisoner ensconced in my own billet, the housetop surmounted by a banner which whimsically spoke the language of challenge and derision combined,—why, on returning to headquarters, I should never hear the end of it. M. le Tisanier might think it a very good joke; but I very soon settled it in my own mind that either by storm or by regular approach I must reduce him and his garrison in the least possible time. So nothing remained but to let slip the dogs of war—i. e., to open the campaign.
From inquiries instituted on my suggestion by the Padre, it was at once ascertained that the village possessed next to nothing in the shape of ammunition and matériel for carrying on the siege. M. le Tisanier had indeed very correctly stated that the bulk was in his own safe keeping. Burning the house would not exactly have suited the Padre, even had it been built of combustible materials, or had I myself entertained any such truculent designs.
Without interruption on the part of the enemy, I reconnoitred the building on all sides. It stood in its strength, completely detached from all other tenements, without garden, trees, fences, or anything else affording cover for our approaches. Close by, indeed, there stood a small shed which served as a wood-house, solidly built of stone. But this also was entirely detached from the main building; and its door, opening sideways, was completely commanded from the roof and windows of the house itself.
Having posted some of the villagers to watch in the surrounding cottages, with directions to report if they noticed any movement in the house, but not to show themselves, the Padre and I, not in the best of humours, were about to withdraw to our dinner at the Alcalde’s. At that moment, with some surprise, I noticed Sergeant Pegden coming down the village from the hospital.
Sergeant Pegden was a Dover man. On my visit to the hospital the day before, I had left him, tardily convalescent, in bed. His conduct in the regiment had been always good, and had gained his actual rank as a noncommissioned officer. Like many other fine fellows, he had knocked up in the Vittoria campaign; and, after going into hospital, he had appeared to be labouring under a total prostration of physical powers, almost amounting to atrophy. He there was kept as comfortable as circumstances permitted, and had perfect rest. But even with all the benefit of M. le Tisanier’s culinary skill, he had made but poor progress; in fact, his frame appeared too far exhausted to recruit, except very gradually indeed, by either rest or nourishment.
The Sergeant’s step, as he now approached, was shaky, almost tottering. His countenance, emaciated while he remained in bed, now looked deathlike. He had turned out neat and tidy after a fashion, though his clothing was worn and faded. He reached us, and we exchanged salutes.
“Why, Pegden,” said I, “what brings you down here?”
“Please—sir,” he feebly replied, “I hope you’ll excuse me; but we heard what has happened, so I thought I had better come down. Would have been here a good bit sooner, sir, only if I hadn’t not had some stitching to do first.”
“What other men,” I asked, “are able to turn out?”
“Please, sir,” replied he, “that’s what they wished me to speak to you about. There’s five of them as says they can come down whenever you please, sir, only if they had a few buttons, and some needles and thread.”
“Which five are they?” said I.
“There’s the Lancashire man, sir,” he answered, “and there’s Sandwich Sam, and Cockney, and the Parson, them four. And there’s Teakettle Tom, he says he thinks he could come, only he hasn’t not got no breeches.”
“Very good,” said I; “go into the house, and take some refreshment, while we see what the village can supply. To-morrow morning you can bring the men down.”
The Padre having instituted an inquiry in the village to meet the requisition for military stores, we sat down to dinner. All the articles required were soon forthcoming; so, having allowed the Sergeant a little time for rest and refreshment, I directed Francisco to take the things, and to go back with the Sergeant to the convent.
Dinner concluded, we were leaving the house, when I was surprised to find Sergeant Pegden seated in the porch.
“Why, Sergeant,” said I, “will you take anything more to eat or to drink? I fear you have overtaxed your strength.”
“Nothing more, thank’e, sir,” said the Sergeant. “Much obliged to you for all favours. Only please, sir, I’m waiting for that Sandwich Sam. I brought him down with me from the hospital; only when we got into the village he hung behind, because he said he wasn’t regimental.”
“Well,” said I, “bring him down in the morning with the rest, as tidy as you can turn them out. When you get back to the hospital, you will probably find he is there before you. By the by, Pegden, I suppose you know all about those two Spaniards up there.”
The Sergeant sniggered. “Yes, sir,” said he; “we all knows pretty well about them.” The smirk on the Sergeant’s cadaverous visage reminded one of a death’s-head illumined by a flash of lightning. In fact, it might be truly said that the Sergeant “grinned horribly a ghastly smile.”
“Well then,” I added, “tell the men I depend on their good behaviour. There must be no annoyance, no interference of any kind.”
I had by this time mentally arranged my plan of operations for the next day. So, after posting a relief of sentinels, I lay down in my clothes, occasionally going my rounds till daybreak, to keep the watchmen wide awake, and secure a good look-out. What I chiefly apprehended was an attempt of the garrison to escape in the night.