The bad weather had delayed the siege-work; there had been the usual trouble over transports; and a hundred and one checks and annoyances. The Engineers’ Park was stocked with cutting-tools sent up from Lisbon, but the senior Engineer, Colonel Fletcher, had had the misfortune to be wounded in the groin during the early days of the investment, and was compelled to direct the operations of his subordinates from a bed in his tent. Admiral Berkeley, in command of the squadron at Lisbon, sent, instead of the British guns he had been requested to lend to the army, twenty Russian guns which were of different calibre from the British 18-pounder, and would not take its shot; while a Portuguese artillery officer, anxious to be helpful, added to Colonel Dickson’s worries by unearthing from a store in Elvas some iron and brass guns of startling antiquity.
The siege-operations were under the general command of Sir Thomas Picton, whose division divided the trench-duty with the Light and 4th divisions.
The Light division, which was composed of the 95th Rifles, the 52nd and 43rd regiments, with the 1st and 3rd Portuguese Caçadores, was at present led by Colonel Andrew Barnard, who held the command until some senior officer should be appointed to relieve him of it. He was filling the place of that great, and rather terrible little man, General Craufurd, killed in the assault on Ciudad Rodrigo. Though the Light division had not suffered as severely as had the 3rd in that assault, it had sustained several serious losses. Craufurd was dead; Vandeleur, commanding the 2nd brigade, had been badly wounded; Colonel Colborne, of the 52nd, had a ball in his shoulder which would send him home to England; Major Napier had lost an arm; Captain Uniacke of the 95th had been killed by the explosion of a French mine at the great breach.
Death was too common an occurrence in the Peninsula for a man’s friends to grieve long over his loss, nor was Brigade-Major Smith a young gentleman who indulged much in melancholy reflections; but Uniacke had been a close friend of his, and it would be a long time before he would be able to remember, without an uncomfortable tightening of the throat muscles, his last supper with Uniacke, immediately before the storm of Rodrigo. ‘Harry, you’ll be a Captain before morning!’ Uniacke had prophesied. He had been in great spirits; he had not known that it would be his own death that would give Harry a company. Harry had naturally volunteered for the forlorn hope, but General Craufurd had refused to let him lead it. ‘You, a Major of Brigade, a senior lieutenant! No, I must give it to a younger man.’
He had given it to Gurwood, of the 52nd, no friend of Harry’s: a sharp fellow, who had made the most of his own gallantry, Harry thought. However, Harry had managed to take a lively part in the main attack, seizing one Captain Duffy’s company, much to that gentleman’s wrath, and leading the men in a rush upon the French flank behind the line of works, and enfilading it. With his usual luck, he had only been knocked over and scorched by the explosion of the mine which had killed Uniacke, and so many others. He had lost his cocked-hat, had borrowed a catskin-forage-cap from a Sergeant of the 52nd, and had ended an eventful night by being mistaken on account of the fur-cap and his dark uniform, for a French soldier, by a gigantic private of the 88th Connaught Rangers, who had seized him by the throat, and had then made ready to thrust his bayonet through him. Fortunately, Harry had had breath enough left to enable him to damn the man’s eyes, which had quite cleared up that little misunderstanding.
2
He had got his company in February, but because it had been Uniacke’s he said very little about it (which was unlike him), and received the congratulations of his friends with less than his usual vivacity.
‘Harry is the luckiest devil going,’ Stewart said lazily. ‘Except in his horses. Where did you get that clumsy brute, Harry?’
‘I bought him from poor old Vandeleur.’ ‘I’ll sell you a real horse,’ offered Stewart coaxingly. ‘You won’t! I’ve got your Tiny already.’
‘Well, don’t go into action on that brute,’ Stewart said. ‘I don’t wonder Vandeleur sold him.’ ‘Talking of going into action,’ said Eeles, ‘when is it to be? Speaking for myself, I’ve had enough of this siege.’
‘God, so have I!’ Harry replied. ‘The men say it’s the turn of some of the other divisions to do trench-work. Damn it, did we take Rodrigo, or did I dream it?”
‘I seem to remember that we did,’ said Stewart. ‘I must own, though, that I did catch sight of some of Picton’s fellows.’
‘Oh, damn Picton’s fellows!’ said Eeles, with all a Rifleman’s cheerful contempt for the rest of the army. ‘I hope his lordship leaves this business to us. Picton’s lot had all the honour and glory of the Picurina affair.’
‘Oh no, they didn’t!’ Harry retorted, his expressive eyes sparkling. ‘I told off one of our working-parties to fetch the scaling-ladders from the Engineers’ Park. When they brought ’em up, Kempt ordered them to be planted, and the boys of the 3rd told our fellows to stand out of the way while they went up. That didn’t suit our men’s notions at all! They said: “Damn your eyes, do you think we Light Bobs fetch ladders for such chaps as you to climb up? Follow us!”
His companions shouted with joy at this story, but Stewart said: ‘Harry, you liar!’ ‘No, upon my word! It’s true as death! One of the Sergeants told me-Brotherton.’ Eeles remarked that Brotherton was a good fellow, but Stewart only laughed. Harry was still defending the story when they reached the vicinity of the rabbit-warren, for his energy led him into vehement argument as easily as it led him into impetuous action. A hare, getting up suddenly, put an end to the discussion; sport drove sieges and assaults temporarily out of mind. An unusually strong hare was presently found; Harry, always agog to demonstrate the speed of his dogs, gave her twenty yards law before hallooing the hounds out of the slips. She twice gave them the go-by, and although the dogs fetched round a dozen times, she kept on working her way towards the warren.
‘By God, I’ll have to head her off!’ exclaimed Harry, seeing tomorrow’s dinner escaping from his clutches.
‘No, don’t!’ said Eeles, intent only upon the sport. ‘Damn it, you can’t do that!’ ‘Oh, can’t I, by thunder!’ Harry flung over his shoulder.
‘You fool, ’ware rabbit-holes!’ shouted Stewart, seeing Harry clap spurs to his horse’s flanks, and career away at a gallop in the direction of the warren.
Harry, however, was off in his headlong way, trusting to his horse, his whole attention concentrated on the hare. Irish Paddy put a hoof in a rabbit-hole, and came down heavily, and rolled over Harry.
Stewart was up with him in a flash, and had leapt out of the saddle, all thought of the hare forgotten. ‘Oh you fool, you damned fool!’ he said, on his knees beside Harry’s inanimate body.
‘Is he dead?’ Eeles asked anxiously.