We looked towards the house. An ensign of some sort he had raised, sure enough; of what kind we could not immediately distinguish, but the fact was palpable. From the flat roof there rose a slender pole, and at its summit hung suspended and swinging in the wind a something—what?—the fox’s brush.
CHAPTER XVII.
Francisco spoke truly. It was defiance, and no mistake. To hang out a fox’s tail! Not only defiance, but mockery—rank insult! I had suggested to M. le Tisanier, in our recent parley, the possible arrival of an English force. But this was a contingency to be now as much deprecated on my part as on his. To be caught by my countrymen laying siege to my own prisoner ensconced in my own billet, the housetop surmounted by a banner which whimsically spoke the language of challenge and derision combined,—why, on returning to headquarters, I should never hear the end of it. M. le Tisanier might think it a very good joke; but I very soon settled it in my own mind that either by storm or by regular approach I must reduce him and his garrison in the least possible time. So nothing remained but to let slip the dogs of war—i. e., to open the campaign.
From inquiries instituted on my suggestion by the Padre, it was at once ascertained that the village possessed next to nothing in the shape of ammunition and matériel for carrying on the siege. M. le Tisanier had indeed very correctly stated that the bulk was in his own safe keeping. Burning the house would not exactly have suited the Padre, even had it been built of combustible materials, or had I myself entertained any such truculent designs.
Without interruption on the part of the enemy, I reconnoitred the building on all sides. It stood in its strength, completely detached from all other tenements, without garden, trees, fences, or anything else affording cover for our approaches. Close by, indeed, there stood a small shed which served as a wood-house, solidly built of stone. But this also was entirely detached from the main building; and its door, opening sideways, was completely commanded from the roof and windows of the house itself.
Having posted some of the villagers to watch in the surrounding cottages, with directions to report if they noticed any movement in the house, but not to show themselves, the Padre and I, not in the best of humours, were about to withdraw to our dinner at the Alcalde’s. At that moment, with some surprise, I noticed Sergeant Pegden coming down the village from the hospital.
Sergeant Pegden was a Dover man. On my visit to the hospital the day before, I had left him, tardily convalescent, in bed. His conduct in the regiment had been always good, and had gained his actual rank as a noncommissioned officer. Like many other fine fellows, he had knocked up in the Vittoria campaign; and, after going into hospital, he had appeared to be labouring under a total prostration of physical powers, almost amounting to atrophy. He there was kept as comfortable as circumstances permitted, and had perfect rest. But even with all the benefit of M. le Tisanier’s culinary skill, he had made but poor progress; in fact, his frame appeared too far exhausted to recruit, except very gradually indeed, by either rest or nourishment.
The Sergeant’s step, as he now approached, was shaky, almost tottering. His countenance, emaciated while he remained in bed, now looked deathlike. He had turned out neat and tidy after a fashion, though his clothing was worn and faded. He reached us, and we exchanged salutes.
“Why, Pegden,” said I, “what brings you down here?”
“Please—sir,” he feebly replied, “I hope you’ll excuse me; but we heard what has happened, so I thought I had better come down. Would have been here a good bit sooner, sir, only if I hadn’t not had some stitching to do first.”