With Wellington in Spain: A Story of the Peninsula

by F. S. Brereton

"Lively with it, boys!" shouted Howeley and Andrews together, using a language half English, a little Portuguese, and the rest nothing in particular. "Lively does it! Dress up there on the left. 'Shun! Stand at ease! Back there that swab away on the left."

Rigidly erect, the toes of their English-made boots forming a line which would have drawn a note of approval even from the lips of a liverish martinet, Tom's men stood at attention, muskets at the shoulder, bayonets already fixed. And then, with a clatter, they sat down, having piled their weapons.

"Two hours since we left camp; perhaps we'd better give 'em some grub," suggested Jack, peeping into his own haversack. For whatever may have been the duties of this ensign, he was still just the overgrown boy, always hungry, always ready for a meal.

"Always growing, that's the reason," he had often explained. "Must have something at hand to build up an increasing framework."

How those two hours had changed the July morning! The sun swam redly overhead, approaching the vertical position; a few fine clouds flecked the sky; while the heights, the distant cork forest sheltering the French battalions, still looked peaceful enough. But there was the roar of guns in many directions. Away behind Pack's brigade, posted on an eminence, and sheltered by the straggling buildings of a farm, was a British battery, busily pumping shot over the heads of the sitting brigade at an enemy then invisible to Tom and his comrades. The answering shot likewise shrieked above the brigade, and more than once Jack pointed, while men scrambled to their feet and looked about them as if terrified.

"Don't look well for later on," he jerked out crisply. "But you never know. Anyway, the bulk of them are taking matters coolly."

No wonder the peace of the land about Salamanca was disturbed; for to match the masses of the enemy Wellington had collected some 40,000 men, including 3500 cavalry and 54 guns. These he had on this eventful day beneath his eye, cut up into divisions, and so placed that he could move his forces rapidly. His right rested on the foothills of the Sister Arapiles, as yet unoccupied by our men, but at that moment being scaled by the French legions. His left extended to the River Tormes, while he himself passed this way and that, eagerly watching the movements of the enemy. Marmont was even more busy than Wellington, and there is little doubt but that he hoped by this general action to smash the power of the commander who was now such a thorn in his side, and to cut him off from Portugal completely. His right manœuvred persistently for the road to Ciudad Rodrigo, while his left marched on the Arapiles, and now occupied one of the heights. For the rest, his centre was masked by a cork wood, through the gaps in which came the reflections from the flashing bayonets of his battalions.

A burst of firing echoed across the plain from the village of Arapiles, now occupied by our infantry. Flying figures were seen struggling down the heights and forming up at their base. Shot plunged over the heads of Pack's sitting brigade and smote those descending ranks. And then came the rattle of drums, the cheers of frantic men, a red flash as muskets were exploded, followed by the pitter-pat of independent firing. Crash! Bang! Those guns behind the farm pounded the advancing French, ploughing the ground about them. The cheers broke out even louder, and were drowned by a torrent of musketry which flashed round the post held by British infantry.

The same scene, diversified a little, was happening away on our left, where our battalions manœuvred against Marmont's, holding them back from that all-important road. Elsewhere, when not actively engaged, or making some countering move, troops sat down in their formation, men nibbled at their rations, while a squadron of horse slowly cantered across a dusty part, into which the enemy's cannon ball plumped in quick succession. Tom found himself actually feeling drowsy, Jack Barwood looked as if he could willingly drop off to sleep, while some of the regiment were stretched full length, their eyes tight closed, not even bothering to open them when there came a clatter near at hand and a ball trundled and roared past them.

Down below those heights, to which we have referred so often, sat Wellington, wearied with long watching and counter manœuvring, dismounted now, his spyglass in his pocket, and himself seated at a midday meal, which he needed as much perhaps as any of his soldiers. For the moment he could do no more. He was merely watching and waiting. Thus he and his staff snatched a hasty meal, wondering what the result of the day was to be for them. Then came electrifying news—Marmont was extending his left. He was pushing his divisions up into the Arapiles, leaving his centre denuded, while right and left wings of his army were steadily getting farther and farther from one another. It was the moment for which Wellington had been waiting; it was the moment of all others in which to strike. That critical stage in the coming contest had arrived where one leader, in this case Marmont, attempts too great a task; while his opponent, watching him like a cat, sees the error, realizes the opportunity, and sends his men headlong to make the most of it. There, in fact, as Wellington looked through his spyglass, were the divisions forming the French left separated from their centre; while, in addition to this attempted enveloping movement, Marmont was still manœuvring his right, so as to close the road to Ciudad Rodrigo. Here, in fact, if we look closely into the circumstances, was an example of divided force, that for which Wellington was ever seeking. His acuteness, and the strenuous fighting of his men, had separated Marmont from other French armies. Now Marmont's own dispositions had separated his left wing from its centre and right, and at this precise moment the opportunity had come to beat his army in detail.