That was all. Tom found himself outside the tent, still saluting.
"A pretty job to unravel," he told himself. "And what's on to-morrow?"
Yes, what was to happen when the day broke once more across the smooth surface of the River Tormes?
There was to be war, real war, war in the open, the like of which Tom had never before witnessed.
[CHAPTER XVI]
The Battle of Salamanca
The gentle tinkle of convent bells, the lowing of distant oxen, and the cheery whistling and singing of the men of Wellington's 1st Division awakened Tom on the morrow of his arrival in the neighbourhood of Salamanca. He shook off his blanket and rose, stretching himself, then inhaled the balmy summer air, and enjoyed the hazy view over the heights of the Arapiles, a precipitous part adjacent to the city, and split into two portions, known as the Sister Arapiles.
A thousand bivouac fires were smoking, a thousand and more busy cooks struggled to prepare the rations for the day, while soldiers came and went carrying ammunition, food, fodder, and water, or leading long, roped lines of horses up from the river.