Chapter XII Corporal Wilkes on Guard
Amateur Wheel-wrights—Wilkes Disappears—Dodging Dragoons—Night with a Picket—A Roman Bridge—Benevente—Wilkes enters a Protest—One MacWhirter
Jack was glad to have the chance of doing something that was not merely trudging through slush. He selected four men to assist him with the wagon—Wilkes, Bates, Tom Plunket, and his own man, Giles Ogbourne, who had some experience of smith’s work. An inspection of the vehicle showed that the tyre of one of the wheels had broken, and with it one of the spokes. It was evident that, unless the tyre were repaired, the felloe would soon fall to pieces if the wagon were hauled farther over the heavy road. The first thing to be done was to take off the wheel. Luckily the Portuguese driver had a spanner in the cart, and with this the axle-cap was screwed off and the pin knocked out.
“Now, Wilkes,” said Jack, “you and Bates will look after the cart while the others come with me to find a smithy. The second battalion will be up in a minute or two. If anyone asks, you can explain what has happened.”
Jack started off with the other two men, who carried the heavy wheel between them. Reaching the village of Castro Gonzalo, they went along the streets in search of a smithy. Every house was deserted; the inhabitants had fled in terror at the news that the French were advancing. Nowhere was a smith’s shop to be seen, nowhere a person of whom to make enquiry.
“There must be a smithy somewhere,” said Jack, “even if the smith has taken to his heels.”
“Maybe ’tis along the road to the left, sir,” said Giles. “The smithy sometimes lies a bit out of the village at home.”
“Perhaps. Let us try it.”
The three proceeded down the road towards Villapando, in the teeth of a blinding storm of sleet. At a distance of nearly half a mile from the village they came to a small stone house at the left of the road.
“Here we are!” said Jack, noticing a horse-shoe nailed on the wall, and some broken bits of iron by the doorway. “The door’s open; the smith seems to have bolted.”
He led the way in, and found himself in a dark smithy. The forge was black and cold; evidently no fire had been lighted there for some time.
“Now, Giles, kindle a fire. You’ll find some wood and charcoal about, no doubt. We must be quick about this, for we don’t want to be left in the lurch.”
It took some time to get a good fire alight. The wood was damp, and Giles’s tinder-box had not altogether escaped a wetting. But the fire was ablaze at last, and then Jack set to work with the creaking bellows to blow it to a heat sufficient to weld the broken ends of the tyre. The third man, Plunket, held the iron in the glowing charcoal with the smith’s huge tongs, while Giles stood ready with the hammer to beat it on the anvil.
“I’m afeard it won’t be big enough to go round the felly without a bit more iron,” said Giles; “and there don’t seem to be a bit of the right kind here.”
“Try it first. The whole tyre may expand enough with the heat.”
But when Giles had welded the broken ends, and tried to fit the tyre on the wheel, he found that it was too short, as he had feared.
“We can’t give it up,” said Jack. “Look round the place and see if you can find a scrap of thin iron that will serve the purpose.”
After searching in the smithy and the surrounding yard for several minutes, a strip of iron was discovered which Giles thought might weld with the rest. The tyre had to be heated again and cut at the cleavage. The small piece had to be beaten until it was of the same thickness as the tyre, and only after a good deal of patient manipulation did Giles succeed in forming a tyre of the required circumference. It was finished, however, at last. It fitted on the scorching felloe, and after cold water had been thrown on it from the blacksmith’s tank, filling the air with vapour and the characteristic smell of the smithy, Giles declared that the wheel was good enough for another campaign.
“That’s right, then,” said Jack. “Now we must get back to the cart. By George! it has taken us a long time. It’s past five o’clock, and getting dark. Raining as hard as ever too!”
They trudged up the road and through the village, expecting to meet the rear-guard of the British infantry, or at any rate the cavalry. But there was nobody to be seen. They hurried along out of the village towards the spot where, in the gathering darkness, they saw the wagon still standing in the middle of the road.
“But where are the bullocks?” cried Jack, noticing that the shafts and rope traces were empty.
Hastening in advance of the men, burdened as they were with the heavy wheel, he came to the cart.
“Wilkes, where are you?”
There was no answer; nor was there any sign of the men he had left on guard.
“This is awkward, my men,” he said, as the two came up. “The wheel’s right, but those two fellows and the driver have gone off, and the bullocks with them. We can’t move the thing without animals.”
“The corp’ril wouldn’t budge without he were sent, sir,” said Plunket.
“Maybe the French have come up in the dark and captured ’em, sir,” added Giles.
“Nonsense! the French were not so close as all that. I don’t fancy our cavalry have gone by yet. You two fellows fix the wheel on. I am going back to the village to find a team. I sha’n’t be long.”
Jack went back to the village in the darkness, going in and out among the houses and the gardens, expecting every moment to come upon some traces of the men and animals. The night was silent, save for the steady downpour of rain and the dull roar of the flooded river, he knew not how far beyond. Presently he heard splashing footsteps, then two men rushed towards him breathless—first Giles, then Plunket.
“The French dragoons!” panted Giles.
“Not our own men?” said Jack quickly.
“No, sir. We heard hoofs, and ran up to the first house and waited; and then two vedettes came up and stopped at the wagon, and we heard the French lingo, sir.”
“Then we must make ourselves scarce. Have we time to reach the bridge?”
But even as he spoke, the sound of galloping horses and rumbling wagons came from the other end of the village.
“We must cut, my men. Follow me!” cried Jack.
Running at full speed along the Villapando road, he did not draw breath until he reached the smithy where the tyre had been repaired.
“We must wait here till we know what is happening,” he said.
As they stood by the dark forge, they heard the clash of steel and the shouts of officers from the village.
“Soult’s men for a certainty,” said Jack. “I wonder if our fellows are across the bridge.”
Soon after came a clatter and rumble as of wagons driven furiously, and then the thunder of horses’ hoofs. Crack! That was a musket-shot. Another, another, then a rapid succession of reports, muffled by distance, struck their ears.
“They’re trying to drive our pickets in,” said Jack. “Come, men, we must try to find our own lines, or we shall stand a poor chance of escaping with whole skins in the morning. All we can do is to cut across the country over there; no one will hear us through this noise. Come along!”
Leaving the shelter of the smithy, he ran across the road into the field opposite. Great clods of earth clave to his boots, and it was heavy running; but, followed closely by the two men, he pounded on, listening for shots on his right, and moving obliquely to the left to avoid the skirmishers who, he guessed, had been thrown out by the French. As he ran he found the ground rising in a gradual ascent. The firing still continued in a desultory way, and Jack rejoiced that the night was so murky that he and his men would not, as they ascended the slope, present a mark to the enemy. They had run for nearly twenty minutes, and were panting for breath, when they were suddenly brought to a stop by hearing the click of a firelock directly in front of them, and, as they ducked their heads, a shot rang out, followed by the cry:
“Who goes there?”
“A friend—an officer of the 95th!” shouted Jack in answer.
There was a murmur of astonishment. In the darkness several forms were heard rather than seen to advance, and in a few moments Jack and his men were hauled over a rough, semicircular embankment, where they found themselves among a picket of the 43rd.
“Where the deuce do you come from?” asked the sergeant in charge, letting go his hold of Jack’s collar.
“Look here, my man, I’m Lieutenant Lumsden of the 95th, and—
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the sergeant hastily. “No offence. ’Twould need cat’s eyes to tell a dook from a dustman in a night like this.”
“What’s going on, sergeant? I want to get to the bridge with my men. Can you put us in the road?”
“Heavens above, sir, you’d be shot in a winking. The bridge is half a mile up-stream, and we’re holding these heights while t’other half of the brigade knocks a hole in it. We’re the last picket this way, and as, judging by the sound of it, the Frenchmen are dismounted and a-trying to pass us, and we expect ’em here direckly minute, I’m afeard you’ll have to stay here till morning light, sir.”
“Oh, all right! I’ll take a hand if there’s any fighting. What has been going on this afternoon, then?”
“Troops all crossed, sir, except our half-brigade.”
“Are the cavalry over?”
“Yes, sir. They came up rather late; and directly they and the guns was got over, the general had a hole knocked in one of the arches—cut completely through, sir—so that the rest of us will have to swim across, I expect, if we get through the night. And we’ll all be drownded, sure as fate. Hark to the water a-rushing and raving behind us!”
His voice, indeed, was almost smothered by the roar of the swollen river. Getting what shelter was possible, Jack and his men passed a miserable night with the picket of the 43rd, and were glad when the darkness cleared, and they saw once more the grim dawn of another wintry day.
It brought little comfort. The wind had risen to a furious gale, beating sheets of snow and sleet in their faces. Jack and his men were shivering with cold and ravenous with hunger, though the men of the 43rd shared with them the scanty rations they had. During the whole of that day, and far into the night, they had to hold their position, ever on the alert to repel a flanking attack of the French cavalry, who several times galloped close up to the bridge, always retiring more quickly than they came before the volleys of the British infantry who lined the heights. More than once Jack thought of making his way along the embankment and rejoining his regiment, but the picket of the 43rd was always outnumbered; it had lost several men, and he decided, every time the opportunity of leaving occurred, that he would stay, thinking that, after all, he could probably do more good in the fighting line than in security on the other side of the bridge.
At the bridge General Craufurd kept his men unremittingly at the task of mining the arches. There had been no time to send an engineer forward to make the necessary preparations; the men lacked the proper tools; and the material of the bridge was so strong, and the construction of the Roman engineers centuries before so solid, that the task of penetrating the massive masonry was of unusual difficulty.
Towards night the spasmodic attacks of the French ceased altogether, and they withdrew out of range. After several more hours of cheerless waiting, word was passed quietly along the entrenchments that the work at the bridge was finished and that the troops were now to retire. The wet and weary men needed no urging; in dead silence they crept along and down the heights towards the end of the bridge, where General Craufurd, commanding the rear-guard, was in person superintending the crossing. The middle arch had been cut completely through, but the men had not to swim for it, as the sergeant of the 43rd had anticipated, for planks had been laid across the gap. Jack was among the last to cross, and as he passed over the narrow, shaking strip of boarding, the impetuous and roaring torrent dashed over it, threatening at every moment to carry away planks and men together. But the last man safely reached the other side, and Jack, as General Craufurd passed him, heard that fine soldier mutter with a grim chuckle:
“There! We’ve dished the fools!”
A few minutes afterwards there was a terrific roar, that for the moment drowned the fury of the torrent; then a blinding glare that flashed along the gray masonry and shot through the falling rain; and then, with a great crash, two arches and their supporting buttresses fell to the bottom of the river, where they lie to this day. The mine so laboriously excavated had exploded with complete success, and between the French and the English raged the boiling torrent, which effectually forbade present pursuit. Mocking cheers broke from the throats of the tired, drenched soldiers; then they turned their backs on the river and marched on, half-asleep, towards Benavente. Jack looked at his watch; it was just midnight.
When he awoke, at daylight next morning, some minutes passed before he realized where he was. He had no recollection of going to bed; in fact, on arriving in the town he had been so fatigued that he could have slept in his wet clothes on the road. But his man had been anxiously on the look-out, and it was to him that Jack owed his bed in the convent where his fellow-officers had found lodgment.
His dazed senses were fully recalled to him by the sound of Pepito’s voice humming one of his gipsy songs outside the door.
“Pepito!” he called.
The boy bounded lightly into the room with an eagerness that bespoke, as clearly as words could have done, the affection he now bore towards the young Englishman.
“Find Giles for me, my boy,” said Jack, “and tell him to get me something to eat—something substantial—for I’m ravenous.”
When the boy returned, Jack had dressed.
“Find him? That’s right. So you got here safely yesterday! You’ve not been up to any mischief, I hope?”
“No, Señor,” replied Pepito gravely. “But I can, now that you are here.”
Jack smiled, and then sprang up as Giles entered with a dish that filled the room with a very savoury odour.
“What’s this?” said Jack, sniffing. “Roast hare, by all that’s glorious! Giles, you’re a wonder.”
“’Twas Pepito, sir,” said Giles. “The young varmint went out before ’twas light this morning and snared the beast for your breakfast, sir. I allow he makes himself useful sometimes.”
Pepito was grinning with pleasure, and Jack without ado devoted himself to his meal.
“By the way,” he said presently, “have you seen anything of those two fellows I left with the wagon?”
A broad smile broke over Giles’s ruddy face.
“They was brought in yesterday, sir, under guard, and locked up in the guard-room. They was mad, sir, both on ’em, but Corporal Wilkes the worst. He made a few remarks, sir—” and here Giles gave vent to his loud guffaw, and instantly straightened his face to its usual stolid impassivity.
“Are they still locked up?” asked Jack.
“No, sir. Captain Stovin ordered ’em to be released when they’d had about two hours of it.”
“Go and fetch them.”
In ten minutes Corporal Wilkes entered, followed by Bates, each man wearing a look of sullen discontent.
“Now, Wilkes, what have you got to say for yourself?” said Jack sternly.
“Say, sir? I ain’t got nothing to say, nor I didn’t get a chance o’ saying nothing. It ain’t common fairness, let alone justice, that it ain’t, begging your pardon, sir. It ain’t for the likes o’ me to question what an orficer says, sir, to say nothing of an orficer like Bobby—beg pardon, like General Craufurd. But,” continued the corporal, his eloquence increasing with his indignation, “but, Mr. Lumsden, sir, what I want to know is, what call the general ’ad to miscall me a straggler, to say nothing o’ Bates, and send us in under guard of a bloomin’ corp’ril of the second battalion—why, we’re the laughing-stock o’ the regiment.”
“There now,” said Jack with due gravity, suspecting what must have occurred, “I suppose there was some little mistake. Tell me all about it.”
Wilkes proceeded to explain that a few minutes after Jack left with the broken wheel a heavy shower of sleet had come on, and he and Bates had taken shelter beneath the wagon. From this point of vantage they had seen the passage of the greater part of the second battalion, which was whipping in all stragglers from the various other regiments that had gone by earlier in the day. In the rear of the battalion rode General Craufurd with Colonel Wade and other officers, and Craufurd’s eagle eye had at once remarked the abandoned wagon. Riding up to it, he descried the two figures crouching underneath, and sternly demanded what they were doing there.
“I was beginning to explain, sir,” said Wilkes, “but before I could crawl out into the open, ‘Enough of that’, says he. ‘Come out of that, you skulkers!’ Me a skulker! And without sayin’ another word he marches us off to the bridge, where he hands us over to Corp’ril MacWhirter, a feller I’ve the greatest dislike of. ‘Here,’ says the general, ‘see these two stragglers safe into Benawenty, and hand ’em over to Colonel Beckwith with my compliments’. MacWhirter he sniffed, and it was hard work to keep my hands off him, sir, for blest if he didn’t pass foolish and opperobious remarks all the way to Benawenty, just a grunt here and there, like as if we was pigs, and his two Riflemen like to bust ’emselves with laughing. Now, sir, what I—”
At this point Captain O’Hare came into the room. Jack, who had had some difficulty in keeping his countenance, said hurriedly:
“Well, well, it was very unfortunate, but I’ll see that it is put right.”
As Wilkes turned away, Jack heard him mutter under his breath:
“Yes, and I’ll put it right with MacWhirter.”