The sun was beginning to sink when we came to a valley clear in the centre, but shrouded by huge oak trees upon either side. We could not be more than a few miles from Almeixal, so it seemed to me to be best to keep among the groves, for the spring had been an early one and the leaves were already thick enough to conceal us. We were riding then in open order among the great trunks, when one of my flankers came galloping up.
‘Thereare English across the valley, Colonel,’ he cried, as he saluted.
‘Cavalry or infantry?’
‘Dragoons, Colonel,’ said he; ‘I saw the gleam of their helmets, and heard the neigh of a horse.’
Halting my men, I hastened to the edge of the wood. There could be no doubt about it. A party of English cavalry was travelling in a line with us, and in the same direction I caught a glimpse of their red coats and of their flashing arms glowing and twinkling among the tree-trunks. Once, as they passed through a small clearing, I could see their whole force, and I judged that they were of about the same strength as my own––a half squadron at the most.
You who have heard some of my little adventures will give me credit for being quick in my decisions, and prompt in carrying them out. But here I must confess that I was in two minds. On the one hand there was the chance of a fine cavalry skirmish with the English. On the other hand, there was my mission at the Abbey of Almeixal, which seemed already to be so much above my power. If I were to lose any of my men, it was certain that I should be unable to carry out my orders. I was sitting my horse, with my chin in my gauntlet, looking across at the rippling gleams of light from the further wood, when suddenly one of these red-coated Englishmen rode out from the cover, pointing at me and breaking into a shrill whoop and halloa as if I had been a fox. Three others joined him, and one who was a bugler sounded a call which brought the whole of them into the open. They were, as I had thought, a half squadron, and they formed a double line with a front of twenty-five, their officer––the one who had whooped at me––at their head.
For my own part, I had instantly brought my own troopers into the same formation, so that there we were, hussars and dragoons, with only two hundred yards of grassy sward between us. They carried themselves well, those red-coated troopers, with their silver helmets, their high white plumes, and their long, gleaming swords; while, on the other hand, I am sure that they would acknowledge that they had never looked upon finer light horsemen than the fifty hussars of Conflans who were facing them. They were heavier, it is true, and they may have seemed the smarter, for Wellington used to make them burnish their metal work, which was not usual among us. On the other hand, it is well known that the English tunics were too tight for the sword-arm, which gave our men an advantage. As to bravery, foolish, inexperienced people of every nation always think that their own soldiers are braver than any others. There is no nation in the world which does not entertain this idea. But when one has seen as much as I have done, one understands that there is no very marked difference, and that although nations differ very much in discipline, they are all equally brave––except that the French have rather more courage than the rest.
Well, the cork was drawn and the glasses ready, when suddenly the English officer raised his sword to me as if in a challenge, and cantered his horse across the grassland. My word, there is no finer sight upon earth than that of a gallant man upon a gallant steed! I could have halted there just to watch him as he came with such careless grace, his sabre down by his horse’s shoulder, his head thrown back, his white plume tossing––youth and strength and courage, with the violet evening sky above and the oak trees behind. But it was not for me to stand and stare. Etienne Gerard may have his faults, but, my faith, he was never accused of being backward in taking his own part. The old horse, Rataplan, knew me so well that he had started off before ever I gave the first shake to the bridle.
There are two things in this world that I am very slow to forget, the face of a pretty woman, and the legs of a fine horse. Well, as we drew together, I kept on saying, ‘Where have I seen those great roan shoulders? Where have I seen that dainty fetlock?’ Then suddenly I remembered, and as I looked up at the reckless eyes and the challenging smile, whom should I recognise but the man who had saved me from the brigands and played me for my freedom––he whose correct title was Milor the Hon. Sir Russell Bart!
‘Bart!’ I shouted.
He had his arm raised for a cut, and three parts of his body open to my point, for he did not know very much about the use of the sword. As I brought my hilt to the salute he dropped his hand and stared at me.
‘Halloa!’ said he. ‘It’s Gerard!’ You would have thought by his manner that I had met him by appointment. For my own part I would have embraced him had he but come an inch of the way to meet me.
‘I thought we were in for some sport,’ said he. ‘I never dreamed that it was you.’
I found this tone of disappointment somewhat irritating. Instead of being glad at having met a friend, he was sorry at having missed an enemy.
‘I should have been happy to join in your sport, my dear Bart,’ said I. ‘But I really cannot turn my sword upon a man who saved my life.’
‘Tut, never mind about that.’
‘No, it is impossible. I should never forgive myself.’
‘You make too much of a trifle.’
‘My mother’s one desire is to embrace you. If ever you should be in Gascony––’
‘Lord Wellington is coming there with 60,000 men.’
‘Then one of them will have a chance of surviving,’ said I, laughing. ‘In the meantime, put your sword in your sheath!’
Our horses were standing head to tail, and the Bart put out his hand and patted me on the thigh.
‘You’re a good chap, Gerard,’ said he. ‘I only wish you had been born on the right side of the Channel.’
‘I was,’ said I.
‘Poor fellow!’ he cried, with such an earnestness of pity that he set me laughing again. ‘But look here, Gerard,’ he continued, ‘this is all very well, but it is not business, you know. I don’t know what Massena would say to it, but our Chief would jump out of his riding-boots if he saw us. We weren’t sent out here for a picnic––either of us.’
‘What would you have?’
‘Well, we had a little argument about our hussars and dragoons, if you remember. I’ve got fifty of the Sixteenth all chewing their carbine bullets behind me. You’ve got as many fine-looking boys over yonder, who seem to be fidgeting in their saddles. If you and I took the right flanks we should not spoil each other’s beauty−though a little blood-letting is a friendly thing in this climate.’
There seemed to me to be a good deal of sense in what he said. For the moment Mr Alexis Morgan and the Countess of La Ronda and the Abbey of Almeixal went right out ofmy head, and I could only think of the fine level turf and of the beautiful skirmish which we might have.
‘Very good, Bart,’ said I. ‘We have seen the front of your dragoons. We shall now have a look at their backs.’
‘Any betting?’ he asked.
‘The stake,’ said I, ‘is nothing less than the honour of the Hussars of Conflans.’
‘Well, come on!’ he answered. ‘If we break you, well and good––if you break us, it will be all the better for Marshal Millefleurs.’
When he said that I could only stare at him in astonishment.
‘Why for Marshal Millefleurs?’ I asked.
‘It is the name of a rascal who lives out this way. My dragoons have been sent by Lord Wellington to see him safely hanged.’
‘Name of a name!’ I cried. ‘Why, my hussars have been sent by Massena for that very object.’
We burst out laughing at that, and sheathed our swords. There was a whirr of steel from behind us as our troopers followed our example.
‘We are allies,’ he cried.
‘For a day.’
‘We must join forces.’
‘There is no doubt of it.’
And so, instead of
fighting, we wheeled our half squadrons round and moved in two little columns down the valley, the shakos and the helmets turned inwards, and the men looking their neighbours up and down, like old fighting dogs with tattered ears who have learned to respect each other’s teeth. The most were on the broad grin, but there were some on either side who looked black and challenging, especially the English sergeant and my own sub-officer Papilette. They were men of habit, you see, who could not change all their ways of thinking in a moment. Besides, Papilette had lost his only brother at Busaco. As for the Bart and me, we rode together at the head and chatted about all that had occurred to us since that famous game of écarté of which I have told you. For my own part, I spoke to him of my adventures in England. They are a very singular people, these English. Although he knew that I had been engaged in twelve campaigns, yet I am sure that the Bart thought more highly of me because I had had an affair with the Bristol Bustler. He told me, too, that the Colonel who presided over his court-martial for playing cards with a prisoner, acquitted him of neglect of duty, but nearly broke him because he thought that he had not cleared his trumps before leading his suit. Yes, indeed, they are a singular people.
At the end of the valley the road curved over some rising ground before winding down into another wider valley beyond. We called a halt when we came to the top; for there, right in front of us, at the distance of about three miles, was a scattered, grey town, with a single enormous building upon the flank of the mountain which overlooked it. We could not doubt that we were at last in sight of the Abbey that held the gang of rascals whom we had come to disperse. It was only now, I think, that we fully understood what a task lay in front of us, for the place was a veritable fortress, and it was evident that cavalry should never have been sent out upon such an errand.
‘That’s got nothing to do with us,’ said the Bart; ‘Wellington and Massena can settle that between them.’
‘Courage!’ I answered. ‘Pire´ took Leipzig with fifty hussars.’
‘Had they been dragoons,’ said the Bart, laughing, ‘he would have had Berlin. But you are senior officer: give us a lead, and we’ll see who will be the first to flinch.’
‘Well,’ said I, ‘whatever we do must be done at once, for my orders are to be on my way to Abrantes by to-morrow night. But we must have some information first, and here is someone who should be able to give it to us.’
There was a square, whitewashed house standing by the roadside, which appeared, from the bush hanging over the door, to be one of those wayside tabernas which are provided for the muleteers. A lantern was hung in the porch, and by its light we saw two men, the one in the brown habit of a Capuchin monk, and the other girt with an apron, which showed him to be the landlord. They were conversing together so earnestly that we were upon them before they were aware of us. The innkeeper turned to fly, but one of the Englishmen seized him by the hair, and held him tight.
‘For mercy’s sake, spare me,’ he yelled. ‘My house has been gutted by the French and harried by the English, and my feet have been burned by the brigands. I swear by the Virgin that I have neither money nor food in my inn, and the good Father Abbot, who is starving upon my doorstep, will be witness to it.’
‘Indeed, sir,’ said the Capuchin, in excellent French, ‘what this worthy man says is very true. He is one of the many victims to these cruel wars, although his loss is but a feather-weight compared to mine. Let him go,’ he added, in English, to the trooper, ‘he is too weak to fly, even if he desired to.’
In the light of the lantern I saw that this monk was a magnificent man, dark and bearded, with the eyes of a hawk, and so tall that his cowl came up to Rataplan’s ears. He wore the look of one who had been through much suffering, but he carried himself like a king, and we could form some opinion of his learning when we each heard him talk our own language as fluently as if he were born to it.
‘You have nothing to fear,’ said I, to the trembling innkeeper. ‘As to you, father, you are, if I am not mistaken, the very man who can give us the information which we require.’
‘All that I have is at your service, my son. But,’ he added with a wan smile, ‘my Lenten fare is always somewhat meagre, and this year it has been such that I must ask you for a crust of bread if I am to have the strength to answer your questions.’
We bore two days’ rations in our haversacks, so that he soon had the little he had asked for. It was dreadful to see the wolfish way in which he seized the piece of dried goat’s flesh which I was able to offer him.
‘Time presses, and we must come to the point,’ said I. ‘We want your advice as to the weak points of yonder Abbey, and concerning the habits of the rascals who infest it.’
He cried out something which I took to be Latin, with his hands clasped and his eyes upturned. ‘The prayer of the just availeth much,’ said he, ‘and yet I had not dared to hope that mine would have been so speedily answered. In me you see the unfortunate Abbot of Almeixal, who has been cast out by this rabble of three armies with their heretical leader. Oh! to think of what I have lost!’ his voice broke, and the tears hung upon his lashes.
‘Cheer up, sir,’ said the Bart. ‘I’ll lay nine to four that we have you back again by to-morrow night.’
‘It is not of my own welfare that I think,’ said he, ‘nor even of that of my poor, scattered flock. But it is of the holy relics which are left in the sacrilegious hands of these robbers.’
‘It’s even betting whether they would ever bother their heads about them,’ said the Bart ‘But show us the way inside the gates, and we’ll soon clear the place out for you.’
In a few short words the good Abbot gave us the very points that we wished to know. But all that he said only made our task more formidable. The walls of the Abbey were forty feet high. The lower windows were barricaded, and the whole building loopholed for musketry fire. The gang preserved military discipline, and their sentries were too numerous for us to hope to take them by surprise. It was more than ever evident that a battalion of grenadiers and a couple of breaching pieces were what was needed. I raised my eyebrows, and the Bart began to whistle.
‘We must have a shot at it, come what may,’ said he.
The men had already dismounted, and, having watered their horses, were eating their suppers. For my own part I went into the sitting-room of the inn with the Abbot and the Bart, that we might talk about our plans.
I had a little cognac in my sauve vie, and I divided it among us––just enough to wet our moustaches.
‘It is unlikely,’ said I, ‘that those rascals know anything about our coming. I have seen no signs of scouts along the road. My own plan is that we should conceal ourselves in some neighbouring wood, and then, when they open their gates, charge down upon them and take them by surprise.’
The Bart was of opinion that this was the best that we could do, but, when we came to talk it over, the Abbot made us see that there were difficulties in the way.
‘Save on the side of the town there is no place within a mile of the Abbey where you could shelter man or horse,’ said he. ‘As to the townsfolk, they are not to be trusted. I fear, my son, that your excellent plan would have little chance of success in the face of the vigilant guard which these men keep.’
‘I see no other way,’ answered I. ‘Hussars of Conflans are not so plentiful that I can afford to run half a squadron of them against a forty foot wall with five hundred infantry behind it.’
‘I am a man of peace,’ said the Abbot, ‘and yet I may, perhaps, give a word of counsel. I know these villains and their ways. Who should do so better, seeing that I have stayed for a month in this lonely spot, looking down in weariness of heart at the Abbey which was my own? I will tell you now what I should myself do if I were in your place.’
‘Pray tell us, father,’ we cried, both together.
‘You must know that bodies of deserters, both French and English, are continually coming in to them, carrying their weapons with them. Now, what is there to prevent you
and your men from pretending to be such a body, and so making your way into the Abbey?’
I was amazed at the simplicity of the thing, and I embraced the good Abbot. The Bart, however, had some objections to offer.
‘That is all very well,’ said he, ‘but if these fellows are as sharp as you say, it is not very likely that they are going to let a hundred armed strangers into their crib. From all I have heard of Mr Morgan, or Marshal Millefleurs, or whatever the rascal’s name is, I give him credit for more sense than that.’
‘Well, then,’ I cried, ‘let us send fifty in, and let them at daybreak throw open the gates to the other fifty, who will be waiting outside.’
We discussed the question at great length and with much foresight and discretion. If it had been Massena and Wellington instead of two young officers of light cavalry, we could not have weighed it all with more judgement. At last we agreed, the Bart and I, that one of us should indeed go with fifty men under pretence of being deserters, and that in the early morning he should gain command of the gate and admit the others. The Abbot, it is true, was still of opinion that it was dangerous to divide our force, but finding that we were both of the same mind, he shrugged his shoulders and gave in.
‘There is only one thing that I would ask,’ said he. ‘If you lay hands upon Marshal Millefleurs––this dog of a brigand––what will you do with him?’
The Complete Brigadier Gerard Stories Page 18
