"Pleasures fled hence, wide now's the gulf between us;Stern Mars has routed Bacchus and sweet Venus:I can no more—the lamp's fast fading rayReminds me of parade ere break of day,Where, shivering, I must strut, though bleak the morning,Roused by the hateful drummer's early warning.Come, then, my boat-cloak, let me wrap thee round,And snore in concert stretched upon the ground."An Elegy.
The noisy racket maintained by those who were in custody of the rear-guard, the voices of others who whipped or cheered on the long string of baggage animals (Evora horses, Castilian mules, and sturdy burros or donkeys), the various novel sights and sounds incident to the march of Hope's division, together with the appearance of the division itself winding down the deep valleys and up the steep mountains like a long and glittering snake, amid clouds of white dust, out of which the sheen of arms and the waving of colours came incessantly, won Quentin from his sadder thoughts, and he began to feel, after all he had undergone, an emotion, of joy on finding himself among his old comrades—a joy that can only be known by a soldier—by one forming a part of that great and permanent, but almost always happy family, a regiment of the line.
The morning was bright and breezy; the large floating clouds cast their flying shadows over the sunlit landscape at times, adding alike to its beauty and the striking effect of the marching columns.
Weary of the dark and sallow Spaniards, Quentin's eyes had run along the ranks of the 25th, and their familiar faces, which seemed so fair and ruddy when contrasted with those of the nations they had come to free, were pleasant to look upon.
Their colours, with the castle triple-towered and the city motto; the familiar bugle calls, and more than all, the old quick-step of General Leslie, which came floating rearward from time to time when the corps traversed an eminence, all spake to him of his new but moveable home, and the new associations he had learned to love.
Cosmo—the impracticable and inscrutable—Cosmo Crawford—alone was the feature there that marred his prospects and blighted his pleasure!
He felt a sincere regret for poor Isidora, and this was not unmingled with a little selfish dread of her brother, De Saldos, the scowling Trevino, and others, when those guerillas joined the division, which they would probably do in the course of a day or so; and what answer would he make to them when they—and chiefly her brother—asked for the missing donna? He felt himself, indeed, between the horns of a dilemma, and many unpleasant forebodings mingled with his dreams of a brilliant future.
Amid these ideas recurred the longing to write home (how long, long seemed the time that had elapsed since he left it!) that the good Lord Rohallion and the gentle Lady Winifred—that dear Flora, and the old quartermaster too, might learn something of what he had seen, and done, and undergone since last they parted.
Had Cosmo, in any of his letters, ever written to announce that he was serving with the Borderers?
This was a question Quentin had frequently asked of himself, and he felt certain that the colonel had not done so, as in the other instance, and unless he had been cruelly misrepresented, Lord Rohallion or worthy John Girvan, and his old mentor the quaint dominie, would assuredly have written to him long since. Thus it was evident that in his correspondence with those at home in Carrick, the haughty Master had totally ignored his name.
Quentin's passion for Flora Warrender was a boyish devotion that mingled with all his love and all his memories of home. She was still a guiding star to his heart and hopes, the impulse of every thought, the mainspring of every act and deed; and thus Quentin felt that while this dear girl at home loved him—as sister, friend, and sweetheart all combined, the spiteful hauteur of Cosmo was innocuous and pointless indeed.
As the paymaster of the regiment was riding with the rear-guard, Quentin lost no time in placing in his hands a sufficient number of those gold moidores that were found in the repositories of the late Corporal Raoul, of the 24th Chasseurs a Cheval (the spoil so liberally shared with him by Ribeaupierre), for the purpose of having them transmitted by bill or otherwise to the quartermaster at Rohallion, to repay the good man for the forty pounds he had placed at his disposal on the night he left the castle to return no more; and the fact of this debt being off his conscience made his spirit more buoyant than ever.
They were now marching through the province of Alentejo, the land of wine and oil, the granary of Portugal. Long-bearded goats and great bristly swine were to be seen in all the pastures, but few or no horned cattle. Proceeding on a line parallel with the Spanish frontier, they passed through the fortified town of Alegrete, which is moated round by the small river Caia, and there each regiment made its first brief halt for a few minutes before pushing on to Azumar, some fourteen miles from Portalegre, where the division was to pass the night.
Those halts on the line of march were so brief that the bugles of the leading corps always sounded the advance when those of the rear were sounding the halt—ten minutes being the utmost time allotted.
On reaching Azumar, the lieutenant-general with his staff, and the colonels of corps, found quarters in the castle of the counts of that name, while the rest of the troops remained without the walls of the town.
The night was fine for the season, and clear and starry; a pinkish flush, that lingered beyond the summits of the Sierra Alpedriera to the westward, showed where the November sun had set. Tents were pitched for the whole force; but, before turning in for the night, Captain Askerne, Monkton, and other Borderers, preferred to sup in a cosy nook, sheltered by a ruined vineyard wall and a group of gigantic chestnuts, under which their servants had lighted a rousing fire of dry branches and wood, hewn down by the pioneers' hatchets.
Each added the contents of his havresack to the common stock of the party, and in the same fraternal fashion they shared the contents of their canteens, flasks, and bottles; thus various kinds of liquor, wine—brandy, and aguardiente, were contributed. What the repast lacked in splendour or delicacy was amply made up for by good humour and jollity, and to those who had an eye for the picturesque, that element was not wanting.
In the foreground the red glaring fire cast its light on the soldierly fellows we have introduced to the reader, as they sat or lounged on the grass in their regimental greatcoats, or cloaks of blue lined with scarlet, and their swords and belts beside them. The great chestnut trees were well-nigh leafless now, and with the rough masonry of the old wall, coated with heavily-leaved vine and ivy, formed a background.
Further off, in another direction, were the glares of other watchfires, around which similar groups were gathered—fires that shed their light in fitful flashes on the long rows of white bell-tents, on the dark figures that flitted to and fro, and on the forms of the distant and solitary sentinels, who stood steadily on their posts, the point of each man's bayonet shining like a red star as the flame tipped it with fire.
"Here comes Colville," said Monkton, as that individual, who was somewhat of a dandy and man of fashion, lounged slowly up, and cast himself languidly on the grass. "You have just been with the colonel, I suppose?"
"Yes—a deuced bore—to report the baggage all up with the battalion, the guard dismissed to their tents, and luckily, no casualties, save a mule that we lost in a bog."
"And you found him bland, as usual?"
"I found him quartered, not in the castle, as I expected, but in a deserted house half ruined by the French," replied Colville, smiling; "the only habitable apartment was the kitchen, where our colours are lodged, and there he was eating a tough bullock steak, embers and all, just as his man had cooked it, on the ramrod of an old pistol. Egad, it was a picture!"
"A dainty kabob we should have called it in Egypt," said Major Middleton, laughing, with a huge magnum-bonum bottle of brandy-and-water placed between his fat legs. "Ah, the Honourable Cosmo should not have quitted his guardsman's comforts at the York Coffee-house, or Betty Neale's fruit-shop in St. Jameses Street,* to rough it with the line in the Peninsula!"
* Two favourite resorts of the Household Brigade in those days.
"Did he compliment you on bringing up your disorderly charge without other loss than the mule?" asked Askerne.
"The devil a bit," yawned Colville; "with his glass stuck in his eye, he gave me one of his cool stares, and said, briefly, 'That will do, sir—to your company.'"
"Ah," grumbled Middleton, shaking his old head, while his pigtail swayed to and fro, "the colonel may have in his veins good blood, as it is called, but he has in his heart about as much of the milk of human kindness as if it belonged to an old lawyer."
The last part of the sentence, we are bound to add, was partly mumbled into the mouth of the magnum, which at that moment the major applied to his own.
"Here comes Dick Warriston," said Monkton, as an officer muffled in a cloak approached. "Hallo, Dick—how goes it, man?"
"Good evening, gentlemen—thought I should find you out. I heard on the march that our friend the volunteer had turned up again. How are you, Kennedy? glad to see you safe and sound once more," said Quentin's old friend, as they shook hands, and he cast his ample blue muffling aside, displaying his well-built figure, with the scarlet coat, green lapels, and massive gold epaulettes of the Scots Brigade.
"Be seated, Dick."
"Thanks, Askerne."
"Do you prefer a chair, or a sofa?" asked Monkton.
"The sofa, by all means," replied Warriston, stretching himself on the grass.
"There is brandy in that jar beside you, and Lisbon wine in the bottle. Here, under these fine old chestnuts, we are quite a select little pic-nic party, out of range of shot, shell, and everything——"
"Except fireflies and mosquitoes, Willie—a poor substitute for the girls, God bless them."
"Whose trumpets are these? what's up now?" asked Monkton, as a sharp cavalry call rang upon the night.
"The 3rd Dragoons of the German Legion, Burgwesel's regiment, are watering their horses."
"Those Germans are regular trumps in their order and discipline," said Monkton; "but as for the Portuguese, damme, they are not worth their liquor. Even the Johnny Crapauds despise them. You have just come in time, Warriston, to hear Kennedy relate to us his interview with the guerilla chief; go on, lad, we are all listening," he added, as he and others proceeded to light their cigars or charge their pipes for a thorough bout of smoking.
Quentin told them briefly as much of his adventures as he deemed it necessary to relate or reveal, from the time of his parting from Askerne to the hour of his return to Portalegre. The slaughter of the French prisoners at Herreruela drew forth loud execrations and unanimous condemnation. His illness at the Villa de Maciera was alone a mystery which he could not explain, and the manner in which he consequently and naturally blundered in narrating this part of his story, drew forth the laughter and the empty jests of the younger portion of his audience.
"Damme," said Monkton, "you were a bold fellow, Kennedy, to become spooney on the sister of such a melo-dramatic individual—such a regular 'heavy villain' as this guerilla De Saldos! Egad, the sight of the fellow, with those black moustachios you have described, each like a snake twisted under his hooked nose, would be enough to frighten the French!"
"Very singular style of person, your Spanish friend, I should think," lisped Colville, with his glass in his eye.
"Remarkably so," added Ensign Pimple, raising his white eyebrows; "decidedly a dangerous fellow to have a shindy with!"
"A most interesting individual, no doubt," said Buckle the adjutant; "but begad, not at all suited to a quiet rubber or a little supper party; takes mustard to his lamb, perhaps, and pepper to his enchanted eggs, but knows nothing, I'll be bound, of a devilled kidney, a broiled bone, and a tumbler of decent whisky toddy. 'Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard;' he is all spasms, big boots, and blue fire—eh?"
While they jested thus, and Quentin, with something of annoyance and vexation, looked from one to another, Askerne and Warriston, who were men of graver mood, had been eyeing him attentively.
"My poor lad,"' said the former, laying a hand kindly on his shoulder, "all this that you have related was a sad trial for you—a great test of courage and discretion for one so young to be subjected to, especially in a foreign country, and among a people so fierce and lawless."
"Your pistols were always my friends," said Quentin, laughing; "I thought of them in every extremity, Captain Askerne; but fortunately never had to use them."
"Then keep them, Quentin, my boy, as a little present from me," said the grenadier.
"But to deprive you——"
"Matters nothing—I took a handsome pair of silver-mounted pops from the holsters of a French officer the other day."
"Askerne has but anticipated me," said Warriston; "I had resolved to give you mine, though they were a gift to me from my father's old friend the Conservator of Scottish Privileges at Campvere, when the Scots Brigade came home and turned their backs upon honest old Holland for ever."
"Well, Kennedy," said Monkton, with a droll twinkle in his eye, "we've heard all your adventures, at leastso muchas you wisely, prudently, and discreetly choose to tell us; but I cannot help thinking that we could make a few interesting notes on the time spent in that ruined Château en Espagne. Was the donna young, black-eyed, beautiful, and all that sort of thing, eh?"
"By Jove," added Colville, in the same tone, "you are a regular St. Francis, or St. Anthony! But unlike you, if the donnas on the other side of the frontier think me worth their while, I am ready to be subjected to any amount of seduction the dear creatures may choose to put in practice."
Affecting neither to hear Monkton's banter nor Colville's addition, Quentin turned to Askerne, admiring the order that glittered on his left breast.
"This is Portuguese?" said he.
"Yes, Quentin—the Tower and Sword—given to me by the Junta of Oporto for capturing an exploring party, consisting of an officer and ten French dragoons of Ribeaupierre's regiment, whom I cut off in a narrow valley near Portalegre (on the very day after you left us), where I had been sent with twenty of ours to bring in forage."
"Askerne, I do envy you this decoration!" said Quentin, whose eyes sparkled with genuine pleasure and admiration, for medals were almost unknown in the British army then, and the Bath, as now, was only given to field officers; "and they were, you say, dragoons of Ribeaupierre?"
"The same corps with some of whom you fell in among the Spanish mountains. They are quartered in Valencia de Alcantara."
"Ribeaupierre!" said the bantering Monkton; "there is a name for an intelligent young man to go to bed with! It smacks of Anne Radcliffe's mysterious romances of 'Sicily' and 'The Forest.'"
"Yet it is the name of an officer as brave as any in France," said Quentin; "the general who bears it was a subaltern with Napoleon in the Regiment of La Fere, a town on an island of the Oise, where it was originally raised."
"Like that corps, the 24th Chasseurs à Cheval were originally under the monarchy," said Warriston.
"Their uniform is light green, faced and lapelled with white?"
"Exactly, Quentin—the same uniform worn by the Emperor on almost every occasion," replied Warriston; "the 24th were long known as the Disinterested Regiment of Chartres."
"An honourable title," said Askerne; "how came they to win it, thou man of anecdote?"
"About nineteen years ago, when the troubles of the Revolution were first beginning, the regiment was quartered at Le Mans, a town of France situated on the river Sarthe, if you have not forgotten your geography, Rowland. The corps then belonged—such was the French aristocratic term—to Louis Philip Joseph, Duke of Orleans,* the notorious 'Egalité' who was guillotined by the mob in 1793; but it was denominated 'of Chartres,' from the county of the name gifted to his ancestor by Louis XIV.
* Father of Louis Philippe I., late King of the French.
"The outrages of the Revolutionists were at their height around the whole of Mans. Day and night the dragoons of Chartres remained with their accoutrements on and their horses saddled ready to assist the magistrates and all peaceable citizens. Every day brought tidings of new horrors in the rural districts, and every night saw the sky reddened by the flames of burning chateaux, convents, and abbey-churches, whose occupants were given to pillage and death.
"So resolute and orderly were the dragoons of Chartres, so sturdily and bravely did they protect the weak against the strong, enforce the public peace, and conduct the transit of corn for the poor, that the magistrates deemed it necessary to make some acknowledgment of their services. A vote of thanks from the municipality preceded a gratuity of eight hundred livres (no great sum among us certainly, but a handsome one on the other side of the Channel) to be distributed among the three hundred Chasseurs of the corps.
"In a large bag the money, made, by the way, from the church bells of France, was sent to the colonel, who gave it to the men to dispose of as they pleased; upon which, instead of dividing it among themselves, they resolved unanimously to bestow it upon a portion of the very people who had been tormenting their lives for the last six months.
"One of the dragoons, a mere youth named Raoul, waited upon the Rector of St. Nicholas in the city of Le Mans and handing him the bag with its contents, said—
"'Monsieur le Recteur, we want not this money. The pay of His Majesty, whom God and St. Louis long preserve! secures us in all that a soldier requires; but the poor, though they are the children of God, are not so blessed. We, the dragoons of Chartres, beg, therefore, that you will accept of this for their use, and put it to the common stock for the aged and the indigent.'"
"And this soldier was named Raoul?" said Quentin, who felt something like a shock when he heard him mentioned.
"So the newspapers said," replied Warriston.
Quentin was silent, but the face of one of the dead dragoons whom he had seen at Herreruela—he who had been dragged by his stirrup—came vividly to memory; while, such is the effect of fancy, the moidores that remained in his pocket seemed to become heavy as lead.
The hour was late now, and he was completely overcome by fatigue. With a knapsack for a pillow he dropped asleep, while his more hardy comrades sat smoking and drinking, and discussing the fortune of the coming struggle in Spain.
As the light of the watch-fire waned and fell in flickering gleams on his features, they seemed pinched, pale, and wan.
"God help the poor fatherless boy," said Captain Warriston, with considerable emotion; "what hard fate brings him here? He seems quite a waif among us, and one that is hardly used by you fellows of the 25th in particular. I wish I had him with me in the Scots Brigade. This last devilish piece of duty has broken him completely down!"
"No, no, Warriston; there is good stuff in him yet," said Rowland Askerne, as he divested his broad shoulders of his own ample cloak, and kindly spread it over the sleeper. "At his age, I had neither father nor mother nor friend to dothisfor me, and I too was, like him, a poor volunteer!"
"Oh, life has many a varied tint,Has many a bright and lovely hue,Though care upon the brow may printA sadder, darker colour too.But hope still casts her rainbow wingsO'er many a scene of care and strife,And gilds the hours round which she flingsThe bright and varied tints of life."CARPENTER.
Sir John Horn's division continued to march by the strong old frontier town of Elvas, which crowns a rocky hill not far from where the Guadiana sweeps south towards the sea.
"To-morrow," said Monkton, as he placed the glaring red cockade of Ferdinand VII. on his shako, "we shall be airing our most dulcet Spanish in Old Castile, learning to dance the bolero, to tilt up our legs in the fandango, and to twangle on the guitar."
"I fear, Dick, that Marshal Soult will cut out more serious work for us," said Major Middleton.
"Do we halt at Elvas?" asked some one, as the regiment approached the town.
"Yes, thank Heaven!" exclaimed Monkton.
"We have marched twenty miles to-day, and to-night I am going to the camp of the 28th."
"On duty?"
"No; but because they have fallen in with a cask of whisky."
"Whisky!" exclaimed several voices. "Whisky here?"
"The best Farintosh. It was taken from the wreck of a Scotch transport in Maciera Bay, and, may I never see morning, if I don't beg, borrow, or steal at least a canteenful. The Slashers won't refuse me, I am sure."
Next morning, a march of ten miles brought them in sight of the great castle of Badajoz—that place of terrible but immortal memory!
Flanked by the waters of the Rivollas and Guadiana, flowing between vineyards and olive groves, it towered in clear sharp outline against the pure blue sky, on cliffs three hundred feet in height, with all its grim batteries and tiers of cannon bristling, row on row; its eight great bastions, each standing forth with one angle bathed in strong yellow sunlight, and the other sunk in deep purple shadow; the rich gothic spires and countless pinnacles of its churches and convents, and the glittering casements of its white-walled mansions that clustered on its rocky steep, all shining in the warm glow, while, in the background, extended far away the long green wavy outline of the mountains of Toledo.
Kellerman and Victor had alike been foiled before it, as the Portuguese had been in the days of the Archduke John of Austria, and now the scarlet and yellow banners of King Ferdinand VII. were still waving triumphantly upon the towers of San Cristoval, San Roque, and the Forts of Picurina and Pardaleras. The united clangour of, perhaps, five hundred bells, mellowed by the distance, came merrily upon the morning breeze, a welcome to the British. Then a white puff of smoke from the highest battery of the grand old citadel announced the first gun of a royal salute. Another and another followed, flashing from the dark embrasures, while the pale wreaths curled upward and floated away, till the whole round of twenty-one pieces was complete; but, as the city was two miles distant, each report came faintly to the ear, and at an interval after the flash.
Ere long, the twenty-eight arches of the noble bridge of the Guadiana rang beneath the hoofs of our Light Dragoons, as the advanced guard began to cross, and, amid the clangour of bells in spire and campanile, and the "vivas" of the assembled thousands, the reiterated shouts of "Viva los Ingleses!" "Viva los Escotos!" the infantry found themselves defiling through the lower streets of Badajoz and entering Spain.
Eyes dark and bright sparkled with pleasure and welcome from many an open lattice, and many a fan and veil were waved, and many a white hand kissed to the passing troops, as, with colours waving and bayonets fixed, they passed under the gaily crowded balconies on their way to the Guadiana.
Escorted by a guard of glittering Spanish lancers, mounted on beautiful jennets, a quaint old coach, such as we only see depicted in fairy tales or pantomimes, came slowly rumbling forward on its carved and gilded wheels. It was gorgeous with burnished brasses and coats armorial, but was shaped like a gigantic apple pie, drawn by six sleek fat mules, that were almost hidden under their elaborate trappings; and each pair had a little lean dark postilion, in cocked-hat and epaulettes, floundering away in boots like water-buckets, while, at the doors on both sides, hung two tripod stools, as the means of ingress and egress.
But, in front of this remarkable conveyance, the advanced guard halted with carbine on thigh, the officers saluting and the trumpets sounding, while the general and staff approached bare-headed, with hat in hand, for in the recesses of this apple-pie were the most Reverend Padres en Dios, the Archbishop of Santiago, the Bishop Suffragan of Compostella, Senores the Captain-general, the Alcalde of Badajoz, and a great many more, in civic robes and military uniforms, with crosses and medals, and all of these persons clambered out of the interior, and descended on terra firma by means of the three-legged stools aforesaid, coach-steps being as yet unknown in the realms of his Most Catholic majesty.
"Well," said Monkton, "this turn-out beats all the buggies I ever saw. By Jove! it is like Noah's ark on wheels. Such a team it would be to 'tool' to Epsom with!"
We shall skip the long and solemn, the flattering and bombastic speeches made by the Spanish officials, and the curt but manly responses given by the British on this auspicious occasion. Suffice it to say that, after a brief halt, the division continued its route by easy marches. The green hill of Albuera—the scene of a glorious battle three years after—ere long became visible on the right flank; but the day passed without any tidings being heard of the guerillas of Don Baltasar de Saldos, a circumstance which, in the course of conversation with Buckle the adjutant, the Master of Rohallion contrived that Quentin should know. Naturally he felt anxious about the matter, and feared in his heart that perhaps he had personally something to do with the non-appearance of this famous partisan chief.
Twenty-four miles beyond Badajoz brought the division, with all the heavy artillery of the army, to Montijo, a little town of Estremadura, where a camp was formed for the night near the Guadiana.
As contrasted with "the Granary of Portugal," through which they had latterly passed, the barrenness of wasted and long-neglected Estremadura impressed all with poor ideas of Spain.
"The great Conde was right," said Warriston, as the little group of the other evening assembled again, in nearly a similar manner, to sup by their watchfire, which was lighted near a deserted pottery in a field where the Indian corn had grown and been reaped; "right indeed, when he said if you wish to know what actual want is, carry on a war in Spain!"
"And the comforts of a Peninsular tour like ours are in no way enhanced when one's exchequer is low," said Monkton.
"True, Willie, and there is a wonderful sympathy between the animal spirits and the breeches-pocket."
"And I, for one, can show 'a regular soldier's thigh,' my purse has long since collapsed."
"Line it with these, Monkton," said Quentin, slipping a half-dozen moidores into his hand.
"What are these?—moidores, by the gods of the Greeks! But thanks, my friend, I shall pay you at San Pedro, where I shall bring our paymaster to book. I could lavish a colonel's pay, if I had it, which is never likely to be the case, for we're a devilish slow regiment, Quentin."
"But some of our Highland corps are slower still," remarked an officer.
"I have known a fellow to be four years an ensign in one of them, and every month at least once under fire all the time," said Askerne.
"They never sell out or purchase in, and then there is no killing them by bullets, starvation, or fatigue."
"For the baggage guard to-morrow, Mr. Monkton," said old Sergeant-major Calder, approaching the group, who were lounging on the grass; "for the colours, Mr. Hardinge and Mr. Boyle."
He saluted and retired, while Monkton apostrophized the baggage guard in pretty round terms.
"I should like to have halted one night at Badajoz," said Colville; "there is a theatre there, and other means of spending money which smack of civilization. Conyers——"
"Who's he?"
"Conyers of the 10th Hussars, one of Hope's extra aides-de-camp, says there are some beautiful girls to be seen on the promenade of poplars, the Prado beside the river, in the evening, where they all go veiled, with fireflies strung in their hair, producing a very singular effect."
"I would rather be whispering soft nothings into their pretty ears and over their white shoulders than be bivouacking here," said Monkton.
"I believe you, my friend; but perhaps the knife of some devil of a lover orcortejomight give your whisperings a point you never expected," replied Askerne.
"Try a sip from my canteen," said Monkton; "it contains some of the stuff I got the other night at the camp of the 28th, and better you'll find it than the aguardiente of the Spanish Hottentots. Take a pull, Quentin, as a nightcap, and then turn in under that laurel bush and sleep if you can, under your own bays, till the bugle sounds the 'rouse.'"
Remembering the injunctions of the worthy Padre Florez, Quentin declined.
"Well, well, boy, as you please," said Monkton, slinging his canteen behind him; "but what the devil's that? Cavalry!"
"It is the staff—the general," exclaimed Askerne, as they all started to their feet, and proceeded to buckle on their swords, as Sir John Hope, with several mounted staff officers and commanders of corps, among whom was Colonel Cosmo Crawford, approached slowly, checking their horses, and talking with considerable animation, while their flowing scarlet and white plumes, their cocked-hats, aiguilettes, and orders, the holsters, and housings of their horses, were all visible in the glare of the watchfire, on which the servants and pioneers were heaping fresh branches for the night, and the occasional flashes of which brought out in strong light or threw into deep shadow the martial group, imparting a Rembrandtish tone to the horses and their riders.
"What is this you say, Conyers?" Sir John was heard to ask; "repeat it to Colonel Crawford of the 25th. You bring us——"
"Most serious intelligence, sir," replied Conyers, who wore the blue and scarlet of the 10th Hussars, and who seemed flushed and excited by a long ride. "I have just come on the spur from Badajoz, and there tidings have reached the Captain-general that yesterday the Spaniards, under Don Joachim Blake, were again completely discomfited at Espinosa, and that the Estremaduran army, which was beaten the day before at Gamonal, is demoralized or cut to pieces; and that the first, second, and fourth corps of the French army, seventy thousand strong, are free to act in any quarter."
"First, second, and fourth—these are the corps of Victor, Bessières, and Lefebre."
"Exactly, Sir John."
"If they march against us, the whole siege and field artillery of the army may be lost!" exclaimed Hope.
"Nor is this all, sir," continued the aide-de-camp, speaking rapidly and with growing excitement; "the movement made by the guerillas of Baltasar de Saldos towards the hill of Albuera, to cover our advance, has been anticipated!"
"Anticipated!"
"Yes, Sir John."
"How, how?" asked several voices.
"General de Ribeaupierre with his whole brigade, consisting of the 24th Chasseurs à Cheval, the Westphalian Light Horse, numbering five hundred and sixty sabres, and the Dragoons of Napoleon, five hundred strong, aided by Laborde's corps and some field guns, issued from Valencia de Alcantara, attacked the guerillas in a valley near San Vincente, and captured their five pieces of artillery, killing the Conde de Maciera, a captain of Lancers, who made three charges to retake them; so De Saldos informs the Captain-general at Badajoz, that there must be treachery somewhere."
"Treachery," reiterated the general, while Cosmo Crawford put his glass to his eye and glanced with a malicious smile towards the group where Quentin, with others, stood listening to all this with the deepest interest, for until the "Courier," or some English paper reached them, they were often ignorant for months of what was enacted in other parts of Spain.
"Don Baltasar is on the march, however, to join us," resumed Captain Conyers; "he has made a detour by the left bank of the Valverde, and by to-morrow evening hopes to make his report to you in person."
"I thank you, Captain Conyers," said the general; "come, gentlemen, this is not so bad after all! To-morrow night we halt at Merida."
"Had you not better despatch a message to De Saldos, saying so," suggested an officer.
"My horse is used up, sir," said Captain Conyers, smiling; "he has gone forty-five miles, on a feed of chopped whin, over the most infernal roads too!"
"There is that young volunteer of ours," said Cosmo; "he acquitted himself so well before, Sir John——"
"That we should give him an opportunity of doing so again," interrupted the lieutenant-general.
"A good idea!" muttered some of the staff.
"Mr. Kennedy," said Cosmo, beckoning forward the anxious listener; "a message saying where we shall halt to-morrow is to be despatched to the guerilla De Saldos; you will, of course, only be too happy to bear it?"
"I beg most respectfully to decline, sir," said Quentin, emphatically, and with growing anger.
"What the devil, sirrah?" Cosmo was beginning.
"Ha—indeed, and wherefore?" asked the general.
"I am scarcely able to keep up with the regiment, General Hope," replied Quentin; "I have been seriously ill, and am more fit for hospital than for duty."
The general knit his brows, and Cosmo dealt Quentin, through his eyeglass, a glance of cool scrutiny, that deepened into withering scorn or hate without alloy.
"Very well, we must send an orderly dragoon," said Sir John Hope, turning away.
"Take care, Mr. Kennedy," said Cosmo, "lest at a future time this refusal may be remembered against you to your disadvantage."
"Crawford doesn't like you, Quentin," said Askerne, after the staff rode away; "it is a great pity, for, though cold and haughty, he is a brave and good officer."
"Damme, don't scoff at the service, Askerne," said Monkton, with mock severity.
Poor Quentin had a heavy heart that night; we are not sure that he did not shed some bitter and unavailing tears, for the forebodings of coming evil banished sleep when he most needed it, and crushed the soul within him.
But his comrades as usual sat long by the watch-fire, passing the night with song, jest, and anecdote. They had neither care for the present nor fear for the future, and their jollity formed a strong contrast to his forlorn sadness.
"I think we should now turn in," said Monkton; "we march betimes to-morrow; to your tents, O Borderers! But what the deuce is that?"
"Thegénérale," said Colville.
"Already!"
"Already, Monkton; and there sounds the gathering of the Gordons in the streets of Montijo."
"The nights are very short in the Penin-in-insula," said Monkton, scrambling up and making several attempts to buckle his belt.
"You'll have to sober yourself on the march, Willie," said Askerne, giving him a rough shake.
"By Jove! to have to fall in when one should go to sleep—to nod and drowse and dream while tramping on and on, your nose coming every minute down on the tin canteen or the knapsack of the man in front of you! It is miserable work; but what with contract powder that won't explode, ammunition shoes warranted not to last, diseased bullocks shot while at fever heat and eaten half raw, we are little likely to beat the French, either in fighting or marching."
"Unless, like them, we learn to hang an occasional commissary or contractor," said old Middleton, as he sprang with agility on his horse; and the regiment formed open column of companies in the dark, for daybreak was yet an hour distant.
"Lucius, the horsemen are returned from viewingThe number, strength, and posture of our foes,Who now encamp within a short hour's march.On the high point of yonder western tower,We ken them from afar, the setting sunPlays on their shining arms and burnished helmets,And covers all the field with gleams of fire."Cato, Act v.
Ere noon next day, while the division was traversing the grassy plain amid which lies the ancient city of Merida, the sound of distant firing on their right flank announced the repulse, by the guerillas, of some of the cavalry of Laborde's corps, when making a reconnoissance. The light white puffs of the musketry that curled along the green hill-sides, came nearer and nearer, and it soon became known that the band of the formidable De Saldos el Estudiente, above two thousand strong, had joined the division of Sir John Hope; as the newspaper of Lord Rohallion had it, a measure fully arranged "by the skill and courage" of our young volunteer. But though the army continued its march for several days, no recognition of his service, in orders or otherwise, ever reached him from head-quarters, and happily for himself, he saw nothing of the dreaded Baltasar, who fortunately was left in the rear, with an open sabre cut.
Ribeaupierre's cavalry brigade abandoned Valencia de Alcantara without firing a shot, on its flank being turned, and fell back, no one knew exactly where or in what direction.
Hope's division halted at Merida, a place eminently calculated to excite the deepest interest in the thinking or historical visitor, by its ancient remains; its great bridge of more than eighty arches spanning the broad waters of the Guadiana; the ruins of its Roman castle, which Alfonso the Astrologer gifted to the knights of Santiago, and in the vaults of which Baltasar's guerillas had thrust some unfortunate French prisoners; its triumphal arch of Julius Cæsar, under which the division passed with drums beating and colours flying, and its crumbling amphitheatre:—Merida, of old the Rome of Spain, and the home of the aged and disabled soldiers of the 5th and 10th legions of Augustus Cæsar, whose great pyramid still towers there, amid the ruins of its contemporaries.
There was ample accommodation in the town for the officers of the division; but yet not enough to prevent a dispute about rank, or precedence, or something else, between a Captain Winton of the Borderers, and an officer of the German Legion. So they met about daybreak near the Baths of Diana. The former was attended by Askerne of the Grenadiers, and the latter by Major Burgwesel of his own corps, and at the second fire Winton shot his man dead, Cosmo coolly lending his pistols for this occasion, without comment or inquiry, either of which would have been ungentlemanly, according to the temper or spirit of the service then.
Prior to this event, on the evening the division halted, Quentin, about the hour of sunset, had wandered to the old Roman aqueduct which lies near the city, and he remained for a time lost in thought while surveying its mouldering arches, and the piles of columns, bases, flowered capitals, enriched friezes, Corinthian entablatures, and broken statues, lying amid the weeds and long grass, the remains of the once superb temples, ruined by the Goths and Moors; and perhaps he was thinking of his old dominie at Rohallion, and the worthy pedant's profound veneration for the ancient days of Rome, the mistress of all the then known world.
The place was solitary and almost buried amid old vineyards and groves of now leafless trees. Under one of the mouldering arches, from which, notwithstanding the lateness of the season, masses of luxuriant creepers and trailers were yet hanging, Quentin, leaning on his musket, lingered to admire the scenery and the glory of the golden sunset, which spread its farewell radiance over the vast plain, of which Merida, from its situation on a lofty eminence, commands a view in every direction—the olive groves yet green and waving in the breeze, and the winding Guadiana, while far away in distance, all tinted in dusky blue or russet brown, but edged with flaming gold, stretched the mountain sierras, range over range, towards the north.
From the pleasant contemplation of this evening landscape he was suddenly roused by seeing a pair of fierce dark eyes glaring into his own.
It was the guerilla Trevino, of whom it seems a mockery to give his once prefix of Padre!
"So, senor," said he, with a terrible grimace, "we meet again, do we?"
"It seems so, senor," replied Quentin, haughtily, as he stepped back a pace, "and what then?"
"Only that I find you in very bad company."
"I am alone, senor."
"Well, and you alone form the company I refer to," replied the Spaniard, insolently, and with a savage grin, while the fingers of his right hand clutched the haft of his knife, and his thumb was firmly planted on the pommel. There was no mistaking this action or his air for anything else than open hostility, so Quentin warily stepped back another pace, and glanced hastily round to be assured that no other guerillas were lurking near, and then grasping the barrel of his musket, which was unloaded, he stood ready on his defence against an antagonist who possessed, perhaps, twice his bodily strength.
"What do you mean, Senor Trevino, by accosting me in this manner?" he demanded.
"I mean,hombre, that I have been lately at the Convent of Sant Engracia, and that Donna Isidora hasnotbeen heard of there; so, in the meantime, I and two or three others have sworn across our knives to kill you, that is all; leaving to time to reveal what you have done with her."
Something of this kind was what Quentin had long dreaded; but disdaining any attempt to explain or expostulate, and exasperated by the injustice to which he was subjected, he clutched his musket and said sternly—
"Stand back, fellow!"
"Ha!perro y ladron(dog and thief)—you will have it, then!"
With head stooped, body crouching, and knife drawn, the Spaniard was springing like a tiger upon Quentin, when the brass butt of Brown Bess, swung by no sparing or erring hand, fell full on his left temple, from whence it slid very unpleasantly down on his collar-bone, and tumbled him bleeding and senseless on the ground.
After this, Quentin, who was in no mood to feel any compunction about the affair, turned and left him to recover as he might, resolving, until in a more secure neighbourhood, not to indulge his taste for the picturesque or antique, and feeling exceeding thankful that he had not left his musket as usual in his tent.
"You were just in time, sir," said a voice, as Quentin turned to leave the ruined aqueduct; "an instant later and that Spanish thief had put his knife into you."
The speaker was Allan Grange, of the 25th, who, stooping down, took from Trevino's relaxed hand his knife, a very ugly pig-butcher-like weapon. A guerilla, doubtless some friend of Trevino's, was hastening forward at this moment, but on seeing Quentin joined by a comrade he drew back a little way, and so the affair ended for the time; but this was not the last that Quentin was fated to hear of the encounter.
By the ruinous town of Medellin (the birthplace of the conqueror of Mexico), where the Guadiana was fabled of old to rise, after running twenty miles under ground; by the wretched town of Miajadas, and by Truxillo, with its feudal towers and Moorish walls, when the French had ruined alike the house in which Pizarro was born and the noble palace of the Conde de Lopesa, the division continued its march amid rough and stormy weather, and, after passing Talavera de la Reyna—so called from the queen of Alonzo XI., to distinguish it from other places of the same name—halted, on the 22nd day of November, at the Escurial, that magnificent palace, twenty-five miles from Madrid, built by Philip II. in commemoration of the battle of St. Quentin, a holy personage, to whom he solemnly dedicated it.
With his regiment, our hero bivouacked outside the little village of Escurial de Abajo. The night was a fearful one of storm. Over the bare and desolate country the winter wind swept in tempestuous gusts and the rain fell in torrents, swelling all the streams of the Guadarama—for the weather was completely broken now.
In that horrible bivouac poor Quentin lost his blanket—his whole household furniture. Near him lay a soldier's wife with a sick infant; he spread it over both and left it with them; when the regiment shifted its ground next day the mother and child dropped by the wayside, so Quentin never saw them or his blanket again.
Here, as Sir John Moore had foreseen, and as General Hope had stated his fears to Cosmo, the enemy didpress forwardfrom Valladolid and Tordesillas, and the advanced posts of their cavalry being reported in sight, strong guards were posted and picquets thrown forward in front of the Escurial.
This forward movement of the French threatened to cut off Hope's communication with Sir John Moore, who was then at Salamanca, and might lose his artillery.
To prevent this, and effect a junction with the main body under the general, Hope marched from the Escurial on the 27th of November, and crossed the long and lofty mountain chain of the Guadarama, the cliffs of which are so steep that the Spaniards of old likened them to straight spindles. Moving by Villa Castin, a market-town at their base, he halted at Avila, on the right bank of the Ajada, where Quentin was billeted in the same house with Monkton, in that dark and narrow street in which the spiritual Maria Theresa was born—"Nuestra Serifica Madre," as she is named by the old Castilians.
The enemy's light cavalry were still pressing on, and at times their carbines were heard popping in the distance, when responding to our skirmishers. It was the gloomy morning of the first day of December; the rain was still falling in torrents, and the sky looked dark and louring.
Save an occasional exchange of shots between outposts and petty skirmishes, nothing of interest had taken place with the enemy, and the toil of this retrograde movement dispirited the troops. Even Monkton, one of the most heedless men in the regiment, was sullen and spiritless. Wearied by their long march, he and Quentin sat in their bare and miserable billet, silent and moody. It was in the house of a hatter, or maker of sombreros, facing the dark and narrow street, which was overshadowed by a gigantic parish church, the bells of which were ringing in honour of the British, and their notes came mournfully on the passing gusts of wind.
It was indeed a wild evening in Avila. The rain was pouring down in one uniform and ceaseless sheet, the wind bellowing in the thoroughfares with a melancholy sound, and the swollen Ajada was boiling in foam against the piers of its ancient bridge.
A miserable meal of tough beef, boiled with a little rice in a pipkin, had been served up by Monkton's servant, a poor half-starved fellow, whose single shirt had long since been reduced to its collar and wristbands, whose red coat showed innumerable darns and patches, and who now regretted the days when he forsook his plough on Tweedside to become a soldier. With their feet planted on a brasero of charcoal, cloaks muffled about them for warmth, and cigars in their mouths, our two warriors ruefully surveyed the bare whitewashed walls of their room, and then looked at each other.
"Rain, rain!" exclaimed Monkton; "what an infernal climate! And this is the land of grapes and sunshine! I've never seen such drops since I was in the West Indies with our flank companies, at the capture of Martinique."
At that moment, amid the lashing of the rain on wall and window, the roar of the wind, and the rush of the gorged gutters, the tramp of a horse was heard, and the voice of Buckle, who was brigade-adjutant for the day, was heard shouting—
"Fall in, the outlying picquets of the 1st brigade—sound bugle!"
But his voice and the half-strangled bugle notes were alike borne away by the tempest.
A heavy malediction escaped Monkton. This worthy sub had puffed at his fragrant Havannah till he had smoked himself into such a soothed state that he was quite indisposed "to be bothered about anything or anybody," as he said; and now he remembered that on halting the sergeant-major had warned him for out-picquet.
He sprang up and kicked the brasero aside, sending the smouldering charcoal flying right and left.
"Out-picquet!" he exclaimed, "and the rain coming down in bucketfuls! Damme, who would be a soldier abroad, while there are chimneys to sweep at home?"
A smart single knock now came to the door, as he belted his sword beneath his cloak.
"Come in—is that you, sergeant-major?"
"Yes, sir," said old Norman Calder, who was muffled in his grey great-coat, which, as he said, "smoked like a killogie."
"Where are these infernal picquets parading?"
"I've just come to show you, sir; they are falling in under the arcades opposite the Bishop's palace, where the staff are quartered. Fresh ammunition has just been served out to all."
"That looks like work."
"Yes, sir; the enemy's cavalry are in force upon the road towards Villa Castin, in our rear."
"We have heard little else since we fell back from the Escurial."
As a volunteer is always the first man for any perilous duty, Quentin buttoned his great-coat over his accoutrements and musket, and set out to join Monkton's picquet, which Buckle was parading, with several others, under some quaint old arcades of stone, above which the houses, with broad balconies and rich entablatures, remnants of the days when Avila was rich and flourishing, rose to a considerable height.
The daylight was nearly gone now, and already the half-drenched and half-fed soldiers looked pale and weary.
"As the weather has been frequently wet, and as the duty of to-night is an important one, you will be careful, gentlemen, to inspect the arms, flints, and ammunition of your picquets," said Buckle; "and as the prickers may not be deemed sufficient to indicate the state of the touch-holes, the butts will be brought to the front."
"Butts to the front," an order then in use, was given by Monkton and each officer in succession, after which the ranks were opened, and every man blew down the barrel of his musket, so that by applying a hand to the touch-hole the real state of the vent was ascertained by the inspector.
"Handle arms—with ball cartridge, prime, and load—secure arms!" followed rapidly, and away went the out-picquets, double-quick, through rain and mire, wind and storm, to their several posts, Monkton's being a mile and a half beyond the bridge of the Ajada, in tolerably open ground, interspersed with groups of little trees.
Under one of these he sheltered his picquet, and two hundred yards in front of it posted his line of sentinels, with orders not to walk to and fro, but to stand steadily on their posts, to look straight to their front, to fire on all who could not give the countersign, and to keep up a regular communication with each other and with those of the picquets on both flanks; and then each man was left for his solitary hour, the time allotted for such duty when in front of an enemy.
About daybreak, after a short nap in the thicket, and after imbibing a sip from his canteen of rum grog—the last of its contents—Quentin found himself on this solitary but important duty, posted on the centre of the highway, gazing steadily into the murky obscurity before him, and thanking Heaven in his heart that the rain had ceased, and that the cold and biting December wind was passing away.
"'Tis true, unruffled and serene I've metThe common accidents of life, but hereSuch an unlooked-for storm of ills falls on meIt beats down all my strength—I cannot bear it."ADDISON.
This was not the first occasion on which Quentin had enacted the part of sentinel; but never had he done so with the knowledge that the enemy was before him, and perhaps at that moment closer than he had any idea of, among the mist that obscured the landscape.
All was quiet in front and rear; save the drip of the last night's rain from an over-charged leaf, or the croaking of the bull-frogs in a marsh close by, not a sound broke the stillness.
The dull grey winter morning stole slowly in; the distant mountain peaks of the Guadarama grew red, but all else remained opaque and dim, save the jagged summits of that loftysierra—a Spanish word very descriptive of a range of conical hills, being evidently (as we are informed by a letter of the dominie) derived fromserra, the Latin word for a saw.
On the slope of a hill, at a little distance from where Quentin stood, was a gibbet, a strong post about twenty feet high, having two horizontal beams crosswise on its summit, and from these four arms there hung four robbers, each by the neck, and their long black hair waved over their faces as they swung slowly to and fro in the morning wind, with the ravens wheeling around them, and perching on the arms of the gibbet.
The bull-frogs in the marsh croaked vigorously, and like every other place in Spain, even this fetid swamp had its legend; for here it was that the Cid, Rodrigo de Bivar, when proceeding at the head of twenty young and brave hidalgoes, on a pilgrimage to the shrine of Saint James at Compostella, saw an aged and half-naked leper in the midst of the slough. Leaping from his horse, Rodrigo dragged the poor man forth, and to the wrath and disgust of his mail-shirted companions, seated him on his own charger, Babieca; thereafter he set him at table with them, and finally, in the extremity of his humility and Christian charity, shared his bed with him. In the night the cavalier awoke, and beheld the leper standing on a cloud above his bed, midway between the floor and ceiling, surrounded by a blaze of light and clad in white and shining robes; and ere he vanished he informed the Cid that he was Saint Lazarus, who had taken the form of a leper to test his charity, which was so commendable that God had granted he should prosper in all things, but chiefly in his wars against the infidel dogs who were troubling all Spain.
As the mists drew upward, Quentin could see about half a mile distant in front, a line of French cavalry videttes, each sitting motionless in his saddle, and both horse and rider looking like one huge and mis-shapen figure, as the scarlet cloak of the latter was spread over the crupper of his charger behind him.
While gazing steadily and with deep interest at the enemy, he was somewhat surprised to see two French dragoons suddenly ride from their own lines straight along the road towards his post.
That they were deserters—his first idea—was impossible, as they rode leisurely and were not fired on by their picquets. By their light green uniforms and brass helmets with flowing plumes he soon saw that they were Chasseurs à Cheval, and that one, who rode a few paces in front of the other, was an officer, with a white handkerchief tied as an extempore flag of truce to the point of his sabre.
Monkton, and the main body of the picquet, were rather beyond hail, and for a minute Quentin was irresolute what to do; but before he could decide upon anything, the officer came fairly up to him, and checking his horse on the bit, said in tolerable English—
"Monsieur le soldat, we have come hither on an errand of mercy. An old and valued officer of our corps is sinking under the fatigue of last night and the suffering incident to an old wound, so we have ridden over to see if there is not at least one brave and generous man among you, who will give us a mouthful of eau-de-vie or any other spirit to keep him alive; for though our surgeons order this,sangdieu, we haven't a drop in the whole brigade."
The interchange of many civilities, wine, biscuits, tobacco, and newspapers, frequently took place between our outposts and the French during the Peninsular wars. To such a length was this eventually carried, that they frequently went over to smoke at each other's watchfires; but a very stringent order of the Duke of Wellington put a stop to these visits.
Before the speaker had concluded his singular request, Quentin had time to recognise in him the French lieutenant whom he had so signally befriended at Herreruela.
"Monsieur de Ribeaupierre," said he, "don't you remember me?"
"Parbleu!yes—this is fortunate, my friend," said the other, grasping Quentin's hand; "I am glad to see you again, but not with the musket still—what! no promotion yet?"
"I am still but a volunteer."
"Ah—you should serve the emperor!"
"And then, we have not yet fought a battle."
"Had you not fallen back so rapidly on our advance from Valladolid and Tordesillas, we should have had the pleasure of capturing and escorting you all to France."
"Thanks for your good intentions."
"I still hope to see them carried out," said Ribeaupierre, laughing; "but here come some of your people," he added, waving his handkerchief, as Monkton, who had witnessed this interview, came hurrying forward, with his sergeant, and a section of the picquet with bayonets fixed.
Quentin rapidly acquainted Monkton with the object of the Frenchman's visit, adding—
"He is Ribeaupierre, the French officer of whom I told you—son of the brigadier of the same name."
"Ah—indeed; then I have much pleasure in meeting him," said Monkton, as he and the officer saluted each other very courteously.
On inquiry being made, it was discovered that the sergeant of the picquet, Ewen Donaldson, alone had any brandy, so he readily poured the contents of his canteen into the flask of Ribeaupierre, who, after thanking him profusely, handed it to his orderly, saying—
"Paul, mon camarade, away with this for our patient; use your spurs, and I shall follow."
The dragoon galloped away. Ribeauperre offered a five-franc piece to Donaldson, who being a gruff Scotsman, declined it so bluffly that the young officer coloured to the peak of his helmet.
"You will join me in a cigar then, mon camarade?" said he, politely proffering his open cigar case. Then saluting Monkton again, he said, "Excuse me, monsieur l'officier, if, before returning, I speak a word or two in your presence with the friend to whom I owe my life—whom my good mother remembers every night in her prayers, for I told her of our adventures near Valencia."
"Your mother, monsieur? Is it possible that she is with the army at this season?"
"She is with the emperor's court at Madrid, and hopes to see you all set sail from Lisbon. By the way," added Ribeaupierre, with a smile of waggery, "your lively Spanish friend, Donna Isidora, will be quite consoled when I tell her that I have seen you—alive and well too! She thinks of you with remorse and tears, as one whom she had poisoned in mistake, she says. How came all that to pass? We sent a patrol to search the Villa de Maciera for you, but no trace of you could be found."
"Is she still in your hands?" asked Quentin, with an expression of interest.
"Yes, monsieur," replied the other, caressing his moustache.
"A prisoner?"
"Peste! What an idea!"
"I trust you—you have treated her well and kindly?"
"She shall answer for herself, some time hence."
"A prisoner! Poor Isidora! She will be quite inconsolable."
"Inconsolable? Mom ami, you forget in whose charming society she is! We fellows of the 24th Chasseurs are unrivalled in conversational powers and the general art of pleasing. She spoke of you very often—thought you a very nice fellow—but so quiet—sotriste!"
Quentin was glad that Monkton, whom he did not wish to hear all this, had gradually gone beyond earshot.
"And she—she——" he was beginning with emotions of annoyance and mortification.
"Be assured that she became quite consoled among the 24th, and now, as Madame Jules de Marbœuf, (for my comrade Jules took her off my hands), she has learned to think that we Frenchmen are not such bad fellows, after all."
"This is indeed news!" exclaimed Quentin; "Isidora married—married, and to a Frenchman!"
"Ah—la belle tigresse is quite tamed now; butImust begone.Ouf—peste—tonnerre de Dieu!what a night we have had, monsieur," he added to Monkton, who again approached. "I have been so soaked that I felt as if the rain was filtering through the marrow of my bones. If you effect your junction with M. le Général Moore, I suppose we shall have the little variety of a general action."
"It is extremely probable," replied Monkton, smiling at the French officer's free and easy manner.
"That will indeed be gay—we are so anxious to measure swords with your cavalry. Do you know that General Foy, in one of his despatches, attributes your accidental victories——"
"Accidental?"
"That is the word, my friends——"
"For Roleia and Vimiera—eh?"
"Yes, for anything you like—Trafalgar and the Nile, if you please."
"Well, and Foy attributes them——"
"To two great elements you Anglais possess."
"Powder and pluck?"
"No—rum and ros-bif—ha, ha!Au revoir—we shall meet again," and putting spurs to his horse, Ribeaupierre, keeping his white handkerchief still displayed, rode across to his own lines, turning, however, repeatedly to kiss his hand, as his horse caracoled along.
Relieved from his post, Quentin rejoined the main body of the picquet in the grove of trees, where he remained apart from the men and full of thought; for though his self-esteem was somewhat piqued on learning that Isidora had so easily forgot him, he was greatly pleased to hear of her safety, and hoped that the circumstance, when known, would relieve him from the hostility of Baltasar and his ragamuffins, of whom he not unnaturally had a constant dread. These ideas were mingled with something of amusement—that the brother-in-law of Baltasar, the most ferocious of Spanish patriots, should be a Frenchman!
Just as the picquets rejoined their regiments, prior to the whole division moving from Avila, Rowland Askerne called Quentin aside, and, with a face expressive of extreme concern, said—
"I wish to speak particularly with you, Quentin—there is evidently something most unpleasant on the tapis."
"Regarding what—or who?"
"You, my friend."
"Me—how—in what way?" asked Quentin.
"Baltasar de Saldos, the guerilla, who has been so long in the rear, wounded, has now joined the division, and has been at the quarters of Sir John Hope in the Bishop's palace."
"Surely, that matters nothing to me," said Quentin, with growing anger and alarm.
"Listen. I was in the street, speaking with the colonel, when the general, who was bowing out the formidable guerilla, beckoned him, and on their meeting I heard him say—
"'The information just given me, Colonel Crawford, by the guerilla, fully corroborates the character you gave me at Portalegre of that young fellow—what is his name?'
"'Kennedy.'
"'Ah, yes; you remember?'
"'Yes, Sir John,' replied the colonel, turning rather pale, I thought, as he glanced towards me.
"'But I have spoken with Major Middleton of yours, and unlike you, he gives him the very highest character. How am I to reconcile these discrepancies?'
"Crawford then mumbled I know not what; but it was something about a previous knowledge of you—of old contumacy and insolence unknown to others; then I turned away, as it was alike impossible and improper to listen."
These tidings filled Quentin's breast with rage, alarm, and intense mortification. Here was a secret enmity against which there was no contending, bringing with it accusations of which he knew neither the nature nor the name.
One moment he felt inclined to rush into the presence of the general, and boldly demand to know of what his hostile colonel had accused him; and then there was De Saldos too! But in approaching Sir John Hope, he remembered that the proper mode could only be in writing, the letter being transmitted by the captain of the company to which he was attached, under cover to Cosmo, his particular enemy (who might then forward it with such comments as he chose), for such is the rule and etiquette of the service.
Before he could resolve on what was to be done, while fretting and chafing in his billet, and just as the bugles were sounding the warning for the march, the old sergeant-major, Norman Calder, entered, accompanied by two soldiers of the light company, with their bayonets fixed.
The faces of his three visitors expressed considerable compunction, for our young volunteer, as we have said elsewhere, was a favourite with the whole corps.
"Mr. Kennedy," said Calder, "I have come on a sorrowful errand to you; but I only obey the orders given to me by my superior officers."
"And these orders are, sir?" demanded Quentin, furiously.
"To disarm you and march you a close prisoner with the quarter-guard."
"For what reason?" asked Quentin, in a faint voice.
"I dinna ken, sir—I have only Colonel Crawford's orders."
"Of what am I accused?"
"That is more than I can say, sir; but if you are innocent you have nothing to fear. Take courage and set a stout heart to a steep brae, as we say at home, and you may turn the flanks of fortune yet," added the worthy old non-commissioned officer, patting Quentin on the shoulder, for he saw that this open and public, and most unmerited humiliation before the entire division, cut him to the soul, and crushed all his spirit for the time.
* * * * *
The division marched about sunrise, and Quentin, instead of being as usual with the grenadiers of the gallant Borderers, enjoying the society of Askerne and other officers, found himself trudging with the quarter-guard, a special prisoner, and kept apart from all others under a small escort, that marched on each side of him with muskets loaded and bayonets fixed; for not being a commissioned officer, there could be no other arrest for him than a close one.
And thus, with a heavy—heavy heart, full almost to bursting with mortification and grief, ignorant of the accusations against him and of what was to be his fate, he marched with the division towards the ancient city of Alva on the Tormes, which they entered on the evening of the 4th December, and there, as they were to halt for seven days, Quentin was informed by Lieutenant Buckle that he was to be tried by a general court-martial.