Georgette Heyer by The Spanish Bride

Author:The Spanish Bride [Bride, The Spanish]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

7

The brigade left Offala next morning without Harry’s host having shown any signs of returning madness. Harry did not feel that four dead French dragoons were any concern of his, and as he rather liked Gonsalez, in his sane moments, he said nothing about the gruesome remains in his cellar.

The day’s march led the divisions into a beautiful, fruit-growing district, past the great, hundred-arched Pampeluna viaduct. Cherries, and pears, and big red plums were to be had for a penny a pound; there were olive-groves on every side; and plenty of pork to be bought in all the villages. Everyone was pleased when the orders to halt for a day’s rest came. The divisions camped near the junction of the Tudela and the Saragossa roads, but nothing was seen or heard of Clausel’s advance. However, towards the end of the day, one of the Riflemen went to Harry’s quarters on a slim pretext, and asked: ‘Sir, is the order come?’

Harry was used to such visits, for he was known to be one of the army’s most accessible officers. ‘For what?’ he said. ‘An extra allowance of wine?’

‘No, sir, for an extra allowance of marching!’ retorted the man, with a grin. ‘We’re to be off directly after these French chaps as expects to get to France without a kick up the backside from the Light division!’

‘So that,’ Harry said later to Cadoux, who had been invited to dine with the Smiths, ‘means that we are going to get orders. Hang me if I know where the men pick up their information, but they always know long before we do when a move is coming!’

‘Oh, what a bore!’ said Cadoux. ‘I was beginning to feel quite at home here.’

They had barely finished dinner when an orderly came in with a note from Vandeleur. ‘I told you so!’ said Harry. ‘Old Douro’s got wind of Clausel’s division. We’ve got to try and intercept him.’

Cadoux picked up his shako, and fastidiously smoothed its jaunty green tuft of feathers. ‘That will be very enjoyable,’ he said. ‘You need not tell me the worst: I know it. We’re in for a night-march.’

‘Correct!’ said Harry.

The divisions reached Tafalla by dawn, a pretty town surrounded by olive groves; and, after a short rest, pressed on towards Olite, heading south all the way, towards the Aragon river. It began to rain again, and at Casada, where no cantonments were to be found for any but Staff-officers, everyone bivouacked amongst ploughed fields. ‘Ha!’ said Kincaid, eyeing the sodden trough which was to be his bed, ‘Breathes there a man with soul so dead, who would not to himself have said, This is a confounded, comfortless dwelling!’

At Olite, the direction of the march was changed suddenly, the divisions bringing up their right shoulders towards Sanguessa.

‘Early up and never the nearer!’ grumbled Tom Crawley. ‘Damme, if the whole blurry division ain’t chasing its own tail!’

They found themselves marching through a district of tall pine woods. The straight trunks gleamed in the wet, and the leaves dripped ceaselessly on to the thick beds of last year’s needles.

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