order, with never a speck of rust in the well-oiled barrels. ‘H’m! They look remarkably well, and in good fighting order,’ said Wellington, when he reviewed them near El Bodon, late in May.
‘I dink so, my lord,’ replied Alten, observing his motley division with calm satisfaction.
Chapter Three. Salamanca
It was June before the regiment left its cantonments. The pits and the wheel-ruts in the roads, which had been full of slime, with films of brown ice crackling into splinters under the army’s patched boots, were by this time baked hard by the sun and wind. Summer-marching could be quite as uncomfortable as winter-marching. You could wrench your ankle horribly in those deep ruts, and although no bitter wind-driven sleet came to make your very bones shudder, a blistering sun beat down, excoriating your skin, making the veins in your throat swell until you felt that they must surely burst the tight high collar hooked round your neck. Stained, faded uniforms were darker-stained by sweat; packs dragged from aching shoulders; and Brown Bess became an intolerable burden, her long barrel oven-hot to the touch. But the country north of Ciudad Rodrigo, through which the army marched on its way to Salamanca, brought a faint, not unpleasant nostalgia to many Englishmen in the long dusty columns. If you could shut out from your senses the sight and the rank scent of the gum-cistus, you might fancy yourself in Wiltshire, by Salisbury. ‘Though you wouldn’t be choked by this filthy dust on Salisbury Plain,’ said Harry, wiping his smarting, red-rimmed eyes.
Harry was looking ill, but his complaint was not the prevalent fever. Nothing so romantic! Brigade-Major Smith, riding close-lipped with his column, was suffering from boils. He had one on the inside of his knee which made riding an agony, and shortened his temper. It was a damned sight worse than any fever, but too prosaic to arouse sympathy, except in one tender breast. Harry, like his friends, made game of his boils, but the little creature he had married anointed his legs with strange unguents, brewed awful potions for him to swallow, and watched him anxiously with big, questioning eyes. A Spaniard, none of the ills which Englishmen suffered in her country attacked Juana. When the hot weather crept upon them, her skin darkened to a golden tan, but never showed the raw red patches that made life a minor hell for many an Englishman. She rode through the scorch of the midday sun, her eyes, under the shade of her hat, narrowed against the glare certainly, but bright and clear. None of your fine ladies, Juana, reclining against the squabs of a travelling-carriage, fan in one hand, hartshorn in the other. Just as she never pressed a scented handkerchief to her nose to shut out the reek of dirty humanity, so she never denied the comfort of her body to Harry, though he came to her grimed with dust: as rank, he said, as any private. Her slight breasts were the pillow for his head after long marches. ‘Are you tired?’ he would whisper, rousing her from the sleep of exhaustion. ‘No, not tired, mi Enrique,” she would reply, all her body responsive to the touch of his thin, nervous hands.
Indeed, although her limbs sometimes ached with fatigue, in these first months of marriage her spirit was never tired. All the routine of an army on the march, wearisome with the monotony of accustomed toil to the men about her, was astonishingly new to Juana. To a convent-bred girl, there was romance in the sight of the long, plodding columns; excitement in the clatter and jingle of a squadron of light cavalry as it went by at the trot; and warm interest in the interminable baggage-train, cluttered up with camp-followers, spring-carts, wagons overloaded with stores and ammunition, and very often floundering in deep ditches, or losing wheels over the abominable surface of the roads. English eyes might find the string of gaily caparisoned mules in charge of native muleteers in
‘I dink so, my lord,’ replied Alten, observing his motley division with calm satisfaction.
Chapter Three. Salamanca
It was June before the regiment left its cantonments. The pits and the wheel-ruts in the roads, which had been full of slime, with films of brown ice crackling into splinters under the army’s patched boots, were by this time baked hard by the sun and wind. Summer-marching could be quite as uncomfortable as winter-marching. You could wrench your ankle horribly in those deep ruts, and although no bitter wind-driven sleet came to make your very bones shudder, a blistering sun beat down, excoriating your skin, making the veins in your throat swell until you felt that they must surely burst the tight high collar hooked round your neck. Stained, faded uniforms were darker-stained by sweat; packs dragged from aching shoulders; and Brown Bess became an intolerable burden, her long barrel oven-hot to the touch. But the country north of Ciudad Rodrigo, through which the army marched on its way to Salamanca, brought a faint, not unpleasant nostalgia to many Englishmen in the long dusty columns. If you could shut out from your senses the sight and the rank scent of the gum-cistus, you might fancy yourself in Wiltshire, by Salisbury. ‘Though you wouldn’t be choked by this filthy dust on Salisbury Plain,’ said Harry, wiping his smarting, red-rimmed eyes.
Harry was looking ill, but his complaint was not the prevalent fever. Nothing so romantic! Brigade-Major Smith, riding close-lipped with his column, was suffering from boils. He had one on the inside of his knee which made riding an agony, and shortened his temper. It was a damned sight worse than any fever, but too prosaic to arouse sympathy, except in one tender breast. Harry, like his friends, made game of his boils, but the little creature he had married anointed his legs with strange unguents, brewed awful potions for him to swallow, and watched him anxiously with big, questioning eyes. A Spaniard, none of the ills which Englishmen suffered in her country attacked Juana. When the hot weather crept upon them, her skin darkened to a golden tan, but never showed the raw red patches that made life a minor hell for many an Englishman. She rode through the scorch of the midday sun, her eyes, under the shade of her hat, narrowed against the glare certainly, but bright and clear. None of your fine ladies, Juana, reclining against the squabs of a travelling-carriage, fan in one hand, hartshorn in the other. Just as she never pressed a scented handkerchief to her nose to shut out the reek of dirty humanity, so she never denied the comfort of her body to Harry, though he came to her grimed with dust: as rank, he said, as any private. Her slight breasts were the pillow for his head after long marches. ‘Are you tired?’ he would whisper, rousing her from the sleep of exhaustion. ‘No, not tired, mi Enrique,” she would reply, all her body responsive to the touch of his thin, nervous hands.
Indeed, although her limbs sometimes ached with fatigue, in these first months of marriage her spirit was never tired. All the routine of an army on the march, wearisome with the monotony of accustomed toil to the men about her, was astonishingly new to Juana. To a convent-bred girl, there was romance in the sight of the long, plodding columns; excitement in the clatter and jingle of a squadron of light cavalry as it went by at the trot; and warm interest in the interminable baggage-train, cluttered up with camp-followers, spring-carts, wagons overloaded with stores and ammunition, and very often floundering in deep ditches, or losing wheels over the abominable surface of the roads. English eyes might find the string of gaily caparisoned mules in charge of native muleteers in
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