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.”
“What other men,” I asked, “are able to turn out?”
“Please, sir,” replied he, “that’s what they wished me to speak to you
about. There’s five of them as says they can come down whenever you
please, sir, only if they had a few buttons, and some needles and
thread.”
“Which five are they?” said I.
“There’s the Lancashire man, sir,” he answered, “and there’s Sandwich
Sam, and Cockney, and the Parson, them four. And there’s Teakettle Tom,
he says he thinks he could come, only he hasn’t not got no breeches.”
“Very good,” said I; “go into the house, and take some refreshment,
while we see what the village can supply. To-morrow morning you can
bring the men down.”
The Padre having instituted an inquiry in the village to meet the
requisition for military stores, we sat down to dinner. All the articles
required were soon forthcoming; so, having allowed the Sergeant a little
time for rest and refreshment, I directed Francisco to take the things,
and to go back with the Sergeant to the convent.
Dinner concluded, we were leaving the house, when I was surprised to
find Sergeant Pegden seated in the porch.
“Why, Sergeant,” said I, “will you take anything more to eat or to
drink? I fear you have overtaxed your strength.”
“Nothing more, thank’e, sir,” said the Sergeant. “Much obliged to you
for all favours. Only please, sir, I’m waiting for that Sandwich Sam. I
brought him down with me from the hospital; only when we got into the
village he hung behind, because he said he wasn’t regimental.”
“Well,” said I, “bring him down in the morning with the rest, as tidy as
you can turn them out. When you get back to the hospital, you will
probably find he is there before you. By the by, Pegden, I suppose you
know all about those two Spaniards up there.”
The Sergeant sniggered. “Yes, sir,” said he; “we all knows pretty well
about them.” The smirk on the Sergeant’s cadaverous visage reminded one
of a death’s-head illumined by a flash of lightning. In fact, it might
be truly said that the Sergeant “grinned horribly a ghastly smile.”
“Well then,” I added, “tell the men I depend on their good behaviour.
There must be no annoyance, no interference of any kind.”
I had by this time mentally arranged my plan of operations for the next
day. So, after posting a relief of sentinels, I lay down in my clothes,
occasionally going my rounds till daybreak, to keep the watchmen wide
awake, and secure a good look-out. What I chiefly apprehended was an
attempt of the garrison to escape in the night.