detailing the once great honours of his now decayed house when this
unwelcome intelligence was brought to Stuart, who, snatching his cloak
and sword, vented a malediction on the adjutant, and departed in no
pleasant mood, bearing with him a couple of bottles of the _Xeres seco_,
which were pressed upon him by Don Gonzago, who said that he never went
on duty (he was a _Capitan de Cazadores_) without plenty of liquor. It
was a lesson he had learned in his campaigns "under the great General
Liniers, at Buenos Ayres, in 1807." The out-picquet, which Ronald
departed to join, was posted near the river Almonte, at the base of the
large mountain, on the summit and sides of which appeared the three
divisions of Truxillo,--the castle, the city, and the town, as they are
styled. And often, as he hurried down the hill, he looked back at the
picturesque Spanish city, with its gothic spires and belfries, its
embattled fortress, lines of frowning ramparts built on masses of rock,
and its thousand casements, gleaming like burnished gold in the light of
the setting sun.
It was a beautiful evening: the air was cool and balmy,--the sky blue
and cloudless, and the clear atmosphere showed vividly the various tints
of the extensive landscape, where yellow fields, green thickets, and the
windings of the Almonte stretched away far in the distance.
The chain of sentinels were posted along the sedgy banks of the river,
and on a green grassy knoll beside it, amid groves where the yellow
orange and clustering grape were ripening in the sun, sat Ronald and the
officer commanding the picquet, Captain Stuart of the 50th regiment,
discussing the flasks of _Xeres seco_. While they were conversing on
the probable issue of the intended attack on the castle of Miravete and
the French forts at Almarez, a sentry by the riverside passed the word
of alarm, that some of the enemy were in motion on the other side of the
stream.
Far down the Almonte, advancing over the level ground from the direction
of the Madrid road, appeared four figures on foot, and the glitter of
polished metal showed that they were armed men.
"Mr. Stuart," said the captain of the picquet, "take with you a file of
men and a bugler, and see who these may be. You may cross here,--I
suppose the river is fordable. Should you see any thing suspicious
further off, let the bugle-boy sound, to warn us."
"This promises to be an adventure," said Ronald, fixing his sword in his
belt, and preparing to start. "A flag of truce, probably, sent from the
castle of Miravete."
"Most likely: they have come from that direction. Sir Rowland will be
ill pleased to think the enemy know of his vicinity. But as these
communications are generally only for the purpose of reconnoitring and
gaining intelligence, you must be careful to frustrate any such
intentions by answering reservedly all questions, and beware that their
cunning does not out-flank your caution."
"Fear not: man to man, if they--"
"Nay: should it be a flag of truce, you must receive it with all
attention and courtesy; but you had better move off, and meet them as
far from here as possible."
"There are two stout fellows of my own company here; I will take them
with me. Ewen Macpherson Mackie, unpile your arms, and follow me. Look
sharp, there, men!"
Accompanied by two sturdy Highlanders, and a bugler of the 50th foot, he
crossed the Almonte, which took them up to the waist, and scrambling
over the opposite bank, advanced towards the strangers without feeling
much discomfort from the wetting,--fording a river being with them a
daily occurrence.
Four French soldiers appeared to be coming straight towards them,
through the middle of a waving field of yellow corn, treading it down in
a remorseless manner, that would have put any bluff English farmer or
douce gude-man of the Lothians at his wits' end, had he seen them. It
appeared to be a toilsome pathway, as it rose breast-high, and in some
places hid them altogether, save the tops of their grenadier caps. On
gaining the skirts of the field, they broke their way through the lofty
vine-trellis which covered the road like a long green arbour, and could
now be perfectly discerned; and as they neared each other, Ronald felt a
degree of excitement and pleasure roused within him for which it was not
difficult to account, this being his first meeting with the enemy in
arms.
Two of them were tall French grenadiers in dark great-coats, adorned
with large red worsted epaulets, wearing heavy bear-skin caps and hairy
knapsacks, and had their bayonets fixed on their long musquets.
In front advanced an officer wearing the same sort of cap, and the rich
uniform of the old Guard. A little tambour, with his brass drum slung on
his back, trotted beside him.
"Halt!" exclaimed Ronald, when they were about four hundred yards off.
"With ball-cartridge prime and load!"
The performance of this action was seen by the strangers. The little
tambour beat a long roll on his drum, and the officer, halting his file
of grenadiers, displayed a white handkerchief and advanced alone.
Ronald did so likewise, and they met at an equal distance from their
respective parties. The officer (whose brown cheek bore witness of
service) wore the little gold cross that showed he was a _Chevalier de
la Legion d'Honneur_, and raising his hand to his grenadier cap in
salute, he pulled from the breast of his coat a long sealed despatch.
"_Monsieur officier_," said he, "here is a communication from Marshal
Soult to General Sir Rowland Hill, which I have the honour to request
you will see forwarded."
Ronald bowed and took the letter, surprised to hear such pure English
spoken by a Frenchman; while the latter unslung a metal flask which hung
at his waist-belt, to share its contents in friendship.
"_Croix Dieu!_" he exclaimed, starting back with a look of recognition
and surprise. "Ah, Monsieur Stuart, _mon ami_, have you forgotten me
quite? Do you not remember Victor D'Estouville and the castle of
Edinburgh?"
Ronald gazed upon him in astonishment.
"D'Estouville! is this indeed you?"
"I am happy to say it is; who else could it be, monsieur? I was very
tired of being a _prisonnier de guerre_ in that gloomy bastile in the
Scottish capital; but an exchange of prisoners took place soon after you
left it, and now I am again a free man, fighting the battles of the
Emperor with the eagle over my brow, and wearing my belted sword. Brave
work it is,--but I am as miserable now, as I was then."
"Hard fighting and no promotion, perhaps?"
"We have plenty of both in the service of the great Emperor. I am now
major in the battalion of _the_ Guard."
"Allow me to congratulate you. And--and--what was the lady's name?
Diane de Montmichel?"
"_C'est le diable!_" muttered he, while his cheek grew pale as death;
but the emotion instantly passed away, and a bold and careless look
replaced it.
"D'Estouville, you did not find her faithless, I hope?"
"I found her only _Madame la Colonelle_, as we say in our service."
"The wife of your colonel! How much I regret to hear it. The devil! I
think women are all alike perfidious."
"Perfidious indeed, Monsieur Stuart, as many a husband and lover, on his
return from captivity, finds to his cost. But I mean to revenge myself
on the whole sex, and care no more for the best of them, than for the
meanest _fille de joie_ that ever was horsed through a camp on the
wooden steed. On my return to France, I hastened to the valley of
Lillebonne, but it was no longer a paradise to me. My sisters were all
married to knaves who cared nothing for me, and a grassy grave in the
church-yard was all that remained to me of my dear mother. But
_misericorde! la belle Diane_ was no longer there,--she had become the
wife of my colonel, the Baron de Clappourknuis, forgetting poor Victor
D'Estouville, her first love, (that which romancers make such a fuss
about); he who had preferred her before all the maidens of the valley of
Lillebonne,--and there they are numerous and as beautiful as the roses."
"Learn to forget her, D'Estouville; you may find it--"
"She is forgotten as my love. _Croix Dieu!_ nay, more; she is
forgiven."
"And she is now Baroness Clappourknuis?"
"_Oui, monsieur_,--such I suppose she would rather be, with the boorish
old colonel for her husband, than the wife of Victor D'Estouville, a
poor subalterne as I was then."
"Certes, you have got rapid promotion. And you are really now a major?"
said Ronald, feeling a little chagrin. "I am still only an ensign,
sub-lieutenant, I believe you style it."
"_Diable!_ your promotion is long of coming, especially in these times,
when heads are broken like egg-shells. But I would rather have my peace
of mind, than promotion to the baton of a marshal of the empire."
"Then you have not forgotten her, although you so often protest you
have?'
"I have forgotten to love her, at least. _Peste_! I am quite cured of
that passion. I can regard her, and speak of her with the utmost
nonchalance; and as a proof, I volunteered to bring this letter from the
Duke of Dalmatia to your general, relative to procuring the release of
the Baron my _chef_, by exchanging him for some British prisoners
captured at Villa Garcia, where, by some misadventure, our rear-guard
was so severely cut up by your heavy cavalry under Sir Stapleton Cotton.
You see, Monsieur Stuart, I am so calmed down in this matter, that I
can, even without a pang, negotiate for the restoration of her husband
to her arms."
At that moment a bugle from Captain Stuart's post sounded, as if warning
Ronald to retire.
"A bugle call," said D'Estouville; "the officer commanding the
out-picquet has lost his patience."
"I must now bid you farewell; we may soon meet again, but in less
pleasant circumstances."
"Then you _do_ mean to carry Miravete?" said the Frenchman with sudden
animation.
"I have not said so," replied Ronald coldly. "I merely said we might
meet--"
"Not unlikely, if your general comes further this way. The forts of
Napoleon and Ragusa, covering the bridge of the Tagus at Almarez, and
the town of Miravete, defended as they are by the bravest hearts of the
old Guard, might bar the passage of Xerxes with his host."
"But surely not against the capturers of Badajoz and Ciudad Rodrigo?"
said Ronald gently, with a smile.
"_Peste! oui_. These were misadventures, and the great Emperor will
soon make us amends. There was something wrong in this last affair at
Badajoz; yet the soldiers fought well, and Phillipon, their general, is,
as we say, _guerrier sans peur et sans reproche_," replied the
Frenchman, while a flush of indignant shame crossed his bronzed cheek,
and he twisted up his heavy moustache with an air of military pride and
ludicrous confusion.
Again the bugle sounded from the other side of the river, warning them
to part. D'Estouville uncorked his flask, and filling up the stopper,
which held about a wine-glass, with brandy, presented it to Ronald, and
they drank to each other. The two grenadiers of the Guard, their
tambour, the two Highlanders, and the young bugler, were now beckoned to
advance, and D'Estouville shared the contents of his flask among them,
while they shook hands all round heartily, and regarded each other's
uniform, accoutrements, and bronzed visages with evident curiosity.
"We have drunk to the health of your General Hill. _C'est un vieux
routier_, as we Frenchmen say," observed D'Estouville, replacing his
empty flask. "As for your leader, Monsieur Wellington, I cannot say I
admire him: he is not the man to gain the love of the soldier. No
medals,--no ribands,--no praise in the grand bulletin,--no crosses like
_this_ won under his command. _Vive l'Empereur_! The great Napoleon is
the man for these,--the man for a soldier to live and die under. But I
must bid you farewell--without returning what you so kindly lent me in
the castle of Edinburgh."
"I beg you will not mention it."
"There is little use in doing so, all the gold I have being on my
shoulders. _Nom d'un pape!_ never will I forget your kindness. But I
hope your general has no intention of beating up our quarters at
Almarez?"
"I have not heard that such is his intention," said Ronald, colouring at
the equivocal nature of his reply.
"We are very comfortable there at present; quite country-quarters, in
fact."
"How! are you stationed there?"
"I am commandant of the forts of the bridge. A wing of my own battalion
of the Guard form part of the garrison. But we must part now, monsieur.
How dark the evening has become! Almarez is a long way off among the
mountains, and we shall barely reach it by to-morrow. I am anxious to
return and console a certain lady there, who has, I suppose, been pining
very much in my absence."
"Indeed! 'Tis no wonder, then, that Diane de Montmichel is so easily
forgotten."
"_Peste_! I am executing but a part of my grand plot of vengeance
against the sex," replied the other gaily. "I am a droll fellow,
monsieur, but quite the one for a soldier. The young creature is
superbly beautiful. I captured her at a town near this a few weeks ago,
and carried her to Almarez, to enliven my quarters there. But _diable!_
she is ever drooping like a broken lily, weeping, and upbraiding me in
Spanish; but I must make a bold effort, when I return, to carry her
heart by escalade. I have half won the outworks already, I believe.
_Soldats!_" cried he, turning quickly round, "_portez vos armes;
demi-tour a droite,--marche!_"
He touched his cap and went off with his party, saying, in a loud and
laughing tone, "Adieu, _mon ami_; when I return to Almarez, I shall
speak of you to _la belle Cataline_."
Ronald, who had listened to his last observations with some emotion,
started at the name he mentioned, and would have recalled him; but a
long, loud, and angry bugle-blast from the out-picquet compelled him to
retire and recross the Almonte, but he cast many an anxious glance after
the dark and lessening figures of D'Estouville and his soldiers, as they
toiled their way through the field of tall corn.
The evening had now given place to the night, the last trace of day had
faded from the mountainous ridge of the Lina, and the waning moon was
shining coldly and palely above the spires and castle of Truxillo.
"Mr. Stuart," said one of the soldiers, as they marched along under the
dark shadows of the thick and gloomy vine-trellis, "if I micht daur to
advise, it wadna be amiss to ask that chield with the sark owre his
claes, what he means by followin' us aboot, as he has dune, glintin' and
glidin' here and there in the gloaming."
"Who--where, Macpherson?"
"Under the vine-trees, on your richt hand, sir."
Ronald now perceived, for the first time, a priest in a light grey
cassock or gown, which enveloped his whole body, keeping pace with
them--taking step for step, at a short distance.
"He has been close beside ye, sir," continued the soldier, "the haill
time ye were speaking to the Frenchman,--listening and glowering wi' een
like a gosshawk, although he aye keepit himsel sae close amang the
leaves o' the bushes, that you couldna see him as we did."
"Do you really say so? What can the fellow's object be? By the colour
of his robe, he looks like one of the Franciscans of Merida," said
Ronald, considerably interested while he watched the priest narrowly,
and saw that he was evidently moving in time with them, but keeping
himself concealed as much as possible among the poles of the
trellis-work, and the vines which were twisted around them.
"Holloa, Senor Padre, holloa!" cried Stuart.
But no sooner did he speak, than the mysterious padre glided away, and,
as any monk of romance would have done, disappeared, and no further
trace could they find of him at that time. Many were the surmises of
the soldiers about the matter, and Ewen Macpherson, a Gael from Loch
Oich, gave decidedly his opinion that "it was something no cannie." But
the affair passed immediately from the mind of Ronald, whose thoughts
were absorbed in the idea that Donna Catalina was a prisoner in the
hands of the French. It roused a thousand stirring and harrowing
emotions within him; and forgetting that he was observed, he often
muttered to himself, and grasped his sword with energy, as they hurried
along.
Fording the Almonte again, they clambered up the bank, and on gaining
the grassy knoll Ronald presented Soult's letter to Captain Stuart, from
whom he endured a very disagreeable cross-questioning as to what his
long conversation with the Frenchman had been about. He found his
sentiments of regard for D'Estouville very much lessened when he
appeared in the new character of a rival, and eagerly he longed for the
assault on Almarez, that he might have an opportunity of distinguishing
himself, and, if possible, freeing Catalina at the point of the sword.
Often he repented not having followed D'Estouville at all risks, and
commanded him, on his honour, to treat the lady with the respect which
was due to her rank and sex.
It was a clear moonlight night, and he lay awake on the grassy sod,
musing on these matters, and thinking of Alice Lisle and the relation in
which he stood to her. Old Stuart, the captain of the picquet, after
having drained the last drop of the _Xeres seco_, had wrapped himself up
in his cloak, and went to sleep under a bush, with a stone for a pillow.
From his reverie Ronald was aroused by seeing, close by, the same figure
of the monk in the grey tunic, evidently watching him, and with no
common degree of interest, as his eyes seemed to sparkle under the laps
of his cowl, in a manner which gave him a peculiar and rather
uncomfortable aspect.
"Ho! the picquet there!" cried Stuart, springing to his feet, and making
a plunge among the orange foliage where the figure had appeared.
"Holloa, sentry! seize that fellow! Confound it, he has escaped!" he
added, as the appearance vanished again, without leaving a trace behind.
*CHAPTER VI.*
*ALMAREZ.*
"Hark! through the silence of the cold, dull night,
The hum of armies gathering rank on rank!
'Lo! dusky masses, steal in dubious light,
Along the 'leagured wall and bristling bank
Of the armed river----"
_Don Juan_, canto vii.
It was Sir Rowland Hill's intention, in order to keep his movements
concealed from the enemy, to march his troops in the night, and halt
them before dawn in the wood of Jarciejo, situate about half way between
Almarez and Truxillo.
On the night of the intended departure from the latter place, Ronald sat
late with the worthy descendant of Pizarro, Captain Don Gonzago,
listening to his long stories about that "famous and noble cavalier
General Liniers, and the campaigns of Buenos Ayres," until the shrill
bugles at the hour of midnight sounded 'the _assembly_' through the
echoing streets of the city. In ten minutes the whole of the troops
destined to force the strong places of the French were under arms, and
the snapping of flints, the ringing of steel ramrods, the tramp of
cavalry and clash of artillery guns, travelling caissons and clattering
tumbrils carrying the tools of sappers, miners, pioneers, &c., gave
token of the coming strife.
Many a flickering light from opened casements streamed into the dark
street on the bronzed visages and serried files of the passing troops,
whom they greeted with many a viva! or hurrah!
Departing from the ancient house of Pizarro, Ronald hurried through the
dark and strange streets towards the muster-place, and twice on his way
thither was his path crossed by the priest mentioned in my last chapter;
but the pale outline of his figure eluded his search,--the first time by
disappearing under the black piazzas of the townhouse, and the second
time in the deep gloomy shadow of the cloisters of San Jago de
Compostella; and although Ronald eagerly longed to follow him, so much
was he pressed for time that he found it impossible to do so.
Without the sound of drum or horn, they began their midnight march,
descending from Truxillo towards the Almonte,--the soldiers carrying
with them, in addition to their heavy accoutrements, axes,
sledge-hammers, and iron levers, to beat down stockades and gates, and
scaling-ladders to aid the assault; which cumbersome implements they
bore forward by turns during the dreary night-march.
Oh, the indescribable annoyances and weariness of such a march! To feel
one self overpowered with sleep, and yet be compelled to trudge on
through long and unknown routes and tracts of country,--seeing with
heavy and half-closed eyes the road passing by like a running stream, no
sound breaking the monotonous tread of the marching feet,--to drop
asleep for a moment, and be unpleasantly aroused by your nodding head
coming in contact with the knapsack of a front file,--to trudge on, on,
on, while every limb and fibre is overcome with lassitude, and having
the comfortable assurance that many will be knocked on the head before
day-break, while your friends at home are lying snugly in bed, not
knowing or caring a jot about the matter.
Before dawn the detachments were secreted and bivouacked in the wood of
Jarciejo, where they remained the whole day, keeping close within its
recesses, as they were now in the immediate neighbourhood of the enemy,
upon whose strongholds a night-attack was determined to be made. Before
morning broke, Ronald had an opportunity of bringing to a parley the
monk, who appeared to dog him in so mysterious and sinister a manner.
Standing under the dark shade of a large chesnut, as if for concealment,
he suddenly espied the glimmer of his long and floating grey cassock.
The young Highlander agilely sprung forward, and caught him by the cope,
when, as usual, he was about to fly.
"Well, reverend Padre, I have caught you at last! How now, senor?"
"What mean you, caballero?" asked the priest gruffly, turning boldly
upon him.
"Priest! I demand of you," replied the other angrily, "your intentions?
Your following me about thus cannot be for good: answer me at once, if
you dare! I will drag you to the quarter-guard, and have you
unfrocked,--by Heaven, I will! if you answer me not instantly."
"Hombre, I understand you not," said the priest insolently. "Unhand my
cope, _senor officiale_, or _demonio_! I have a dagger--"
"A dagger! How, you rascally padre! dare you threaten me?"
"Why not, if you grasp me thus?" answered he in a tone, the deepness and
ferocity of which caused Ronald to start. "Unhand me, senor cavalier,
or it may be the worse for you in the end. I am a holy priest of _el
Convento de todos Santos_, at Merida, and bear a letter from the
corregidor to Sir Rowland Hill, who has employed me as his guide."
"I believe you not; you are no priest, but some cursed spy of Soult's,
and if so, shall hang before sunrise. Draw back his cowl!" said Stuart
to the soldiers, who thronged round.
"_Santos-Santissimus! O Madre de Dios!_" cried the other, evidently in
tribulation, "touch it not, lest ye commit a grievous sin. I am under a
vow, which ye comprehend not. Unhand me, noble cavalier! I am but a
poor priest, and may not contend with armed soldiers."
The gruff voice of the priest died away in a whining tone; and at this
crisis, up came the brigade-major, saying that Sir Rowland wished to
speak with the guide, adding that he was astonished to find an officer
brawling with a monk, and expounded, for Ronald's benefit, the whole of
the prosy passages in general orders relating to 'guides,' 'conciliation
of the Spaniards,' &c. &c. all of which he had at his tongue's-end, to
use an inelegant phrase.
The priest broke away, and followed him through the wood, bestowing as
he departed a hearty malediction on Ronald as a sacrilegious heretic,
who, although he valued it not a rush, was surprised at such an
ebullition of wrath from a friar,--a character in Spain generally so
meek, humble, and conciliating.
The dagger, too! The mention of it had aroused all his suspicion, and
he resolved to watch the reverend father more narrowly in future; and
yet General Hill must have been well assured of his honour and veracity,
before he would trust to his guidance on so important an occasion as the
present.
Arrangements having been made for a night attack upon the enemy, the
troops were again under arms at dusk, mustered and called together from
the dingles of the wood, as noiselessly as possible by voices of
orderlies, and not by note of bugle or bagpipe. Formed in three
columns, they quitted the forest of Jarciejo, and followed the route
pointed out by their guide.