With Wellington in Spain: A Story of the Peninsula

by F. S. Brereton

Riding round the bivouacs of the besieging army after their chat with the staff officer, Tom began to gather a better impression than he had ever had before of the numerous duties attached to soldiering.

In the background, well away from the investing regiments, were many horse lines, where rows of animals were picketed, their riders being encamped near at hand. Closer to the fortress lay the lines of regiments engaged in the actual work of the siege, and here many a camp fire blazed. Whole rows of camp kettles sat over the long trenches dug in the muddy ground, while the flames from wood fires swept beneath them and sent billows of odorous steam into the air. Butchers were at work slaughtering beasts bought for the feeding of the troops, while not far away a sentry stood guard over a spring which was the drinking supply for that portion of the army. But it was still nearer the fortress that the real interest lay; for there hundreds of men were delving, cutting trenches, and steadily advancing them toward the enemy. Indeed, that very day, they had need of every bit of cover; for guns opened from Badajoz, and clouds of grapeshot swept across the open.

"Hot work, ain't it?" grinned Jack, who with Tom was making a tour of inspection. "Put your head up, Tom, and take a squint at those Frenchies."

"And get it shot to pieces for my trouble. Thanks!" came the laughing answer. "George! Listen to that."

"My uncle!" came from the young adjutant. "A regular torrent. How long and how often do they pepper you like that?" he asked of the sapper ensign who had invited them to inspect the work.

"How often? Couldn't say," was the laconic answer, as if the thunderous discharge of the guns of the enemy, and the roar of clouds of grape sweeping overhead were an everyday occurrence, and hardly worth discussion. "Oh, pretty often, especially at night! But it'd be all right if it weren't for this awful weather. You see, a chap has to grovel when the guns open, and that's bad for uniforms."

He was something of a dandy, this immaculate ensign of sappers, and stepped daintily along the deep trenches already constructed by the British working parties. Tom watched him with admiration as he brushed some dirt from his laced sleeve with a silk handkerchief, and then wondered satirically for one brief moment if this young officer were merely a heap of affectation, useless for any real work, merely an ornament to the profession to which he belonged.

"Certainly not that," he told himself a few seconds later, after seeing more of the ensign. "He's a born dandy, perhaps, but he's a plucky beggar, and a fine example to his men."

That, in fact, was precisely what this ensign was, as was the case with many another officer in Wellington's army. Example is everything when men are engaged in strenuous operations; and if those in command show coolness, determination, sangfroid, and other virtues, their own particular men are wonderfully heartened. And here was this ensign coolly flicking dirt from his laced sleeve, while a foot overhead grapeshot swept past in a torrent. There he was, joking and laughing with the jovial Jack as if he had not so much as a serious thought in his head, and as if this were merely a game. But a minute later he was leading the way to an outwork, strolling negligently across a portion necessarily exposed to the bullets of the enemy, and showing not so much as a sign of haste.