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CHAPTER XVI
The Battle of Salamanca

The gentle tinkle of convent bells, the lowing of distant oxen, and the cheery whistling and singing of the men of Wellington's 1st Division awakened Tom on the morrow of his arrival in the neighbourhood of Salamanca. He shook off his blanket and rose, stretching himself, then inhaled the balmy summer air, and enjoyed the hazy view over the heights of the Arapiles, a precipitous part adjacent to the city, and split into two portions, known as the Sister Arapiles.

A thousand bivouac fires were smoking, a thousand and more busy cooks struggled to prepare the rations for the day, while soldiers came and went carrying ammunition, food, fodder, and water, or leading long, roped lines of horses up from the river.

What a bustle there was about the camp, what order and method, and what cheerfulness. A band was playing over by the headquarters tent, above which flew General Lord Wellington's flag. A battery of guns went trundling by, the men in their shirt sleeves, for they were merely taking up another position, and the business of the day had not begun.

And yonder were the enemy, some 42,000 strong, with 74 guns, with cavalry and every branch which goes to the completion of an army. Already these thousands were astir; the French bivouac fires had been stamped out, and the morning meal eaten. There came the blare of trumpets across the breeze, drowning the peaceful tinkle of the convent bells and the pleasant lowing of cattle. Drums rattled away in the far distance, while dust began to rise over road and plain, as the battalions of the enemy marched hither and thither to take up their posts for the coming conflict. For a battle was imminent. Wellington with much patience and forethought had prepared the way for it. He had cleared Portugal of the foreign invader. He had captured Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz, but at what cost and suffering! That last manœuvre had wrecked the bridge at Almarez, and had destroyed the huge stores collected there by the enemy. But now he was face to face with one of their armies, Marmont's, the Duke of Ragusa, and was eager to try his strength with them, while they, to do them justice, were just as ready.

"Mr. Clifford, commanding the composite regiment of Portuguese and Spanish irregulars?"

The staff officer reined in his mount at Tom's feet and saluted.

"Here, sir."

"You will see that your men draw rations, and take their water bottles filled, also ammunition; then march for General Pack's brigade and report to him. They are over there; you can see the dark uniforms."

He galloped away without waiting for Tom to reply, and they saw him racing across to headquarters. Other aides-de-camp were cantering from that same place, and in a little while bugles and drums were sounding amidst the British lines, while men were falling in by regiments.

"Parade present and correct, sir," reported Jack, riding up as Tom clambered into his saddle.

"Keep them as they are then, Mr. Barwood," came Tom's most polite answer; for on duty there was no joking between these two young officers. "I'll say a few words to them first, before we move off. We've to join General Pack's Portuguese brigade, so our fellows will be fighting alongside their countrymen to-day."

"Yes, sir; and they'll show 'em the way."

"And cover themselves with credit. They look well," reflected Tom, as the two rode on to the ground in front of their little corps, and drew rein some few paces from them. "Smart; no doubt about it. Don't see a sign of funking."

"No, sir. Shall I call up the other officer and our non-coms?"

"Please, and quickly with it."

Alfonso halted before our hero, his face brimming over with enthusiasm. He saluted, and waited. Then came Andrews and Howeley, both old soldiers; for there was none of your short service then. The men of the British army, whether recruits or old stagers, filled their breeches and jackets, and gave good measure round calf and thigh and chest. The two riflemen were fine specimens of the 60th, and, being detached from their corps, seemed to hold themselves all the better, as if to let all and sundry see what a rifle regiment could do for its members.

"We join Pack's brigade," explained Tom. "They're posted about the centre and are likely to be in the thick of it. I want you all to remember that this corps must set an example. We must hold the men together. If others of the irregulars bolt before the enemy, we won't have the same said of our fellows. Now, men," he called out. "A word before we march. There's the enemy before you, yonder is General Pack's brigade of Portuguese. We go to join them; let every man remember how this corps has behaved in the past. Hold firmly together and keep your wits about you. Your courage I know you will hold, for that you have proved already. For the rest, keep your eyes on your officers, and recollect that when the press comes, if come it does, you are fighting for home and country."

A British regiment would have cheered the strangely youthful-looking staff officer. The mixed guerrillas from the hilltops of Spain and Portugal stared at him hard. There was a set expression on every bronzed face, a hard gripping of muskets, and a swinging of all eyes over to the enemy. And then came the word to march. They stepped out briskly. Heads erect, muskets at the trail, their commander leading them, the little corps advanced to take its part for the first time in a general action. Nor did its smartness pass unobserved.

"What corps is that?" demanded the great Wellington, ever observant, his eyes in all directions. "All dressed in blue, I think, and – yes, some wearing the red cockade of Spain. What corps, please?"

"Mr. Clifford's, sir; recruited on the borders, and composed of 300 Portuguese and as many Spanish hillmen. The only corps where the two nationalities have worked in friendship with one another. They were in that Ciudad Rodrigo affair, sir; also down at Badajoz."

The spyglass flew to the general's eye, and for a while he watched the corps striding along. Then he eyed the young commander.

"Good!" he exclaimed, thinking aloud. "They march like veterans. Their officer conducts himself like a tried general. There's no hurry about him, but slap-dash-up smartness. If they fight as they march we've something to boast of. And with such an officer my little mission is likely to receive attention."

He shut the glass with a bang and went cantering off towards the heights of the Sister Arapiles, a brilliant staff trailing out behind him. As for Tom, he held on his way without swerving. Now passing between halted regiments, now halting his own command to allow of the passage of a battery or more of guns, which went by at a trot, obliterating all about them in the clouds of dust tossed up by the wheels and the hoofs of the horses. Meanwhile the sun flashed in the distance from a forest of French bayonets, manœuvring for position, marching this way or that, while a little later a battery took post away on the shoulder of one of the sister heights, smoke billowed from unseen muzzles, while shot tore through the summer air, and came bounding and ricochetting towards them.

"Report, sir; General Wellington's orders," said Tom, halting his little corps to the front of Pack's brigade and reporting to that officer.

"Ah! Reinforcements or reserve!" came the answer, while the gallant general smiled a welcome. "Smart men yours, sir. Name, may I ask, please?"

"Clifford, sir, General Lord Wellington's staff, seconded for service with irregulars."

And then the smile on the general's face broadened. He gripped Tom's hand warmly. "Ah! The twins, I know," he cried gaily. "The officer the French refuse to fight, eh?"

Tom, with heightened colour, was forced to confess that it was so. Then he cast his eyes along the sitting lines of the Portuguese brigade, garbed in its blue, and wondered how these rough levies would conduct themselves. A moment later he was sitting erect to receive his orders.

"March your command to our left, and fall in rear, to act as a reserve with the companies already detailed for that service. Smart men, Mr. Clifford, a smart lot of fellows!"

There were thousands of others in Pack's brigade who repeated that opinion; for, seeing that Tom's men were standing while the remainder of the brigade were sitting, they were the observed of all observers.

"Halt! Dress on the right – smartly does it," came from Tom.

"Smartly does it!" Jack roared in the stentorian voice becoming to an adjutant, and – we must confess it – with an accent which brought a whimsical smile to General Pack's face.

"Lively with it, boys!" shouted Howeley and Andrews together, using a language half English, a little Portuguese, and the rest nothing in particular. "Lively does it! Dress up there on the left. 'Shun! Stand at ease! Back there that swab away on the left."

Rigidly erect, the toes of their English-made boots forming a line which would have drawn a note of approval even from the lips of a liverish martinet, Tom's men stood at attention, muskets at the shoulder, bayonets already fixed. And then, with a clatter, they sat down, having piled their weapons.

"Two hours since we left camp; perhaps we'd better give 'em some grub," suggested Jack, peeping into his own haversack. For whatever may have been the duties of this ensign, he was still just the overgrown boy, always hungry, always ready for a meal.

"Always growing, that's the reason," he had often explained. "Must have something at hand to build up an increasing framework."

How those two hours had changed the July morning! The sun swam redly overhead, approaching the vertical position; a few fine clouds flecked the sky; while the heights, the distant cork forest sheltering the French battalions, still looked peaceful enough. But there was the roar of guns in many directions. Away behind Pack's brigade, posted on an eminence, and sheltered by the straggling buildings of a farm, was a British battery, busily pumping shot over the heads of the sitting brigade at an enemy then invisible to Tom and his comrades. The answering shot likewise shrieked above the brigade, and more than once Jack pointed, while men scrambled to their feet and looked about them as if terrified.

"Don't look well for later on," he jerked out crisply. "But you never know. Anyway, the bulk of them are taking matters coolly."

No wonder the peace of the land about Salamanca was disturbed; for to match the masses of the enemy Wellington had collected some 40,000 men, including 3500 cavalry and 54 guns. These he had on this eventful day beneath his eye, cut up into divisions, and so placed that he could move his forces rapidly. His right rested on the foothills of the Sister Arapiles, as yet unoccupied by our men, but at that moment being scaled by the French legions. His left extended to the River Tormes, while he himself passed this way and that, eagerly watching the movements of the enemy. Marmont was even more busy than Wellington, and there is little doubt but that he hoped by this general action to smash the power of the commander who was now such a thorn in his side, and to cut him off from Portugal completely. His right manœuvred persistently for the road to Ciudad Rodrigo, while his left marched on the Arapiles, and now occupied one of the heights. For the rest, his centre was masked by a cork wood, through the gaps in which came the reflections from the flashing bayonets of his battalions.

A burst of firing echoed across the plain from the village of Arapiles, now occupied by our infantry. Flying figures were seen struggling down the heights and forming up at their base. Shot plunged over the heads of Pack's sitting brigade and smote those descending ranks. And then came the rattle of drums, the cheers of frantic men, a red flash as muskets were exploded, followed by the pitter-pat of independent firing. Crash! Bang! Those guns behind the farm pounded the advancing French, ploughing the ground about them. The cheers broke out even louder, and were drowned by a torrent of musketry which flashed round the post held by British infantry.

The same scene, diversified a little, was happening away on our left, where our battalions manœuvred against Marmont's, holding them back from that all-important road. Elsewhere, when not actively engaged, or making some countering move, troops sat down in their formation, men nibbled at their rations, while a squadron of horse slowly cantered across a dusty part, into which the enemy's cannon ball plumped in quick succession. Tom found himself actually feeling drowsy, Jack Barwood looked as if he could willingly drop off to sleep, while some of the regiment were stretched full length, their eyes tight closed, not even bothering to open them when there came a clatter near at hand and a ball trundled and roared past them.

Down below those heights, to which we have referred so often, sat Wellington, wearied with long watching and counter manœuvring, dismounted now, his spyglass in his pocket, and himself seated at a midday meal, which he needed as much perhaps as any of his soldiers. For the moment he could do no more. He was merely watching and waiting. Thus he and his staff snatched a hasty meal, wondering what the result of the day was to be for them. Then came electrifying news – Marmont was extending his left. He was pushing his divisions up into the Arapiles, leaving his centre denuded, while right and left wings of his army were steadily getting farther and farther from one another. It was the moment for which Wellington had been waiting; it was the moment of all others in which to strike. That critical stage in the coming contest had arrived where one leader, in this case Marmont, attempts too great a task; while his opponent, watching him like a cat, sees the error, realizes the opportunity, and sends his men headlong to make the most of it. There, in fact, as Wellington looked through his spyglass, were the divisions forming the French left separated from their centre; while, in addition to this attempted enveloping movement, Marmont was still manœuvring his right, so as to close the road to Ciudad Rodrigo. Here, in fact, if we look closely into the circumstances, was an example of divided force, that for which Wellington was ever seeking. His acuteness, and the strenuous fighting of his men, had separated Marmont from other French armies. Now Marmont's own dispositions had separated his left wing from its centre and right, and at this precise moment the opportunity had come to beat his army in detail.

Pakenham's 3rd Division was seated about our general. He had been lunching with its officers, Pakenham being his own brother-in-law. Instantly he gave this gallant leader orders, and at once the men of the 3rd Division were on their feet. Forward they charged against the left wing on the slope of the Sister Arapiles. Batteries thundered against them; muskets sent a stinging hail of bullets against the face of the charging division; while cavalry emerged from a fold in the ground and charged madly for the advancing British. But none could stay that gallant division. The men swept cavalry aside. They laughed at bullets and cannon shot. Leaving a thick trail of killed and wounded, they pressed the charge home, came to handgrips with the enemy, and then attacked them with the bayonet.

"Let them loose!" cried Pakenham; and at the command the Connaught Rangers, ever a fine fighting corps, was sent into the midst of the thick masses of Marmont's left wing.

"Magnificent but dreadful!" cried Tom, a witness from the plain of the whole scene. "Look; our fellows are crumpling the enemy's left wing up! Our colours are right alongside theirs, with the men fighting all round. It's a grand movement!"

"The Portuguese brigade will fall in!"

The command rang out over that portion of the ground where Tom and his men were stationed, and at once the men were on their feet.

"Dress up there on the right. Back in the centre. Nicely does it, men! Ready and correct, sir."

Jack Barwood, a grin of excitement on his face, rode up to Tom and reported the composite regiment to be ready.

"March!"

The brigade was in motion. Extending by battalions to left and right, its face was soon far wider than it had been. Pack led them direct to that Arapile height still held by Marmont, and known as Hermanito. Guns blazed and thundered at the Portuguese. Shot plunged through the ranks, sweeping men by half-dozens out of existence. Musket bullets began to sizzle and whip about the ears of the brigade, and fell even amongst the reserve marching some four hundred yards in rear. Tom's men began to fall by the way. Was there a sign of flinching?

"Good plucked 'uns, to the backbone," muttered Jack, at Tom's side now, his face eager and tense. "Our boys will do well, sir. What are the orders?"

An aide-de-camp had just galloped round, and had shouted instructions to our hero.

"We're to charge up behind the men and support any part where the enemy are pressing," he said shortly. "I'm going to move off to the side a little; as we are we get all the shots and balls which miss the brigade in advance, and that isn't business. To the left there are folds in the ground which will give us shelter. Look away up there at Pakenham's 3rd Division."

The struggle was still progressing there, though the enemy's guns had ceased to thunder. Our scarlet-clad men could be seen mustering here and there, and, though Tom could not himself know what was happening, that mustering told its own tale. For Marmont's left wing, so recklessly moved away from the support of its centre and right, was conquered. Three thousand of the enemy were already prisoners, with two much-coveted eagles and eleven cannon. The rest were scattered, some still contesting the ground, while the remainder had taken to their heels. Indeed, all eyes were now on Pack's brigade.

"Charge! Up the hill and at them!"

The command rang out in Portuguese, and at once the irregulars stormed the height, their muskets at the trail, their bayonets already fixed. Ah, they were close to the summit! Breathless with the climb, but eager for the conflict, they cheered as they gained the height. Then there came the roar and crackle of musketry. Twelve hundred French infantry emptied their muskets into the charging host and came at them with fixed bayonets – fresh men against men blown after a stiff climb. There was the crash and clank of crossing weapons, and, later, cries of terror. Dismayed by the enemy's charge, straggling as is the case with infantry after a stiff climb, the Portuguese in engagement with Marmont's men turned tail and fled down the hill, exposing the 4th Division on its flank to the attack of the enemy. Instantly French regiments poured up, guns crashed out, while a hail of musketry was sent against that division by the ranks of the French.

"Double!" commanded Tom, emerging with his men a few moments earlier from a convenient and merciful fold in the ground, and realizing instantly what had happened. "Double up there and cover the flank of the 4th Division. Now, halt!"

It took ten minutes perhaps to get into position, and all the while the enemy were advancing at a run to take the 4th Division in flank. But Tom's men were there before them, and, at his shrill whistles, at once broke up into squares of double companies, one Portuguese and one Spanish being now associated together in all manœuvres.

"Wait for the word to fire!" bellowed Tom, while Jack, and Alfonso, and Andrews, and Howeley repeated the order in stentorian tones. "Fire by squares! Be ready to charge!"

Pandemonium reigned about them. A mass of cavalry swung of a sudden round the shoulder of the hill, and, skirting the French battalions, launched itself against Tom's devoted squares. Crash! Bang! A blaze of flame swept in their faces. Horses reared and fell with their riders. A thousand desperate troopers galloped at the squares, slashing and cutting. Crash! Bang! The muskets flashed redly; the bullets tore through the scattered ranks of the cavalry.

"Load! Stand ready there. Ah! Reserves are coming up. That must be the 5th Division. Men of the composite regiment, stand firm and you will have saved the position here. Ready? Then forward."

The three squares advanced steadily against the advancing French. Men fell here and there, but their places were instantly filled. The faces of the squares, presenting in this case but a narrowed angle to the enemy, swirled with fire and flame. Smoke hid the men from all observers, while a thunderous discharge came from their weapons. Then there followed the clink of ramrods. Bullets were driven home on powder and wads, primings were renewed, while flints were drawn back. Then again was repeated the same thunder of muskets, the same red flaming flash, the same vomiting of sulphurous vapour. A minute later the 5th Division came panting up, and at once the enemy were pressed back. Steadily the advance was maintained, and presently the enemy were fleeing.

"Form line!" bellowed Tom, standing in his stirrups and waving his sword, all oblivious of the fact that a musket bullet had shattered the blade, leaving him with but six inches of steel clinging to the hilt. "Line up with the 4th Division. Forward!"

"Forward!" shrieked Jack in his terrible Portuguese.

"Now's the time, me boys!" shouted Andrews, ever encouraging the men.

On went the scarlet lines of British, with the thin blue line of Tom's irregulars wedged in between. Wellington himself came cantering up, for now had come the very crisis of the battle. The 6th Division doubled to the front with cheers of eagerness, while, away on the left of our line, troops until then hardly under fire went to the front.

Slowly at first, and then more swiftly, the enemy's regiments were crumpled up. Marmont had by now been severely wounded, while successive generals had been placed hors de combat. Muddled by counter orders, therefore, and no doubt scared by the dash of our battalions, the enemy retired all along the line, and was soon in retreat, protected by strong rearguards and followed persistently over miles of country by our men.

It would be impossible to detail every single combat which followed. Gallant regiments on the side of the French stood fast, holding their ground while their comrades retired to safety. But as night fell all were in retirement, and here again were the plans of Lord Wellington upset by the very people who should have done their utmost to support him. For Marmont's army of the north was beaten. Capture of the survivors of this day's memorable fight would mean a French disaster, and to bring that about Wellington had long ago sent his Spanish irregulars to guard the fords across the River Tormes. Can we wonder that that at Alba was deserted by the cowardly Spanish as the French came near? And thereby a decisive defeat was lessened. By the next day, in fact, the French were across the river.

But Salamanca was won. The northern frontier of Portugal was freed of the enemy, and now, when we advanced into Spain still farther, we had this to content us – there were none of the enemy in rear to cut our communications or to stampede our rearguards. They were to our front, and no Britisher fears an enemy whom he can see plainly.

But there were still rascals and traitors to be dealt with, as Tom was yet to learn. Not that he gave a thought to them. For on the evening of the battle, receiving an order from a galloping aide-de-camp, he halted his men and set them down for a breather. Then the sound of clattering hoofs came to his ears, and there rode out of the gathering gloom Lord Wellington himself, with a brilliant staff about him. He drew rein within ten feet of the corps, now dishevelled and lessened sadly in numbers, but erect as ever, and dressed with that precision for which they had become notorious.

"What corps?" asked Wellington, though he needed no information.

"Lieutenant Clifford's, sir. Composite corps; half-Portuguese and half-Spanish."

Tom's heart thudded as the general set his horse three paces forward.

"Ah," he heard him say, "I felt sure it was they! Mr. Clifford."

"Sir," answered Tom, lowering the hilt of his broken sword.

"Mr. Barwood and the other officers, commissioned and non-commissioned," cried the general softly, causing all those individuals to come to the front.

"Gentlemen," said Wellington, his tones not raised in the slightest, as if he were discussing a matter of little interest, and yet conveying by a subtle inflection of his voice that it was no ordinary matter, "from the plain below we saw Pack's Portuguese turn tail and bolt. We saw the 4th Division heavily assailed. And then this corps was thrust into the gap. It was a brilliantly-conceived movement, and it helped to save a situation which was critical. The forming of the corps into squares was beyond all criticism. Mr. Clifford, you will be good enough to give my personal commendations to your men, whose bravery is a pattern for all their fellows. Inform them that I hold them in great respect, and that since the respect of a commander is shown through his officers, who have done so well again, those officers' names will be sent to England in my dispatches. March your men back to their camp, please."

Did the men of Tom's corps cheer? They shouted themselves hoarse after our hero had spoken to them. They trudged across the field strewn with killed and wounded with merry songs, and turned into their blankets when all was over as proud as any in Spain or Portugal.

As for Tom, he was too fatigued to even think. Once his wounded were collected and his dead buried, a gruesome job for any commander, he dropped dead asleep in his blanket. He recked not of the work before him. His slumbering mind cared not a jot for the dangers of the task which his commander had given him. If there had been fifty spies to capture, if there had been fifty mysteries hanging about the persons of the rascal José and Tom's two relatives abducted from Oporto, that young fellow would still have slept. For he had fought his first big engagement. He had done strenuous work, and nature called aloud for repose for both body and brain before he took up other responsibilities. Till the morrow, then, we leave him till the rising sun awaked in his thoughts the memory of those urgent orders.