The Spanish Bride Read Online Free PDF Page B

he and little Frere must be the only two officers of the original storming-party who were not dead or wounded. Of his own regiment, officer after officer had fallen, some dead, some mortally wounded, some able to drag themselves out of the ditch to the rear. At midnight, a Staff-officer had galloped up to Barnard with Lord Wellington’s orders for the Light division to draw off, but neither Barnard nor the men who followed him would give way. Again they attacked, and again they were driven back, always in diminishing numbers. A little before daylight, when the exhausted troops had drawn back beyond the glacis, Lord Fitzroy Somerset, Wellington’s Military Secretary, rode up, and encountering Harry, called out: ‘Smith, where’s Barnard?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Harry answered. ‘He’s alive, that’s all I can tell you. By God, this is a hellish night’s work!’
    ‘I know, I know, everything has miscarried! Picton was too soon, and Leith was late. You are the only troops that kept to the right time.’
    ‘Well,’ said Harry, dog-weary but still game, ‘what did you expect? We are The Division, aren’t we?’
    Lord Fitzroy, a Guardsman, smiled, but only said: ‘His lordship desires the Light and 4th divisions to storm once again.’
    ‘The devil!’ Harry said. ‘Why, man, we’ve had enough! We’re all knocked to pieces!’ ‘I daresay,’ Fitzroy answered in his quiet way, ‘but you must try again.’ ‘If we couldn’t succeed with two whole, fresh divisions, we’re likely to make a poor show of it now!’ Harry snapped back, letting his quick temper ride him for a moment. It was soon over; before Fitzroy could speak, he had smiled, and added: ‘But, by Jupiter, we will try again, and with all our might! Yet one of our fellows was sent off not five minutes ago to inform his lordship we can make no progress.’
    Fitzroy said nothing; officer after officer had come up to Lord Wellington, where he stood above the quarry, watching the waste and the failure of his main attack, always with the same report to make: that the divisions were suffering terrible losses; that there were not officers enough left to lead the men; that the rope-parties could not drag away the chevaux-de-frise of sword-blades, or the stormers penetrate beyond it. When he received the last report of failure at the breaches, his lordship was standing with two only of his aides-de-camp: Lord March, and the young Prince of Orange. March was holding a flaming torch which cast its glare on to his lordship’s haggard face. It looked ghastly, the jaw a little fallen, yet the expression was as firm as ever. His lordship, aware of someone standing behind him, turned, and laid a hand on the man’s arm. ‘
    Go at once to Picton, and tell him he must try if he cannot succeed on the Castle!’ he said quickly.
    There was a moment’s hesitation; the gentleman addressed said with a strong Scotch accent: ‘My lord, I have not my horse, but I will walk as fast as I can, and I think I can find the way. I know part of the road is swampy.’
    Lord March shifted the torch; its glow showed Wellington the face of Dr James McGrigor, Chief of the Medical Staff. He removed his hand. ‘No, no, I beg your pardon! I thought it was De Lancey.’
    ‘My lord, I am ready to go.’
    ‘No. It is not your business to be running errands.’
    A little commotion was heard; someone was urgently calling: ‘Where is Lord Wellington?’ ‘Here! here!’ shouted the group round his lordship.
    A mounted Staff-officer pushed up to them through the surrounding gloom. ‘My lord, the Castle is your own!’
    The grim jaw seemed to shorten. Wellington shot a question at the officer, who answered exultantly: ‘My lord, Sir Thomas Picton, and, I believe, the whole division are in possession!’ ‘Good God, is it possible?’ exclaimed the Prince of Orange.
    ‘Go back to Sir Thomas, and desire him to push down into the town!’ said Wellington. ‘The Light and 4th must assail