CHAPTER VIII.
A MESSAGE FROM THE ENEMY.
"'Tis true, unruffled and serene I've met
The common accidents of life, but here
Such an unlooked-for storm of ills falls on me
It beats down all my strength—I cannot bear it."
ADDISON.
This was not the first occasion on which Quentin had enacted the part of sentinel; but never had he done so with the knowledge that the enemy was before him, and perhaps at that moment closer than he had any idea of, among the mist that obscured the landscape.
All was quiet in front and rear; save the drip of the last night's rain from an over-charged leaf, or the croaking of the bull-frogs in a marsh close by, not a sound broke the stillness.
The dull grey winter morning stole slowly in; the distant mountain peaks of the Guadarama grew red, but all else remained opaque and dim, save the jagged summits of that lofty sierra—a Spanish word very descriptive of a range of conical hills, being evidently (as we are informed by a letter of the dominie) derived from serra, the Latin word for a saw.
On the slope of a hill, at a little distance from where Quentin stood, was a gibbet, a strong post about twenty feet high, having two horizontal beams crosswise on its summit, and from these four arms there hung four robbers, each by the neck, and their long black hair waved over their faces as they swung slowly to and fro in the morning wind, with the ravens wheeling around them, and perching on the arms of the gibbet.
The bull-frogs in the marsh croaked vigorously, and like every other place in Spain, even this fetid swamp had its legend; for here it was that the Cid, Rodrigo de Bivar, when proceeding at the head of twenty young and brave hidalgoes, on a pilgrimage to the shrine of Saint James at Compostella, saw an aged and half-naked leper in the midst of the slough. Leaping from his horse, Rodrigo dragged the poor man forth, and to the wrath and disgust of his mail-shirted companions, seated him on his own charger, Babieca; thereafter he set him at table with them, and finally, in the extremity of his humility and Christian charity, shared his bed with him. In the night the cavalier awoke, and beheld the leper standing on a cloud above his bed, midway between the floor and ceiling, surrounded by a blaze of light and clad in white and shining robes; and ere he vanished he informed the Cid that he was Saint Lazarus, who had taken the form of a leper to test his charity, which was so commendable that God had granted he should prosper in all things, but chiefly in his wars against the infidel dogs who were troubling all Spain.
As the mists drew upward, Quentin could see about half a mile distant in front, a line of French cavalry videttes, each sitting motionless in his saddle, and both horse and rider looking like one huge and mis-shapen figure, as the scarlet cloak of the latter was spread over the crupper of his charger behind him.
While gazing steadily and with deep interest at the enemy, he was somewhat surprised to see two French dragoons suddenly ride from their own lines straight along the road towards his post.
That they were deserters—his first idea—was impossible, as they rode leisurely and were not fired on by their picquets. By their light green uniforms and brass helmets with flowing plumes he soon saw that they were Chasseurs à Cheval, and that one, who rode a few paces in front of the other, was an officer, with a white handkerchief tied as an extempore flag of truce to the point of his sabre.
Monkton, and the main body of the picquet, were rather beyond hail, and for a minute Quentin was irresolute what to do; but before he could decide upon anything, the officer came fairly up to him, and checking his horse on the bit, said in tolerable English—
"Monsieur le soldat, we have come hither on an errand of mercy. An old and valued officer of our corps is sinking under the fatigue of last night and the suffering incident to an old wound, so we have ridden over to see if there is not at least one brave and generous man among you, who will give us a mouthful of eau-de-vie or any other spirit to keep him alive; for though our surgeons order this, sangdieu, we haven't a drop in the whole brigade."
The interchange of many civilities, wine, biscuits, tobacco, and newspapers, frequently took place between our outposts and the French during the Peninsular wars. To such a length was this eventually carried, that they frequently went over to smoke at each other's watchfires; but a very stringent order of the Duke of Wellington put a stop to these visits.
Before the speaker had concluded his singular request, Quentin had time to recognise in him the French lieutenant whom he had so signally befriended at Herreruela.
"Monsieur de Ribeaupierre," said he, "don't you remember me?"
"Parbleu! yes—this is fortunate, my friend," said the other, grasping Quentin's hand; "I am glad to see you again, but not with the musket still—what! no promotion yet?"
"I am still but a volunteer."
"Ah—you should serve the emperor!"
"And then, we have not yet fought a battle."
"Had you not fallen back so rapidly on our advance from Valladolid and Tordesillas, we should have had the pleasure of capturing and escorting you all to France."
"Thanks for your good intentions."
"I still hope to see them carried out," said Ribeaupierre, laughing; "but here come some of your people," he added, waving his handkerchief, as Monkton, who had witnessed this interview, came hurrying forward, with his sergeant, and a section of the picquet with bayonets fixed.
Quentin rapidly acquainted Monkton with the object of the Frenchman's visit, adding—
"He is Ribeaupierre, the French officer of whom I told you—son of the brigadier of the same name."
"Ah—indeed; then I have much pleasure in meeting him," said Monkton, as he and the officer saluted each other very courteously.
On inquiry being made, it was discovered that the sergeant of the picquet, Ewen Donaldson, alone had any brandy, so he readily poured the contents of his canteen into the flask of Ribeaupierre, who, after thanking him profusely, handed it to his orderly, saying—
"Paul, mon camarade, away with this for our patient; use your spurs, and I shall follow."
The dragoon galloped away. Ribeauperre offered a five-franc piece to Donaldson, who being a gruff Scotsman, declined it so bluffly that the young officer coloured to the peak of his helmet.
"You will join me in a cigar then, mon camarade?" said he, politely proffering his open cigar case. Then saluting Monkton again, he said, "Excuse me, monsieur l'officier, if, before returning, I speak a word or two in your presence with the friend to whom I owe my life—whom my good mother remembers every night in her prayers, for I told her of our adventures near Valencia."
"Your mother, monsieur? Is it possible that she is with the army at this season?"
"She is with the emperor's court at Madrid, and hopes to see you all set sail from Lisbon. By the way," added Ribeaupierre, with a smile of waggery, "your lively Spanish friend, Donna Isidora, will be quite consoled when I tell her that I have seen you—alive and well too! She thinks of you with remorse and tears, as one whom she had poisoned in mistake, she says. How came all that to pass? We sent a patrol to search the Villa de Maciera for you, but no trace of you could be found."
"Is she still in your hands?" asked Quentin, with an expression of interest.
"Yes, monsieur," replied the other, caressing his moustache.
"A prisoner?"
"Peste! What an idea!"
"I trust you—you have treated her well and kindly?"
"She shall answer for herself, some time hence."
"A prisoner! Poor Isidora! She will be quite inconsolable."
"Inconsolable? Mom ami, you forget in whose charming society she is! We fellows of the 24th Chasseurs are unrivalled in conversational powers and the general art of pleasing. She spoke of you very often—thought you a very nice fellow—but so quiet—so triste!"
Quentin was glad that Monkton, whom he did not wish to hear all this, had gradually gone beyond earshot.
"And she—she——" he was beginning with emotions of annoyance and mortification.
"Be assured that she became quite consoled among the 24th, and now, as Madame Jules de Marbœuf, (for my comrade Jules took her off my hands), she has learned to think that we Frenchmen are not such bad fellows, after all."
"This is indeed news!" exclaimed Quentin; "Isidora married—married, and to a Frenchman!"
"Ah—la belle tigresse is quite tamed now; but I must begone. Ouf—peste—tonnerre de Dieu! what a night we have had, monsieur," he added to Monkton, who again approached. "I have been so soaked that I felt as if the rain was filtering through the marrow of my bones. If you effect your junction with M. le Général Moore, I suppose we shall have the little variety of a general action."
"It is extremely probable," replied Monkton, smiling at the French officer's free and easy manner.
"That will indeed be gay—we are so anxious to measure swords with your cavalry. Do you know that General Foy, in one of his despatches, attributes your accidental victories——"
"Accidental?"
"That is the word, my friends——"
"For Roleia and Vimiera—eh?"
"Yes, for anything you like—Trafalgar and the Nile, if you please."
"Well, and Foy attributes them——"
"To two great elements you Anglais possess."
"Powder and pluck?"
"No—rum and ros-bif—ha, ha! Au revoir—we shall meet again," and putting spurs to his horse, Ribeaupierre, keeping his white handkerchief still displayed, rode across to his own lines, turning, however, repeatedly to kiss his hand, as his horse caracoled along.
Relieved from his post, Quentin rejoined the main body of the picquet in the grove of trees, where he remained apart from the men and full of thought; for though his self-esteem was somewhat piqued on learning that Isidora had so easily forgot him, he was greatly pleased to hear of her safety, and hoped that the circumstance, when known, would relieve him from the hostility of Baltasar and his ragamuffins, of whom he not unnaturally had a constant dread. These ideas were mingled with something of amusement—that the brother-in-law of Baltasar, the most ferocious of Spanish patriots, should be a Frenchman!
Just as the picquets rejoined their regiments, prior to the whole division moving from Avila, Rowland Askerne called Quentin aside, and, with a face expressive of extreme concern, said—
"I wish to speak particularly with you, Quentin—there is evidently something most unpleasant on the tapis."
"Regarding what—or who?"
"You, my friend."
"Me—how—in what way?" asked Quentin.
"Baltasar de Saldos, the guerilla, who has been so long in the rear, wounded, has now joined the division, and has been at the quarters of Sir John Hope in the Bishop's palace."
"Surely, that matters nothing to me," said Quentin, with growing anger and alarm.
"Listen. I was in the street, speaking with the colonel, when the general, who was bowing out the formidable guerilla, beckoned him, and on their meeting I heard him say—
"'The information just given me, Colonel Crawford, by the guerilla, fully corroborates the character you gave me at Portalegre of that young fellow—what is his name?'
"'Kennedy.'
"'Ah, yes; you remember?'
"'Yes, Sir John,' replied the colonel, turning rather pale, I thought, as he glanced towards me.
"'But I have spoken with Major Middleton of yours, and unlike you, he gives him the very highest character. How am I to reconcile these discrepancies?'
"Crawford then mumbled I know not what; but it was something about a previous knowledge of you—of old contumacy and insolence unknown to others; then I turned away, as it was alike impossible and improper to listen."
These tidings filled Quentin's breast with rage, alarm, and intense mortification. Here was a secret enmity against which there was no contending, bringing with it accusations of which he knew neither the nature nor the name.
One moment he felt inclined to rush into the presence of the general, and boldly demand to know of what his hostile colonel had accused him; and then there was De Saldos too! But in approaching Sir John Hope, he remembered that the proper mode could only be in writing, the letter being transmitted by the captain of the company to which he was attached, under cover to Cosmo, his particular enemy (who might then forward it with such comments as he chose), for such is the rule and etiquette of the service.
Before he could resolve on what was to be done, while fretting and chafing in his billet, and just as the bugles were sounding the warning for the march, the old sergeant-major, Norman Calder, entered, accompanied by two soldiers of the light company, with their bayonets fixed.
The faces of his three visitors expressed considerable compunction, for our young volunteer, as we have said elsewhere, was a favourite with the whole corps.
"Mr. Kennedy," said Calder, "I have come on a sorrowful errand to you; but I only obey the orders given to me by my superior officers."
"And these orders are, sir?" demanded Quentin, furiously.
"To disarm you and march you a close prisoner with the quarter-guard."
"For what reason?" asked Quentin, in a faint voice.
"I dinna ken, sir—I have only Colonel Crawford's orders."
"Of what am I accused?"
"That is more than I can say, sir; but if you are innocent you have nothing to fear. Take courage and set a stout heart to a steep brae, as we say at home, and you may turn the flanks of fortune yet," added the worthy old non-commissioned officer, patting Quentin on the shoulder, for he saw that this open and public, and most unmerited humiliation before the entire division, cut him to the soul, and crushed all his spirit for the time.
* * * * *
The division marched about sunrise, and Quentin, instead of being as usual with the grenadiers of the gallant Borderers, enjoying the society of Askerne and other officers, found himself trudging with the quarter-guard, a special prisoner, and kept apart from all others under a small escort, that marched on each side of him with muskets loaded and bayonets fixed; for not being a commissioned officer, there could be no other arrest for him than a close one.
And thus, with a heavy—heavy heart, full almost to bursting with mortification and grief, ignorant of the accusations against him and of what was to be his fate, he marched with the division towards the ancient city of Alva on the Tormes, which they entered on the evening of the 4th December, and there, as they were to halt for seven days, Quentin was informed by Lieutenant Buckle that he was to be tried by a general court-martial.