With Wellington in Spain: A Story of the Peninsula

by F. S. Brereton

A couple of minutes before, a casual glance at the troopers forming the escort to the two carts would have shown doubt on many of the sun-burnt faces; for the difficulty which confronted the fugitives both before and behind was great. That in front seemed almost insuperable, and, seeing it, more than one of the men wondered whether, after all, this was to be the end of their adventure, if here the peasants would hem them in and slaughter them. But Tom's brisk orders and the novelty of his suggestions set them smiling.

"Peste! But this Englishman has brains," grunted one of them, swinging himself swiftly out of his saddle. "These Portuguese peasants are pudding-headed beside him. One moment ago and I thought that the end was near, that I and Strasbourg would see one another no more. Now the path is easier for us—you will see these demons run."

But that had yet to be proved. Massed behind the upturned cart, and already pouring shot at the troopers, the band of peasants hooted and shouted in triumph. They hardly seemed to notice the eight troopers who broke from the ranks of the little procession; for at that moment the store cart was swung round, and the process of slowly backing it towards the enemy began. That operation attracted their whole attention, and soon bullets were thudding against the barrel of wine, tearing a way into the midst of the hams loaded on the cart, or smashing the jars of preserves which the excellent padre's housekeeper had set aside for him. Some went to either side—for the peasants were not first-class shots—while others pelted underneath, passing between the legs of the horse, splashing against the road, and sending little spurts of dust into the eyes of the troopers. The latter made excellent use of the cover. Two were bent double beneath the cart, and already their carbines were cracking sharply. A third lay on the stores, his head shielded by a wooden box which was filled with sugar, while the remainder walked on either side of the horse, leaning outward and firing whenever an opportunity occurred.

Tom called the remaining troopers about him, and bade them make ready for a charge.

"Once our fellows get on the hill above and outflank them we'll gallop forward," he said. "Ride at the upturned cart. Swing when you get near, and pass in behind. Once we have those rascals moving we'll keep them on the run. So chase them right through to the valley, and there halt till we come up. Ah! Our boys are getting to work. There go their carbines."

The attack was not one that could be made hurriedly, for a horse cannot be backed at a fast pace, and then the ground to be covered by the men sent to outflank the enemy was steep and difficult. Indeed, had the peasants but posted a few of their own men on either hand they could have at once put a stop to such a movement. But it had never crossed their minds that Tom and his men would force this natural gateway. They imagined that they would come to a halt, and that presently, on the arrival of their comrades from the village, the troopers and their English friends would be cut down to a man. That, in fact, was what would have happened had they delayed. But the flanking party scrambled rapidly into position, while the store cart advanced steadily and persistently, the shots from the troopers sheltering behind it causing havoc amongst the Portuguese. Tom allowed five minutes to elapse, and then, waving a sabre overhead, led Andrews and Howeley and the two or three troopers still remaining against the barricade. Cramming his heels into the flanks of his horse, he sent him down the road at breakneck speed. Swinging past the cart where the troopers were sheltering, he dashed at the obstruction behind which the peasants stood, and, swinging again, burst in on the far side. Andrews and Howeley followed with great dash, while the French troopers were not a yard behind them. And then began a furious struggle. Men slashed desperately at them with scythes, others attempted to unhorse the riders, while a few dived in with the intention of killing the animals. But those swinging sabres beat them off. Already the bullets of the attackers had had some effect, particularly the galling shots of the flanking party. For a moment the issue hung in the balance. Then the men who had fired from behind the cart came up at a run, and instantly the peasants bolted, the three troopers and Howeley galloping after them and keeping them on the run. Perhaps two minutes later the blare of a trumpet was heard in front, and then the clatter of drums. While Tom stared at the retreating peasants, and at the forms of his own men, some twenty or thirty gaily uniformed lancers rode into view, blocking the far end of the pass. The long lances were lifted from their rests as Tom looked. The pennons fluttered, and then down came the points. A second later an officer rode to the front of these lancers.

"Ah!" gasped Andrews, gaping at them.

"Ma foi!" growled one of the Frenchmen at Tom's elbow.

"English—hooray, they're our boys!" came in high-pitched tones from the cart in which Jack and the naval officer were accommodated, and which had been driven up to the scene of the conflict. Upright on the mattress on which he should have been lying stood Jack, wobbling badly, shrieking his delight at the top of his voice. As for Mr. Riley, perspiration covered his forehead and streamed down his face. He held out a hand as they came nearer, signalled to Tom, and gripped his with a feeling there was no misunderstanding.

"Gallantly done, lad!" he cried. "You've pulled us out of the wood. The coming of the lancers has nothing to do with the matter, though it'll help to make things comfortable. Boys, three cheers for Mr. Clifford!"