With Wellington in Spain: A Story of the Peninsula

by F. S. Brereton

"Better, sir, beggin' pardon," came from Andrews, with his accustomed formula demanding pardon. "Surgeon's been and gone; says as Mr. Clifford's as hard as rocks, and if he wasn't he'd have been trampled and banged to pieces. Swears as he must have fust of all been blowed skyhigh, and then charged over by a thousand of the stormers. He's takin' notice of things, sir, is Mr. Clifford. Axing fer the regiment, and you. He'd have been out of bed if I hadn't prevented him—and, my word, he were a handful!"

"Ah!" ejaculated Jack, a grin rising on his solemn features. "A handful! Tom's that all the time. Wanted to get up, eh?"

"Yes, sir," grunted the rifleman, still stiffly at attention. "'Not you, sir,' I says; 'you're as weak as a kitten.' 'Rot!' he whispers, 'cos he can't speak no higher. 'I've got work, Andrews.' 'So has we all,' I answers. 'Orders is orders, sir.' 'Eh?' he asks, sharp-like, as you know, sir. 'Orders that you're to stay abed, sir,' I says, not half-liking things. 'Orders be hanged,' he tries to shout, struggling to get up, and then falling back on the pillow."

"Like him," smiled Jack. "Anyway he's safe now, eh?"

If it were a question of our hero's security from interference, then there was little doubt; for beside those two sentries parading outside the courtyard of the house in which he lay, there were a dozen more at different points, with Andrews and Howeley to supervise them. Nor were such precautions to be wondered at when the tale of the last few hours was told. Tom had not only passed through the dangers of a siege. True, he had escaped the ordeal at the breaches, and had been borne still breathing into the town. But there another danger had suddenly assailed him; for no sooner was he laid in bed, and Jack had departed, than the watchful Andrews had discovered a sneaking form clambering in by one of the windows. Had Andrews been Septimus John Clifford's head clerk he would then and there have made a discovery of vast importance, and one which we will at once hand on to the reader. For this sneaking intruder, bearing a stiletto in one hand, was none other than José de Esteros, Tom's cousin, now sunk to the lowest depths of infamy, and forestalled just in the nick of time in the endeavour to carry out further villainy. He had made good his escape, and, as a result, Tom's little command now watched over their damaged leader.

The best of food, the most careful attention on the part of the army surgeon, and the tenderest nursing at the hands of Andrews and others were already having their effect, and so, for a while, we may leave our hero, satisfied that he will bob up again in the future and encounter more adventures in this memorable campaign.

Let us then step outside the walls of Badajoz, walls conquered at huge sacrifice by the British, and after the most gallant fighting. For it will already have been gathered that this Peninsula campaign was full of incidents, all of which the space at our disposal prevents our mentioning. In the circumstances it will be readily understood that with troops operating here and there over a wide stretch of country there were numerous affairs, some mere skirmishes, some approaching a big engagement, which, while they each and every one undoubtedly helped on the end at which our leaders aimed, and are with equal certainty recorded in official histories, yet for the purposes of this narrative are of small account.

Beginning in 1808, as already recorded, this memorable campaign had at first seen a succession of commanders sent by the vacillating Ministry in England, and of these the great Wellington alone remained, having proved his right to lead our armies. Those momentous months since the opening of the campaign had witnessed, as the reader will remember, the dismissal of the French from Portugal and the advance of our armies into Spain. The tragedy of Sir John Moore's retreat over the border had followed; and we have seen Wellington forced backward in Portugal itself, till the enemy held the country right down to the formidable heights of Torres Vedras. And then had come the turn of the tide. The vast masses of men controlled by Napoleon had been sent to the rightabout, and here, in the eventful year 1812, we find Portugal once more swept clean of the enemy, and the important fortresses of Ciudad Rodrigo and of Badajoz in the hands of the British. The tide had turned, we say, and, like the energetic and astute leader he was, the great Wellington at once proceeded to follow up these successes, and to push on into the heart of Spain, with the one object of forcing the enemy finally to quit the Peninsula.

But no narrative of the events which had already happened would be complete without mention of a force, subtle enough and slow to be seen at first, which was now steadily aiding the efforts of our soldiers. Despite the criminal neglect of our ambassador in Madrid, despite, too, the wicked opposition and folly of the Spanish Junta in particular, and in smaller measure of the Portuguese Junta, both of which bodies had persistently opposed each and every aim of the British, our armies had fought and won. Often enough the gallant, thin red line had been basely left by the fleeing troops of Portugal and Spain to face the onslaught of Napoleon's trained battalions. And yet that thin red line of gallant souls had conquered. Their persistence, their cheerful bravery in the face of enormous odds, and their bull-dog, strenuous fighting had told its tale on the masses of the enemy. Scepticism as to their worth as soldiers, a scepticism natural, perhaps, to troops highly trained, and till then victorious in all directions, had been changed to hearty respect, if not to actual fear. That feeling of respect engendering fear and caution alone was the subtle force now aiding our armies. Each man, whether officer or private, had the utmost confidence in his leaders and in his comrades; while the French, bearing the late prowess of the British in mind, wondered whether success were now as certain as they had imagined. Who knows? The persistent advance of our armies, the skill of our leaders, and the bull-dog courage of our men may well have had their effect upon the great Napoleon himself. Accustomed to see his arms successful in every venture, he found in the British a foe who knew no defeat, and who pressed him always. For the Portuguese this restless Emperor may have had some respect; for the Spanish he had only hatred, since their determination not to accept his brother as their king, and their incessant rioting and attacks upon his soldiers had caused him trouble and anxiety. Now there were the British to deal with. British opposition had wrested Portugal from the all-conquering Emperor of France. She was now thrusting her way into the heart of Andalusia. That meant further strenuous fighting, and if past records were to be repeated, it meant further British victories, in spite of the mass of Napoleon's armies. Who knows, then, we suggest, that this fear may have weighed with the restless Emperor of the French, with the ambitious and avaricious little corporal? To be balked in his wishes was with him ever, as with all such men, galling in the extreme. Here, in the Peninsula, our coming and our intervention had resulted in tremendous efforts on the part of Napoleon, efforts set aside by Wellington's armies. And now the tide had turned. What wonder if Napoleon, realizing that here he was on the verge of a defeat, turned his eyes to other conquests? Whatever the cause, Russia now attracted the attention of the Emperor. He had ridden posthaste for Paris. France, groaning already beneath the weight of taxation necessary to maintain such huge armies in the field, was being bled still further, both in money and men, to provide another army of conquest. Troops were already massing on the borders of Russia, and soon was to arrive that calamity which will always hold a prominent place in the histories of the world. For Napoleon was marching to defeat. The plains of Russia were to see his armies swept almost out of existence, while the crops now ripening at the beginning of summer, a summer which Wellington in Spain had determined to make the greatest use of, were to flare up before Napoleon's troops could lay their hungry hands on them. Moscow, the city of promise, the magnet drawing the ambitious and reckless Emperor to destruction, was to burn before his eyes, and thereafter snow and frost and desperate hunger were to fight his armies silently, while Cossacks in their thousands hung like a swarm of flies about the flanks, slaughtering the helpless.

But we are forestalling events. Napoleon had left the Peninsula for other and, as he imagined no doubt, easier conquests, leaving his generals in Spain the difficult task of driving out a British army which, with few exceptions, had proved itself absolutely invincible.